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 THE RHYMER 
 
 a
 
 NOVELS AT SIX SHILLINGS EACH 
 
 UHi/ortn with this Volume 
 
 An Outcast of the Islands. By Joski-h Cunkad. Second Edition. 
 
 Almayer's Folly. Bv Justin Conkad. 
 The Ebbing of the Tide. By Louis Becke. 
 A First Fleet Family. By Louis Beck-e and Walter Jefferv. 
 Paddy's Woman. By Humphrey James. 
 Clara HopgOOd. By Mark- Ruthk.kford. Second Edition. 
 The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes. Portrait of the Author. Second 
 Kdilion. 
 
 The Stickit Minister. By S. R. Crockett. 
 
 The Lilac Sunbonnet. By S. R. Crockett. 
 
 The Raiders. By S. R. Crockett. 
 
 The Grey Man. \',y S. R. Crockett. 
 
 In a Man's Mind. By J. R. Watson. 
 
 A Daughter of the Fen. By J. T. Bealbv. 
 
 The Herb-Moon. By Joipn Oliver Hobbes. 
 
 Nancy Noon. By Benjamin Swift. 
 
 Hugh Wynne. By S. Weir Mitchell. 
 
 The Tormentor. By Benjamin Swift. 
 
 The Mutineer. By Louis Becke and Waliek Jeffery. 
 
 The Destroyer. By Benjamin Swift. 
 
 The Gods, Some Mortals, and Lord Wickenham. By John 
 
 Oi.ivKR Hoijbes. 
 Mrs Keith's Crime. By Mrs W. K. Clifford. 
 Prisoners of Conscience. By Amelia E. Barr. 
 Pacific Tales. By Louis Becke. 
 The People of Clopton. By George Bartram. 
 Outlaws of the Marches. By Lord Ernest Hamilton. 
 The Silver Christ, Stories by Ouida. 
 The White-Headed Boy. By George Baktram. 
 Tales of Unrest. F.y Joseph Conrad. 
 The School for Saints. By John Oliver Hobbes. 
 Evelyn Innes. By George Moore. 
 Rodman, the Boatsteerer. By Louis Becke. 
 The Romance of a Midshipman. By W. Clark Russell. 
 The Making of a Saint. By W. Somerset Maugham. 
 The Two Standards. By W. Barry, D.D. 
 The Mawkin of the Flow. By Lord Ernest Hamilton. 
 Love is not so Light. By Constance Cotterell. 
 Moonlight. Bv Mary E. Manx. 
 I, Thou, and the Other One. By Amelia E. Barr. 
 Orientations. By W. Somerset Maugham. 
 The Perils of Josephine. By Lord Ernest Hamilton. 
 The Doctor. By H. de Vere Stacpoole. 
 The Patten Experiment. By Mary E. Mann. 
 
 X II £) n 
 T. FISHER UNWIN, Paternoster Square, E.C.
 
 THE RHYMER 
 
 BY 
 
 ALLAN M'AULAY 
 
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 LONDON 
 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 Paternoster Square 
 
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 [J /I rights reserved.]
 
 V 
 
 MARY AND JEANIE 
 
 482103 
 
 ENOJSH
 
 
 
 CONTENTS Y 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I, 
 
 n, 
 
 HI, 
 
 IV, 
 
 V, 
 
 VI, 
 
 VII, 
 
 VHI, 
 
 IX, 
 
 X, 
 
 XI, 
 
 XII, 
 
 XIII, 
 
 XIV, 
 
 XV, 
 
 XVI, 
 
 XVH, 
 
 XVIII, 
 
 XIX, 
 
 XX, 
 
 XXI, 
 
 XXH, 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 9 
 IS 
 
 22 
 
 28 
 
 34 
 42 
 
 49 
 55 
 
 62 
 
 70 
 76 
 82 
 88 
 
 95 
 102 
 
 108 
 
 "5 
 120 
 
 126 
 
 133 
 
 139 
 
 Vil
 
 viii 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII, . 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXV, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII, 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXX, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII, 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII, 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII, 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX, . 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XL, 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLI, 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLII, 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII, 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV, 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLV, 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI, 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII, 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII, 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 145 
 
 151 
 157 
 
 164 
 172 
 180 
 
 185 
 
 192 
 
 199 
 
 206 
 
 213 
 
 220 
 227 
 230 
 236 
 
 242 
 
 249 
 255 
 
 262 
 265 
 271 
 
 276 
 
 283 
 289 
 296 
 302
 
 THE RHYMER 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 In the year of grace 1787, Mr Graham of The 
 Mains, a worthy gentleman and laird of the county 
 of Perth, had a family of seven daughters. This, 
 though hardly at that date amounting to a social 
 crime, was an indiscretion in a man of few acres 
 and modest income. Moreover, his partner in life 
 was even now a blooming and a buxom dame, 
 capable of adding further olive branches to the 
 already over-umbrageous family tree. She had, 
 indeed, but lately performed the somewhat pro- 
 crastinated duty of adding an heir to the tale of 
 the seven lasses of The Mains. This was as it 
 should be — but it was quite enough. 
 
 It was market day in the autumn of the year, 
 and Mr Graham, who farmed his own land, had 
 attended the weekly market at the country town 
 
 of C . He was about to jog home in the dusk, 
 
 when he was accosted by a neighbour and fellow- 
 laird. 
 
 « Hey — Mains!' called out this personage. * Bide 
 
 a bit, man ! It is in my mind to do you and the 
 
 mistress at The Mains a good turn.' Mr Graham 
 
 drew rein. 
 
 A
 
 2 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' It is not I that will miss a chance of that,' he 
 observed, in good humour, 
 
 ' Well, to be straight to the point,' said his friend, 
 * I have a friend biding with me at this time, one 
 Jimmy Cheape — you may have heard me speak of 
 him, for he was a crony of our college days. He 
 is a man of substance in the county of Fife — and 
 he has a mind to be made acquainted with you 
 and your lady.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay ! ' ejaculated Mr Graham. ' A most 
 laudable and polite wish, truly, and not to be 
 gainsaid ! ' 
 
 ' He is in search of a wife,' said the friend, slily, 
 with a dig in the ribs of the laird with the butt-end 
 of his whip, ' and I bethought me that a presenta- 
 tion to a man with seven daughters was the very 
 thing to be useful. So I promised it, and he 
 jumped for it — as keen as a cock at a groset' 
 
 Mr Graham pricked up his ears. 
 
 'That's the wife's business rather than mine,' 
 he observed, cautiously. 
 
 ' Well ! let the wife see him, but see him your- 
 self first. Yonder he is.' The speaker pointed 
 to a burly form, standing with its back to the 
 friends. ' I will bring him forward ; ' and he pro- 
 ceeded to be as good as his word. 
 
 When Mr Cheape, of the county of Fife, pre- 
 sented his countenance to his possible father-in-law 
 of the future, he was found to be a gentleman of 
 decidedly mature age, already grey, deeply pitted 
 with the smallpox, and of no very alluring address. 
 His salutation was gruff, and his eye shifty. 
 
 ' To-morrow,' he remarked, with rather alarming 
 abruptness, immediately after the form of intro- 
 duction had been gone through, *I will wait upon
 
 THE RHYMER 3 
 
 Mrs Graham at The Mains, at about eleven of the 
 clock in the morning.' With that he stumped off, 
 for he added to his other peculiarities that of being 
 rather lame of one leg. 
 
 * Ah ! he means business, you see ! ' said the 
 intermediary, admiringly. The corners of Mr 
 Graham's mouth, which had taken an upward 
 inclination at the first salutation of his friend, 
 now drooped considerably, as he gazed after his 
 new acquaintance. 
 
 ' He is somewhat well on in years,' he remarked, 
 dubiously, ' and there is not that about him that 
 will take a lass's fancy.' 
 
 ' Tut ! ' said his friend, ' there is well-nigh one 
 thousand a year about him and his bonny bit place 
 of Kincarley in the county of Fife ; and he has 
 fine store of plate and plenishing of linen — so he 
 tells me — as well as the siller. And that takes a 
 lass's fancy fast enough, let me tell you.' 
 
 'Well, maybe,' said the laird, and he gave the 
 reins a jog. ' Good-night to you, and you shall 
 hear what betides.' 
 
 Mr Graham jogged home along the muddy 
 roads towards The Mains in a meditative mood. 
 The thought of his seven daughters often sat 
 heavy on his mind. He could not portion them, 
 and, with or without portions, it was difficult to 
 imagine how they could marry or settle in a part 
 of the country so remote, that society could hardly 
 be said to exist — daughters, as they were, of a 
 man who could not possibly afford to send them 
 to share the gaieties of the capital, or even of the 
 distant county town. Yet their marriage was a 
 fixed idea with his wife, as he well knew — the only 
 idea, indeed, for their future which it was natural
 
 4 THE RHYMER 
 
 and proper, at that day, for her to entertain. 
 Alison, their eldest girl, was almost twenty, and at 
 that age her mother had been already three years 
 married and had a thriving nursery; two others, 
 well arrived at woman's estate, trod closely on her 
 heels. Very well indeed could the laird imagine 
 with what enthusiasm his partner would welcome 
 the advent of a suitor, and a wealthy suitor, too. 
 Yet he had vague doubts as to whether he should 
 have placed this temptation within reach of the 
 eager mother of seven daughters. Perhaps it 
 would have been better to have declined the visit 
 from Mr Cheape once for all. For although this 
 obscure country laird of old-time Scotland had a 
 rough exterior, not differing greatly from that of 
 a farmer or yeoman of the better class, and though 
 he rode a horse that sometimes drew the plough, 
 a clumsy figure in his brass-buttoned blue coat 
 and miry buckskins, yet he was a gentleman at 
 heart, and an honest man to boot. He had been 
 far from admiring the exterior and address of Mr 
 Cheape of Kincarley, and compunction assailed 
 him when he thought of his Alison, or Kate, or 
 Maggie, subjected to the wooing of such a bear. 
 However, it was their mother's affair, he thought, 
 with that comfortable shifting of responsibility on 
 to feminine shoulders which man has so gracefully 
 inherited from Adam. Besides, he looked forward 
 to telling the news, being a bit of a humorist in 
 his own way. So he whipped up the old horse 
 into a heavy trot. 
 
 The Mains lay low and sheltered in the heart of 
 an uninteresting agricultural corner of the Perth- 
 shire lowlands. It was a low, rambling, old house, 
 of no pretensions — little better, indeed, than a farm
 
 THE RHYMER 5 
 
 — with small windows in thick walls, and little low- 
 ceilinged, ill-lighted rooms. There were some fine 
 sycamores about it, the abode of an ancient 
 rookery, and a grand lime tree grew in the field 
 in front of the house — so very old that no one 
 knew or could guess its age. To the east of The 
 Mains lay its farm buildings, and beyond them 
 again the old-fashioned tangled garden. Further, 
 and around on all sides, were thick spruce woods, 
 where the wild pigeons crooned in the summer, 
 and there were always cones for the gathering. 
 Through gaps in the woods, and from certain points 
 of vantage on The Mains's land, you could see the 
 Highland hills. But to Alison and her little sisters 
 these always seemed far, far away — as though in 
 another country altogether. 
 
 Lights in the deep-set windows welcomed the 
 laird, and they were cheery in the damp murk of 
 the autumn evening. When he was divested of his 
 mud-stiffened riding gear, he stretched himself at 
 ease before the crackling fire in his own sanctum, 
 and his lady joined him. It was a long, low, dark 
 room, lined with fusty books, which no one ever 
 took from the shelves. The mantelpiece was of 
 solid stone, washed a pale green, and — chiseled 
 roughly — just below the shelf was a motto, rudely 
 finished off with a clam-shell, the crest of the 
 Grahams : — 
 
 ' In human life there's nothing steadfast stands, 
 Yoztth, Glorie, Riches fade. Death^s sure at hand.' 
 
 So it said. But neither the laird nor the lady of 
 The Mains had any air of paying attention to this 
 warning of a somewhat despondent progenitor. 
 The mistress of the house was a handsome
 
 6 THE RHYMER 
 
 woman still, in spite of household and maternal 
 cares. Above the middle height, and of comely- 
 figure, she had hair still raven black, a glowing 
 colour in her soft unwithered cheek, and the light 
 of a strong and unimpaired vitality in her fine, 
 though rather hard, black eye. She had the com- 
 plete empire over her husband, which such a 
 woman will ever have over men — a woman, healthy 
 fresh, strong-willed, though not moulded, perhaps, 
 in the most refined of nature's moulds. He had 
 married her in his youth— the daughter of a small 
 Glasgow lawyer, hardly, perhaps, his equal from 
 a social point of view. But this was a failing soon 
 overlooked in the blooming, hearty, managing 
 bride, who brought fresh blood to mingle with 
 the rather attenuated strain of a genteel Scottish 
 family, which boasted more lineage than looks. 
 
 The laird stretched himself to the genial warmth, 
 and prepared to enjoy the communication of his 
 bit of news. 
 
 ' A gentleman is to visit us here at The Mains 
 to-morrow in the morning, wife,' he began, casually. 
 
 ' Oh, ay,' said Mrs Graham, in the tone of one 
 who expects no pleasant surprises. ' It'll be Culto- 
 banocher or Drumore, likely, to speir about the 
 grey mare and her foal.' 
 
 ' Not at all,' said the laird, ' but a stranger this 
 time — one Cheape of Kincarley, in the county of 
 Fife, at this time abiding with Drumore.' 
 
 'And what will he be wanting with us?' in- 
 quired the mistress of The Mains. 
 
 'A wife, it would seem,'said the laird, in a carefully- 
 suppressed tone of voice, but a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 ' Tut, laird ! ' said the lady, crossly, * you're 
 joking, but none of your jokes for me ! ' She in-
 
 THE RHYMER 7 
 
 deed believed the news too good to be true, and 
 was wroth with the laird for tantalising her on so 
 tender a subject, 
 
 * I am not joking — not I,' protested the husband 
 and father. 'Tis the living truth, as I sit here. 
 This fellow will be over here to-morrow at noon 
 to see if he cannot choose a wife among our seven 
 lasses.' 
 
 Then followed, in answer to a rain of questions 
 from the excited lady, a full and particular account 
 of Mr Cheape, his means and estate — all, indeed, 
 that the laird could tell. Mrs Graham's face was 
 flushed, her eyes sparkling ; the corners of her full, 
 firm mouth twitched with eagerness. Before the 
 conversation was half over, she had the wedding 
 settled in her mind, with already a side-thought 
 for the bride's dress, and such scanty plenishing as 
 could be spared from The Mains. 
 
 ' And to think that I was putting poor Ally down 
 for an old maid ! ' she exclaimed, rapturously. ' The 
 girl with never a man after her yet, and then to 
 have this rich husband flung at her head ! She 
 was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, after 
 all— poor Ally!' 
 
 ' Bide a wee ! ' said the laird, cautiously. ' Wait 
 till you see the man, my woman ! A grey beard, 
 even like myself, and speckled like a puddock wi' 
 the cow-pox. I doubt the girl will get a scunner 
 when she sees him.' 
 
 But his partner pounced upon his doubts with 
 righteous anger. 
 
 * Laird,' she said, ' if I see you putting the like 
 o' that into Ally's head, I'll be at the end of my 
 patience. Setting the lass against her meat that 
 gait — such foolery ! '
 
 8 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' Lasses think of love — ' began the laird. 
 
 ' Love, indeed ! ' almost screamed the lady ; ' and 
 what right has she to think of love, and her almost 
 twenty, and never a jo to her name yet, or a man's 
 kiss but her father's on the cheek o' her ? When 
 / was her age, well knew I what love was ; but she 
 — let her thank her stars she's got this chance, and 
 needna pine a spinster all her days ! ' 
 
 ' Well, well,' said the laird, uncomfortably, ' manage 
 it your own way. I'll keep my fingers out of the 
 pie. And sort jyou Mr Cheape of Kincarley when 
 he comes to-morrow, for I'll ha' none of him !' 
 
 His lady, finding he would respond on the sub- 
 ject no longer, bustled off to her daughter.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ' Ally, Ally ! ' she called in her clear, strong voice 
 all over the house, 'where are you, Ally?' and 
 through the darkening passages she went in eager 
 search of her eldest daughter. The seven lasses of 
 The Mains were variously disposed of in the old 
 warren of a house — in the lesser rooms, in the 
 attics under the roof, reached by a spiral wooden 
 stair, on which their young feet clattered up and 
 down from early morn till early bed-time. 
 
 At this moment Alison was putting to bed her 
 two-year-old brother, the 'young laird,' and apple 
 of all eyes at The Mains. She sat with him in her 
 arms at the tiny window of the nursery and crooned 
 him to sleep, and as she sang she looked out at the 
 murky red sky behind the plane trees, at the rooks 
 circling and cawing on their way to bed, at the old 
 lime, a towering mass of black shadow in the 
 gloaming. This was the scene that Alison looked 
 upon continually every evening of her life — this 
 young woman without lovers and innocent of 
 kisses. 
 
 Mrs Graham was breathing rather quickly by 
 the time she stood at the nursery door, and her 
 first elated sentences were somewhat breathless. 
 
 ' Brav/ news your father has brought home for 
 you to-night, Ally ! ' she began. 
 
 ' Wheesht, mother ! ' said Alison, * you will waken 
 Jacky.' 
 
 9
 
 lo THE RHYMER 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Mrs Graham, knowingly, ' you'll soon 
 have done with Jacky now ! ' 
 
 ' Sure,' said Alison, lifting round grey eyes to 
 her mother's face, and pressing Jacky's head close 
 to her shoulder, ' I've no wish to be done with 
 Jacky ; ' and she put a kiss on the boy's curls. 
 
 'Tut!' said Mrs Graham, impatiently, 'you 
 might have little Jackys of your own. Think 
 you never of that. Ally?' Alison blushed in the 
 dark : it was not a fair question. Jacky was so 
 sound asleep by this time that the voices did not 
 wake him, and she rose, laid him on the wooden 
 cot beside her own bed, and happed the clothes 
 about him with deft movements full of a natural 
 motherliness. 
 
 ' Come down now, Ally,' said her mother, ' I want 
 you.' 
 
 Alison obeyed her mother, as hitherto she had 
 always done, in the simple management of her life. 
 
 ' You are to get a man. Ally, after all,' said the 
 lady, impressively. ' A husband, and a good one. 
 Isn't that the brawest news ever you've heard 
 yet?' 
 
 Alison was not quite certain, but there is no 
 doubt, simple soul that she was, that she was 
 impressed and awed, and that a flutter disturbed 
 her quiet heart. Alison had never read even the 
 few romances of her day, and knew nothing about 
 love ; and although she sang, in her sweet, un- 
 trained voice, as she went about the house, the 
 love-songs of her country, often piercing in their 
 pathos and passion — their language was a sealed 
 book to her. True, Kirsty the dairy-maid had a 
 lover, who put an arm round her v/illing waist, and 
 Alison had seen the pair walking so, in many a
 
 THE RHYMER ii 
 
 gloaming, by the gate of the cow-park. Would 
 she have a lover now, and an arm round her waist ? 
 Mrs Graham did not dwell on such things in the 
 present interview with her daughter ; but she 
 spoke of Mr Cheape of Kincarley with solemn 
 impressiveness ; of his house and his lands, and 
 his plate and his linen, and Alison was no un- 
 willing listener. It was a calm-blooded, unawak- 
 ened nature, this of Alison's yet, moulded in the 
 dim monotony of obscure country life, in daily 
 performance of humble duties ; a heart stirred yet 
 by no passion more mastering than a sister's 
 matter-of-course love for other sisters, and the 
 little brother, born so late. She was a sensible, 
 steady girl, yet only a girl, after all ; and I do not 
 say, that night, as she lay down in her narrow, 
 hard bed beside the softly-breathing baby-brother, 
 that she did not dream of a bridegroom and a 
 wedding-dress. 
 
 Next morning, at the usual hour, Alison attended 
 to one of her accustomed duties, the care of a flock 
 of young turkeys, in a meadow by the farm. They 
 were a late brood, and the object of Alison's most 
 anxious solicitude. This morning her mother had 
 commanded her to put on a better gown than 
 usual, and to place upon her curls a fine mob-cap 
 of lace and cambric, whose flapping frills annoyed 
 her. It was an antique piece of finery, belonging 
 to her mother's girlhood rather than to hers ; but 
 fashions at The Mains were not advanced. Alison's 
 looks were not thought greatly of by her parents. 
 She lacked her mother's brilliant colouring and 
 bold, black-eyed beauty. She was rather pale, 
 indeed, though with a healthy, even pallor that 
 a touch of cold wind or a little exertion easily
 
 12 THE RHYMER 
 
 brightened into a pleasing softness of pink. Her 
 hair, which would never grow beyond her shoulders 
 for length, curled all about her ears and neck — 
 tendrils borrowed from the stubborn, reddish locks 
 of her father, only they were not red, but of a 
 light, sunny brown. Her face had the calmness 
 and strength of clear-cut features, and she was tall 
 beyond the common, well and strongly made. Not 
 an unpleasing figure at all was she, as she stood 
 calling to her turkeys, the autumn sun catching at 
 her hair, and shining in her grey eyes. Yet the 
 hearts of her parents misgave them, as they saw 
 her, lest she should fail to find favour in the eyes 
 of Mr Cheape of Kincarley. 
 
 For Mr Cheape had arrived, and, with laudable 
 punctuality, had stumped into the library, where 
 the laird, who had been talked round the night 
 before into a temporary acquiescence in his suit, 
 waited to receive him. To the pair, presently 
 entered the lady of the house in her Sunday silk, 
 and genteelest manners. A gruff nod to the laird, 
 and a stiff inclination to his dame, was all the 
 salutation vouchsafed by Mr Cheape, who then 
 stood hitting at his boots with the whip in his 
 hand, and grunting at intervals. 
 
 "Tis a fine morning for the time of the year, 
 and grand for lifting the neeps,' began the laird, 
 with a cough. 
 
 Mr Cheape snorted. ' I'm not here,' he re- 
 marked, with plainness, 'to discuss the weather 
 and turnips. I'm come, ma'am, to be presented 
 to your daughters ; ' and he ignored the laird, and 
 addressed himself to the lady. 
 
 'To my daughter Alison, doubtless? ' said Mrs 
 Graham, with polite firmness.
 
 THE RHYMER i^ 
 
 ' Hum,' said Mr Cheape, ' I understood there 
 were seven of them.' 
 
 *VVe are blessed with seven girls, indeed/ said 
 Mrs Graham, majestically. ' But our daughter 
 Alison is the only one from whom we could think 
 of parting ourselves at this time. The rest' — 
 coolly — ' are bairns.' 
 
 ' I should like to see them all,' objected the 
 suitor, who felt himself being ' done.' 
 
 ' You will see Alison,' said Mrs Graham, com- 
 posedly. 'You must e'en take them as the Lord 
 gave them — or want ! ' she added, with spirit. (' To 
 think,' as she said to her husband afterwards, ' if I 
 hadna been canny — he might ha' taken Susie or 
 Maggie, as likely as not — and left Ally on our 
 hands ! ') 
 
 ' Mr Cheape is pleased to be plain and to the 
 point,' here interrupted the laird, not without 
 sarcasm in his tone, which, however, was quite lost 
 upon his visitor. ' We have, indeed, seven lasses, 
 and little to give them, sir, and cannot therefore 
 be over nice in the matter of their wooing. Alison 
 is at her turkeys in the east meadow, wife. Suppos- 
 ing we conduct this gentleman to the spot, and see 
 if he is inclined to make a bargain of it ? ' 
 
 So Alison's fate approached her in this quaint 
 fashion, Mr Cheape stumping at her mother's side, 
 and the laird bringing up the rear, with a comical 
 eye on the suitor's burly back. They paused at a 
 gate where Alison could not see them, but they 
 could see her in a patch of sun, with the turkeys 
 picking and cheeping at her feet. * Is that the 
 one?' said Mr Cheape, pointing at the object of 
 his wooing with his whip. 
 
 ' Our daughter Alison,' said Mrs Graham, com-
 
 14 THE RHYMER 
 
 placently, with an introductory wave of the hand. 
 ' But twenty, come the New Year time,' for she 
 much feared that Alison looked older. 
 
 Mr Cheape seemed lost in thought and calcula- 
 tion. ' A knowledge of fowls,' he said at last, 
 heavily, ' is useful in a female.' 
 
 ' 'Tis indispensable in the lady of a country 
 mansion,' said Mrs Graham, cheerfully. ' And none 
 beats Alison at that, let me tell you ! ' 
 
 ' Alison, come here ! ' called her father. Alison 
 turned round and obeyed. When she approached 
 the group which held her suitor, she curtseyed, 
 but the behaviour of Mr Cheape at this juncture 
 was so singular and so disconcerting, that there 
 was no time for a formal introduction between the 
 two. Whether it was the wide, all-too-frankly 
 astonished gaze of Alison's grey eyes, or the young 
 lady's imposing height, or simply a fit of bashfulness 
 that overpowered him, cannot be said. But merely 
 the fact can be given, that at this delicate juncture 
 the gallant wooer, with a fiercer grunt than usual, 
 and some muttered exclamation which no one 
 caught, incontinently turned tail and fled towards 
 the house, the distracted matron almost running in 
 his wake. Alison and her father were left together. 
 
 ' Is that Mr Cheape, sir ? ' enquired the daughter, 
 gravely. 
 
 * Ay, lass,' said the laird. ' 'Tis even the great 
 Mr Cheape of Kincarley, in the county of Fife ! ' 
 
 Alison said nothing, but with her chin in the air, 
 and lifting the flounces of her good dress above the 
 wet grass she went back to her turkeys. Her father 
 laughed his jolly laugh. ' He will have none of you, 
 Ally, that's plain ! ' he called after her. ' So don't you 
 be losing your heart to his bonny face, I warn you ! '
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 But so very far was the laird of The Mains from 
 being accurate in his assertion of Mr Cheape's 
 indifference to his daughter's charms, that when he 
 re-entered the hbrary, which he presently did, he 
 found that gentleman and his wife in the closest 
 confabulation, the subject of their discourse being 
 no other than that of a contract of marriage 
 between Miss Graham of The Mains, and Mr 
 Cheape of Kincarley. The latter gentleman 
 appeared now to be much easier of demeanour. 
 
 ' These matters,' he observed, almost jocularly, 
 ' are better settled without the presence of the 
 lady!' 
 
 ' But, God bless my soul ! ' cried the laird, ' you 
 hardly saw the girl, or she you — ' 
 
 ' Oh, she'll do, she'll do,' said Mr Cheape, with 
 an agreeable grunt, but an air of hurry. ' An' now 
 I must away : good-day, good-day ! ' He stuck out 
 a snuffy hand, which Mrs Graham clutched with 
 warmth. ' Sir,' he continued, addressing the laird, 
 * if you will be pleased to honour me with your 
 company at dinner to-morrow night at four, at the 
 
 King's Arms in C , we can discuss this matter 
 
 at our ease. I am in a position to act handsomely 
 on my part, as I have informed your lady. But 
 'tis better to discuss such matters between gentle- 
 men. Good-day t'you.' He had hurried off, and 
 had scrambled upon his horse at the door, with 
 
 15
 
 t6 the rhymer 
 
 some assistance from that animal's abundant mane, 
 and was jogging down the approach, before the 
 open-mouthed laird had found time or presence 
 of mind to accept or reject the invitation to dinner. 
 
 ' Saw ever man the like of that ! ' ejaculated the 
 master of the house, gazing after man and horse. 
 
 ' Saw ever woman the like o' you !' retorted his 
 spouse, furiously, ' staring like a stuck pig after an 
 honest gentleman that's done you the honour to 
 speir your penniless daughter, instead of shaking 
 him warmly by the hand ! ' 
 
 * I'd as lief shake the tatty-bogle by the hand,' 
 said the laird, provokingly. ' Wife, you're clever, 
 but you'll never get Ally to stomach yon,' and 
 he indicated the disappearing Mr Cheape with 
 a derisive finger. 
 
 ' Will I not ? ' retorted the lady, with a defiant 
 eye, ' ye sumph, John, to take the bread out of a 
 lassie's mouth like that, afore she's bitten on it. 
 Ye are even a bigger fool than I thocht ye ! ' 
 
 With such plainness was the much-tried mother 
 of many daughters driven to address their exas- 
 perating father. The laird laughed : but then and 
 there a serious marital tussle began, the kind in 
 which the laird was never victorious. Mr Graham 
 announced that he would not dine with Mr Cheape 
 to-morrow night, or any other : that it was useless, 
 that there was no object in his putting himself 
 about to do so, in as much as that Mr Cheape's 
 proposals were preposterous, and not for a moment 
 to be seriously entertained. Mrs Graham, on the 
 other hand, asserted that, dine with Mr Cheape of 
 Kincarley, at four of the clock to-morrow evening 
 
 at the King's Arms in C , he, Mr Graham of 
 
 The Mains, in his best blue coat and ruffled shirt,
 
 THE RHYMER 17 
 
 with powder in his hair — most unquestionably 
 would, and should. Gradually, the laughing mood 
 went out of the laird. For his lady intrenched 
 upon money matters, and got him on the raw 
 there, as only a wife or a creditor can. The laird 
 at this time was an embarrassed man, and very 
 eager to be quit of his embarrassments. Previous 
 to the birth of his son, and when it was thought 
 he would not have an heir, but that the entail, at 
 his death, would send The Mains to a distant 
 cousin, he had been careless of money, and had 
 considerably burdened the estate. Now it was 
 the wish of his heart to lift these burdens, and 
 leave an unencumbered inheritance to the young 
 laird ; and if it was his wish, it was his wife's 
 passion. 
 
 'What is to become of these lasses? Are they 
 all to hang upon their brother ? ' was the eternal 
 burden of her cry. Twenty-four hours of unre- 
 mitted harping upon this subject, under all its 
 aspects, reduced the laird to a frame of mind in 
 which he would have dined with Beelzebub, had 
 the dinner promised him a solution of his difficul- 
 ties, and peace with his wife. Needless to say, 
 therefore, he dined with Mr Cheape of Kincarley, 
 on the appointed day and hour ; and, moreover, 
 did not come home until past two o'clock on the 
 following morning. 
 
 For, let it be remembered, these were the jolly 
 days of the bottle, when a man was no man who 
 could not carry his port, and carry it home, too. 
 The laird of The Mains was no drunkard, but he 
 had a head of iron and a stomach of leather in the 
 good old style of our ancestors. He was a four- 
 bottlc-man with the best of them, and he chanced 
 
 h
 
 i8 THE RHYMER 
 
 to find in Mr Cheape of Kincarley just such 
 another hardened elderly cask as himself. Tlie 
 two sat hour after hour, swallowing glass after 
 glass, at first in gloomy silence ; but presently 
 each began to mellow in his own way. The laird's 
 tongue was loosened, and he began to talk about 
 his daughters and his difficulties. Mr Cheape 
 lost his shyness, became genial and generous ; at 
 any time, to do him justice, he was a man not 
 niggardly in money matters. The settlements he 
 proposed to make upon his bride were more than 
 handsome: to the impoverished laird they sounded 
 princely. And it is a fact — such are the wonder- 
 working powers of the rosy god of wine — that before 
 the night was out, not only were the preliminaries 
 of a marriage contract agreed upon, but the laird had 
 become a borrower on his own account, and Mr 
 Cheape a lender, of certain sums that the laird had 
 been at his wits' end, for many a day, to lay his 
 hands on. When he got home, which he managed 
 to do upon his horse with the utmost propriety, he 
 was not precisely in a condition to explain com- 
 plicated money transactions with absolute perspi- 
 cacity. But the morning brought explanations 
 which were eminently satisfactory to the wife of 
 his bosom. Certain twinges of conscience indeed 
 assailed the laird, and during the morning's narra- 
 tion, he was not quite so comfortable in his mind 
 as he had been over-night. What about Alison's 
 part of the bargain ? But he reflected that he was 
 the father of seven penniless girls, and must harden 
 his heart. 
 
 Alison, meanwhile, made fun of Mr Cheape in 
 the attics, among her sisters. True, there was 
 a prick of disappointment at her heart, for her
 
 THE RHYMER 19 
 
 mother had dangled a wedding before her eyes, 
 and a wedding meant a lover, of course. But the 
 happy heart of twenty is sound and light, and by 
 next morning Alison had forgotten her disappoint- 
 ment, and Mr Cheape along with it. Her mother's 
 early summons gave her no misgiving. 
 
 ' Come with me to the big press in the east 
 passage, Alison,' said the dame, jingling a bunch 
 a keys, and with the light of battle in her eye. 
 "Tis time we looked at something there, and I 
 have a mind to have a talk with you, besides.' 
 And at this Alison's heart did certainly jump — 
 not pleasantly. 
 
 The big press in the east passage smelt agree- 
 ably of dried lavender and rose leaves. Here was 
 store of fine linen, and a few of the more valued 
 articles of personal apparel. 
 
 ' Get out my wedding-silk, Ally,' commanded 
 Mrs Graham. Alison reached up long arms, and 
 got down the silk, which was laid by, with layers 
 of fine muslin between its folds. It was a superb 
 brocade of sweet floral bunches on a ground of 
 greenish-grey ; the flounces of Mechlin on it were 
 fragile as a fairy's web, and ivory-tinted with age. 
 Mrs Graham fingered and examined the fabric ; 
 then she said, significantly : 
 
 ' So, 'tis you that's going to rob me of my fine 
 silk, after all, Ally ? 'Tis just as it should be — 
 my eldest girl ! ' Alison shook in her shoes, for 
 she knew well that determined inflection of the 
 maternal voice. 
 
 ' I don't understand, mother,' she managed to 
 stammer. 
 
 ' Tuts, nonsense ! ' said Mrs Graham, sharply, 
 'you're no fool, Ally : you understand fine. That
 
 20 THE RHYMER 
 
 honest gentleman you saw yesterday is to marry 
 you, and lucky you are to get him ! ' 
 
 ' Sure, not tJiat man, mother!' cried poor Alison. 
 
 'And why not that man, miss?' retorted the 
 matron with a rising colour and an angry eye. 
 
 ' He's as old as my father,' blurted out the 
 reluctant bride, ' and has no liking for me, for- 
 bye!' 
 
 ' And why should he ask you when he's seen 
 you, if he has no liking for you ? ' demanded the 
 matron. 
 
 ' Because no one else will have him, likely,' said 
 Alison, in desperation. She had never spoken in 
 rebellion to her mother before, and the effort it 
 cost her was truly desperate. ' If I have to take 
 that man,' she plunged on recklessly, ' I'll be the 
 laughing-stock of the country-side and of my very 
 sisters ! ' 
 
 ' Alison,' said Mrs Graham, in a more reasoning 
 tone, for she felt her own strength, ' you are a silly 
 lassie, and just don't know the grand chance you're 
 wanting to throw away. Think what it will be to 
 be a married woman, wi' a house and man of your 
 own — a man of substance, too — and lord it over 
 a whole country-side ! Why, here, Ally, you're 
 little better than a nurse-girl and a hen-wife I ' 
 
 ' And I'd rather be a nurse-girl and a hen-wife 
 all my days, than married to that old man/ cried 
 Alison, with a rising sob. ' He'll neither love me, 
 nor I him ! ' 
 
 ' Love ! ' cried Mrs Graham, with a blaze of fury, 
 'and who taught j'ou to speak of love, and you 
 twenty, and never a lover near you! Set j'ou up 
 to be saucy, indeed ! I had had my choice long 
 afore I was your age, and might ha' turned up a
 
 THE RHYMER 2r 
 
 neb at a decent man, maybe. But for the likes 
 of you, it's very different, let me tell you ! ' 
 
 ' You lived in a town,' said poor Alison, in weak 
 defence, 'and saw the men.' 
 
 'Town or no town makes no difference,' said 
 Mrs Graham with lofty superiority. 'The men 
 come down the lum to likely lasses, and them that's 
 not likely may be thankful to get a chance at all. 
 What's to become of you all,' she continued, her 
 tone of reasoning degenerating into the high voice 
 of the scold, 'you seven muckle, useless lasses? 
 Are you all to sorn on Jacky, poor wee man, for 
 all his days, and take the very bread out of his 
 mouth? ' 
 
 ' I would not sorn on Jacky,' said Alison, with 
 a quivering lip. 
 
 ' Then get you a husband, and no nonsense ! ' 
 said Mrs Graham. "Tis, indeed, a settled busi- 
 ness,' she went on, coolly, ' settled by your father.' 
 
 'Oh, I'll not believe it!' cried Alison, fairly in 
 tears. ' Let me see my father first.' 
 
 'That you shall not,' said Mrs Graham with 
 force. Well she knew the inevitable effects of a 
 daughter's tears on that weak man. It became an 
 indispensable thing, in fact, that Alison should not 
 see her father, and to that end firm measures must 
 at once be taken. 
 
 ' Up you get to your room, and stay there, miss, 
 till you are of a better mind,' said the stern mother 
 of seven, who did not stick at trifles. She chased 
 Alison up the garret stair, shut the door on her, 
 and turned the key. 
 
 ' A few days o' that^ she said to herself triumph- 
 antly, 'and she'll be ready to jump at Mr Cheape 
 — honest man.'
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 I DO not wish, in the very opening of her story, to 
 
 give the idea that Alison Graham was a girl of 
 
 poor spirit. Perhaps she should have turned upon 
 
 her mother on the stair, or, at any rate, stood up for 
 
 her freedom with a bolder front. But the habit of 
 
 Alison's life, up to this point, had been obedience, 
 
 and, in the days of which I write, parental authority 
 
 was no matter to be trifled with. It wanted a 
 
 hundred years yet to the birth of the Revolted 
 
 Daughter, and to Alison, even the tacit form of 
 
 resistance which she was about to offer to her 
 
 parents' wishes, seemed a very terrible and almost 
 
 wicked line of conduct. She sat down on the 
 
 creepie-stool by the little window, where she was 
 
 wont to sing Jacky to sleep every night, and was too 
 
 much puzzled and too heavy at the heart to cry. 
 
 Presently her sisters came and tirled at the door, 
 
 wanting to know what was the matter; but the 
 
 key was safely in the maternal pocket, and Alison 
 
 shut off from comfort and communion of these 
 
 friendly spirits. Then her tears began to flow, in 
 
 very pity for herself; but she was quite determined 
 
 that she would have none of Mr Cheape. 
 
 * The lass will never be got to thole him, I 
 doubt,' said the laird, with a sigh. Now that there 
 was a matter of money between him and Mr 
 Cheape, his position was complicated, and he could 
 no longer openly side with his daughter. 
 
 22
 
 THE RHYMER 23 
 
 ' Leave that to me,' said Mrs Graham, grimly. 
 To her mind it was like the breaking in of a colt 
 or filly — a fling up, a few kicks over the traces, and 
 a little restiveness at first, to be treated with a 
 firm hand, judiciously low diet, and a new bit 
 
 ' She's saucy,' said the mother of seven. ' She'll 
 be cured of that in a day or two ! ' 
 
 'Do not be hard on poor Ally,' said the laird, 
 sorely pricked with compunction. 
 
 ' 'Tis for her own good,' the lady replied, with no 
 doubt upon that point whatsoever. 
 
 In this awkward predicament it was lucky that 
 the gallant wooer of Miss Graham of The Mains 
 gave no trouble. Mr Cheape of Kincarley having, 
 in his opinion, safely secured a bride, was, in the 
 meantime, returned to the county of Fife, doubtless 
 to make preparation for the impending change in 
 his condition. He required no silly assurances 
 or fruitless antenuptial interviews with the lady 
 herself. 
 
 Thus Alison remained a prisoner in her little 
 room, deprived of all her daily tasks and little 
 pleasures, and of all good cheer of warmth and 
 light and company. The actual prisoner's fare of 
 bread and water was indeed not hers, but clots of 
 half-cold porridge and a sup of skim-milk twice a 
 day are not enticing provender, nor greatly calcu- 
 lated to keep up a flagging spirit. Her mother 
 was her only jailer, and with her own hands dunted 
 down this unsavoury dog's mess before her, with 
 the unceasing jibe upon her tongue — angry, per- 
 suasive, mocking, cruel, all in turn. The weather, 
 meanwhile, without doors, had broken for the 
 season, and the days were short and dark and 
 dreary. The rain lashed the little deep-set win-
 
 24 THE RHYMER 
 
 dow, and Alison sat shivering beside it, and listen- 
 ing to the howling wind, which whirled the dead 
 leaves off the trees and drove the protesting rooks 
 from shelter to shelter. She was a girl of great 
 good sense and a clear head. She could see her 
 mother's point of view well enough. There were 
 seven of them — she and her sisters — and what was 
 to become of them if they did not marry? She 
 had had no lovers, therefore it was quite true she 
 had no right to be saucy. But to marry Mr 
 Cheape ! Her gorge rose at the thought of him, 
 of the ugly, pitted face, the grizzled, scrubby beard, 
 the uncouth form and fashion of the man. Surely 
 that was not to be expected of her ? No ! So 
 Alison held out, and the dreary days dragged on, 
 till all but a week had passed. 
 
 Then, at dusk one night, when her heart was 
 faint within her, and her body faint too, for lack of 
 fresh air and wonted food, her father, having pur- 
 loined the key, came creeping up to her attic — 
 very quietly, good man (indeed, upon his stocking 
 soles) — so that the mistress, engaged in hustling 
 the maids in a distant laundry, should have no 
 chance of hearing. 
 
 ' 'Tis a pity, all this, Ally,' he said, in the dark. 
 
 Alison did not trust her voice to answer. 
 
 ' Were your mother not so doom-set on it,' went 
 on the laird — ' and sure she ought to know what is 
 best for lasses — I would say never mind, and let 
 iMr Cheape go hang. But she's set on it, sure and 
 fast, Ally ; and maybe it's not just such a bad 
 thing as it looks.' He stopped and coughed ; 
 nothing but his daughter's quick breathing answered 
 him. ' He's not a bonny man, I will say,' he con- 
 tinued ; ' but 'tisn't always the handsome faces
 
 THE RHYMER 25 
 
 and the fine manners that pay best in the end, Ally. 
 Mr Cheape is most handsome in his dealings if 
 he's not so in his looks ; and, on my soul, I think 
 he would do well by a wife.' No answer yet. 
 ' You would not help to ruin Jacky, would you, 
 Ally ? ' urged the laird, pathetically. 
 
 ' Indeed, no,' said Alison at last, in a low voice. 
 
 ' But ruin him you wnll in the future, if you let 
 this chance go by,' said the laird more firmly, for 
 he was conscious of his advantage. 'Mr Cheape 
 is a m^onied man, and generous with his money, 
 and we have profited by that already. I have 
 taken a loan from him, at a nominal interest, which 
 has greatly eased my circumstances ; but I cannot 
 hold to that if you give Mr Cheape the go-by, 
 Ally.' 
 
 ' I didn't know of that, sir,' said Alison. 
 
 ' 'Tis true,' said the laird, ' and not over much to 
 my credit, for it seems like the selling of you, lass. 
 But 'tis for your own good in the end, too, I swear, 
 or I would hold back yet. What's your future, 
 Ally, but to feed the hens ? And when we're gone 
 — your mother and I — to feed them to Jacky's 
 wife, and she perhaps not so willing to let you. 
 There's not much lies before you here, my lassie.' 
 It seemed not, indeed. 
 
 ' Then there's all your sisters — poor, silly bodies,' 
 pursued the laird, who knew his ground, in Alison's 
 nature, better than did his wife, because it was 
 akin to his own weaker flesh. ' What a chance 
 for them in this braw marriage of yours ! You 
 can give them a lift, poor lasses, such as we never 
 can. . , . 'Tis not to ourselves alone we live in 
 this world. Ally ! ' 
 
 ' No, sir,' said Alison, quietly. Ti'.en, all of a
 
 26 THE RHYMER 
 
 sudden, she reached for the tinder-box, and, rising, 
 lit the Httle cruisey lamp upon the wall. By its 
 weak flame, her father could see her standing 
 before him, very tall and straight, her face very 
 white, the cheeks a little hollow with a week of 
 fasting, and the tumbled curls about her broad, 
 soft brows. 
 
 ' I will have to take Mr Cheape, sir, I see,' she 
 said, a little doggedly, ' since it is best for every- 
 body, and I will — if I can' 
 
 'Now that's a sensible lassie!' cried the laird, 
 ' and how pleased your mother will be ! ' And, 
 indeed, his own life, from that lady's displeasure, 
 had been little, if at all, pleasanter than Alison's 
 for the past week. ' Come, Ally, kiss your father ! 
 Things will be better than you think for, and Cheape 
 a better husband than many a young spark.' 
 
 Alison was about to do as she was bid, when her 
 quick ear caught a sound outside, and she started 
 away from her father's arm. 
 
 ' Listen, sir ! ' she cried, ' didn't you hear the 
 sound of wheels? It seems like a chaise drivinsf 
 up. . . . Father,' she clutched the laird's sleeve, 
 and turned upon him a piteous face, white with 
 fear, ' it will not be Mr Cheape come back .? ' 
 
 The laird shook her off, crossly ; that frightened 
 face gave a horrid prick to his conscience. 
 
 ' Tut, girl,' he said, * don't be a fool ! Mr 
 Cheape, indeed ! 'Tis you have been in disgrace, 
 and don't know the news ; indeed, I had for- 
 gotten it myself. Your mother has a friend— 'tis 
 a Mistress Maclehose of Edinburgh— comes to lie 
 here for a night on her way back to the town, 
 from a visit. Fine and put about your mother's 
 been— to get the best room ready, and a dinner
 
 THE RHYMER 27 
 
 cooked, and all the best china out, and the silver 
 candlesticks and the tea-set, and all without you, 
 I was for having you down, but deil a bit ! She's 
 thrawn, is your mother, Ally, when the notion 
 takes her ! But it will be all right now — and 
 there, I must away to bid welcome to this fine 
 Edinburgh madam. She'll set you all the fashions, 
 Ally, and so cheer up ! ' And the laird hustled 
 off, well pleased with himself in the end. Ally 
 listened to his heavy footsteps on the wooden 
 stair, but did not follow him.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 It had been on the second or third day of Alison's 
 incarceration that the mistress of The Mains had 
 been thrown into a flutter by receiving a dispatch 
 from her almost forgotten friend, Nancy Mac- 
 lehose, craving a night's hospitality for old 
 acquaintance' sake. The country lady now 
 wished to make a good show before the urban 
 one. She could not rival her in the fashions, or 
 in modish gossip, but she could exhibit good 
 store of silver and fine linen, and could set a 
 feast before her of all the country delicacies. 
 
 'It'll be a queer thing if I'm not upsides wi' 
 Nancy Maclehose,' she remarked, ' for all the belle 
 that Nancy was ; it didna bring her much,' 
 
 •Ay, ay, I remember her fine,' said the laird, 
 ' nothing but a lassock when we married, wife — 
 but " pretty Miss Nancy " then, though hardly ten. 
 I mind her well when we were coortin', in the old 
 Glasgow days — pretty Miss Nancy ! ' 
 
 ' There'll be none o' the " Miss " and little of the 
 "pretty" about her now, I'se warrant,' said Mrs 
 Graham, with meaning, ' a wife, and not a wife, 
 and a widow, and not a widow. There's little to 
 be proud o' there, that / can see.' 
 
 ' Ay, they discorded, to be sure,' said the laird. 
 'Yet he was a fine sprig, young Maclehose, too. 
 Ye'Il mind all the clash about their coortin' you 
 got from Glasgow ? That was a neat trick of his 
 
 28
 
 THE RHYMER 29 
 
 about the coach — as neat a trick as ever a young 
 buck played, to my thinking.' 
 
 ' I never heed such clash,' said the lady, severely. 
 
 ' Hoots ! ' said the laird. ' It was when miss was 
 sent to Edinburgh to the school, being become too 
 forward for her age, as all were well agreed, and 
 Maclehose could not get acquaint with her, for all 
 he had tried. So he ups and takes every place in 
 the coach she was going by to Edinburgh, and so 
 he got the lass to himself, and a bonny way to do 
 it, too ! ' 
 
 ' And what was the end of it all ? ' said Mrs 
 Graham, witheringly. ' If ye must tell thae tales 
 before these lasses,' — they were, indeed, seated at 
 table, and six pairs of ears were taking in with 
 avidity these indiscreet revelations of love's auda- 
 city, — 'it ill beseems you, the father of a family, 
 to forget the lesson that's aye in them ! But 77/ 
 tell ye what came o' all that havering trash o' 
 coortin' in a coach, fast enough ! They hadn't 
 been married five years, when off goes the fine 
 young buck to live among savages at the West 
 Indies, and leaves his wife and bairns to charity at 
 home. And that's love^ misses ! Love ! ' she con- 
 tinued, in tones of immeasurable scorn, ' love, 
 indeed ! A guid stick is a better name for it, for 
 that's what it comes to in the end as often as not. 
 I e'en wish your silly sister Alison was down 
 here this minute to get this fine love story ! It 
 would do her good ! ' 
 
 And the mother of seven daughters, having 
 pointed a moral with due emphasis, went off to 
 count napkins out of the linen press. The six 
 younger Miss Grahams then relaxed the solemnity 
 of their listening countenances, and chattered
 
 30 THE RHYMER 
 
 among themselves of this tale of a lover and 
 a coach, with a great impatience to behold its 
 heroine. 
 
 That lady, meanwhile, in no very heroine-like 
 mood, was being jolted towards The Mains in an 
 old country post-chaise — an interminable cross- 
 country journey along muddy by-roads, in the 
 lashing rain and wind of the autumn day. She 
 almost repented the impulse which had induced 
 her to come out of her way to renew acquaintance 
 with the friends of her girlhood. ' It's little but 
 sad memories I'm like to get for my pains,' said she. 
 
 Stiff with long travel, cold, weary, and even wet, 
 for the deluging rain dripped through the covering 
 of the crazy old trap, she was landed at the door of 
 The Mains in the murk of the evening, just as the 
 laird descended the front stair from his daug^hter's 
 room. What he saw was a little, slight woman's 
 figure, covered from head to foot in a black hood 
 and mantle, stepping in out of the dark, and 
 receiving a genteel welcome from his excellent lady. 
 
 ' Come in, come in,' the lady of The Mains was 
 saying, standing in the hall, in her best silk dress, 
 flanked by a shy daughter or two. ' You are 
 welcome, Mrs Maclehose — Nancy, it used to be ! ' 
 
 ' It must be " Nancy " still, surely ! ' So sweet a 
 voice it was that spoke, that the sudden contrast 
 to the country lady's hearty tones was like the 
 change from a trumpet to some delicate stringed 
 instrument that thrills upon the ear. It was quite 
 drowned in the laird's jovial welcome which ensued. 
 
 ' Ay, it's not only " Nancy," ' said he, ' but " Pretty 
 Miss Nancy" — we've not forgotten that, ma'am, 
 not we ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, little of that now, Mr Graham ! ' and the
 
 THE RHYMER 31 
 
 speaker sighed and smiled ; not a very deep sigh, 
 and a very engaging smile. Mrs Graham had now 
 removed the travelling mantle from her guest's 
 shoulders, and a dainty little figure of a woman 
 stood forth, less considerably than the average 
 height, and slender, but with a full slenderness that 
 gave no hint of angularity or meagreness. Mrs 
 Maclehose, at eight-and-tvventy, was not of the 
 beaute e'datante which the public expects in one 
 who is known to posterity as the idol of a love- 
 poet. Hers was the kind of beauty that did not 
 suit all tastes ; for some, her mouth was too big, 
 for others, her eyes made too much play, and these 
 would say that she ogled. It was a fascination 
 that she had rather than beauty, aided by her 
 sweet voice, and soft, flattering ways ; and over all 
 there seemed to be a kind of innocent voluptuous- 
 ness, which allured, even though you resented its 
 allurement. Withal, her little person was dainti- 
 ness itself; an oval, small face, velvety, soft, dark 
 eyes, lips of a pomegranate redness that parted 
 in bewitching smiles, little hands and dainty feet. 
 Suddenly, beside her, the buxom lady of The 
 Mains seemed coarse and blowsy, and all her rosy 
 daughters to have wondrous clumsy waists, and 
 thick red wrists. Such was Nancy Maclehose, on 
 the very eve of her apotheosis — the 'gloriously 
 amiable Jitte zvornan ' of the enamoured Burns, the 
 'Clarinda' of so many a bombastic love-letter, and 
 the ' Nanny' of songs that are sweet for all time. 
 
 But ' Clarinda' had not met her ' Sylvander ' at 
 this date, and was merely a little grass-widow, in 
 rather doubtful circumstances, and a guest at The 
 Mains. She tuned herself to her company with 
 natural adaptability, and endured with Heroism the
 
 32 
 
 FHE RHYMER 
 
 massive hospitalities of a provincial evening. She 
 was docile with the mistress of the house, and 
 bewitching with its master; went through an intro- 
 duction to six shy country girls, with a pretty word 
 for each. She praised the china, and envied the 
 silver ; vowed no turkey ever tasted half so good, 
 nor home-brewed ginger cordial half so luscious. 
 And she meant it all, though all the time her 
 delicate travel-tired limbs ached for bed, and she 
 felt all the worst shivering premonitions of a bad 
 cold ; the chilly strangeness of a new-comer was 
 upon her, and the low-roofed, rambling old house 
 seemed dark and draughty and comfortless. The 
 evening ended with a toddy-bowl, of which the 
 contents forced the tears into her eyes"; then the 
 long-suffering guest was ushered into the glories of 
 the best bedroom, and left in peace. 
 
 The firelight danced upon the walls, and upon 
 the chintz hangings, with their shiny floral pattern. 
 The best bed yawned for its occupant, but now she 
 seemed in no mood to succumb to its allurements. 
 She pulled a pink wrapper out of her trunk and 
 put it on ; and then out of the same receptacle 
 came a certain book, and with this on her knee, 
 and her chair pulled close to the fire, she sank into 
 a fit of musing. The book was a manuscript book, 
 elaborately bound, and fastening with a lock and 
 key. It held verses ; the fair reader conned a 
 morsel, then with a pencil added or erased a word, 
 her lips moving the while, and her smooth brow 
 puckered into the frown of composition. Most 
 assuredly the best bedroom at The Mains had 
 never held a poetess before. Her soft mouth 
 smiled to itself, and her great dark eyes flashed 
 and shone in the firelight. The muse apparently
 
 THE RHYMER S3 
 
 was gracious. Presently, however, a sharp sneeze 
 brought the lady's romantic meditations to a pro- 
 saic ending. 
 
 ' As I'm alive,' said the little woman to herself, 
 with a shiver, ' I have an influenza coming — and no 
 wonder ! ' 
 
 She got into the high bed and slipped between 
 the glossy linen sheets, but then she could not 
 sleep. The old house slept, but with many creak- 
 ings to a super-sensitive ear: the whisper of the 
 wind among the eaves and in the ivy, the rattle 
 of a casement, the tinkling fall of ashes on the 
 hearth. Now an owl hooted as it fled through 
 the night, and now a rat scampered in the wall. 
 Then a strange, puzzling noise teased the ear, — a 
 sort of sliddcring sound, — she could not guess its 
 origin. It was only Alison's pigeons on the roof, 
 trying to get a foot-hold on the slanting slates, 
 and then slip, slipping down with an angry croon 
 and flutter, to scramble up again, and so da capo. 
 
 ' Perdition take the night and the noises ! ' 
 muttered the guest, with a flounce among the 
 sheets. Then she curled herself up, and felt a 
 delicious drowsiness creeping on ; but at that very 
 instant came a new and an unmistakable disturb- 
 ance. Somebody in the room overhead began to 
 sob and cry.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Nancy sat up in bed with a jerk, never less asleep 
 in her life. 
 
 ' Now, is there some ghost in this old barrack ? ' 
 she asked herself. But the sound was too material 
 for that ; such a hard sobbing never came from 
 ghostly throat. 
 
 ' This is intolerable,' muttered Mrs Maclehose ; 
 'I cannot lie and listen to it: 'tis inhuman.' She 
 got out of bed and slid her feet into little slippers 
 that had high red heels and no backs to them. 
 She threw on her wrapper, and taking the rush- 
 light in her hand, opened the door softly and 
 listened. The passage was dark and cold. To 
 her left, a wooden stair led upwards. From that 
 region the sobbing came. ' 'Tis some fellow- 
 creature in distress,' thought the kind little guest. 
 ' Most likely but some servant-lass in a scrape, 
 and in terror of her mistress : God knows I'd be 
 the same. I'll go up — a comforting word never 
 came amiss.' She set forth, but the red heels 
 made such a tap, tapping on the bare boards, that 
 she was terrified ; she slipped off her shoes and 
 crept bare-foot up the stair. She knocked at 
 the first door she came to, which was the right 
 one. The sobbing ceased at once, but no one 
 answered. Then she lifted the latch softly and 
 looked in. 
 
 34
 
 THE RHYMER 35 
 
 What she saw was the bare little room with the 
 deep-set window where Alison slept with her little 
 brother. The child's cot was beside her bed, empty, 
 for her misbehaviour had deprived her of Jacky. 
 Alison sat up in bed, so dazed by the light that 
 she could scarcely see the little figure with bare 
 feet, and in the pink wrapper, with the neat lacy 
 night-cap over the dark hair. Nancy could much 
 more advantageously see a grey-eyed girl whose 
 face was wet with tears, and whose childish curls 
 tumbled about her neck and ears. 
 
 ' Now, this is no servant-lass,' said Mrs Macle- 
 hose to herself, and then, aloud, ' My love, don't 
 be frightened, I beg ! I heard someone crying 
 in the night, and thought I might be helpful. If 
 'tis an intrusion, forgive me, and I'll go away.' 
 Alison stared at the speaker with parted lips. 
 
 'Who are you?' she murmured. The little lady 
 laughed softly, closed the door gently, and came 
 nearer, shading the light with her hand. 
 
 ' You may well ask,' said she, ' since I only came 
 to-day ! But tell me first whojo?/ are — come ! ' 
 
 She deposited the rush-light on a chair, and 
 plumping herself down on the edge of the bed, 
 drew up her little bare feet under her, and peered 
 into Alison's face with the most coaxing, the most 
 beguiling, air in the world. 
 
 ' I am Alison Graham,' stammered the daughter 
 of the house. 
 
 ' What ! another of them ? ' cried Mrs Maclehose, 
 aghast ; * why, I saw a host — four — five — six ; 
 you're never a seventh, surely?' 
 
 * Yes,' said Alison, dolorously. ' There are seven 
 of us : I am the eldest.' 
 
 ' But you were not there, or spoken of,' persisted
 
 36 THE RHYMER 
 
 Mrs Maclehose, scenting a mystery. * Were you ill, 
 love ? ' Alison turned her head away. 
 
 ' No, not ill,' she said, truthful always, * but — but 
 my mother was not pleased with me, and so I was 
 not down the stair.' Mrs Maclehose put a soft 
 little hand under Alison's chin, and turned the 
 reluctant face towards her. 
 
 * Ah, child ! ' she said, ' 'tis some love trouble, 
 never tell me it isn't ! Tell me about it, for I am 
 more learned in such than any other person in the 
 world ! I am an old friend of your mother's, but 
 not so very old neither, in years, you know ; and I 
 am Nancy — Nancy Maclehose, to my sorrow. Now, 
 come, out with it ; 'tis a love tale — I know ! ' 
 
 ' If it is,' cried Alison, between laughter and tears, 
 but fairly won, ' 'tis a love tale with no love in it, 
 ma'am ! ' 
 
 ' The very worst kind of all ! ' cried the confi- 
 dante, serenely. * And now, sure, I know all about 
 it without being told ! 'Tis some marriage they 
 are forcing upon you for prudence' sake : some 
 suitor — distasteful, old, uncouth — ' 
 
 ' Ah ! they've been telling you,' murmured 
 Alison, blushing. 
 
 ' Not a word — I swear ! ' cried the vivacious 
 little lady, enchanted at her own sagacity. ' But 
 am I not right? A distasteful marriage, dictated 
 by prudence ; a fond heart that will have none 
 of it, but faithful to another — ' 
 
 ' Ah ! now there you are at fault,' began Alison, 
 and then paused : why should she, to a perfect 
 stranger, confess the humiliating fact that she had 
 no lover, and no secret romance ? But her native 
 honesty prevailed. ' There is no " another," ' she 
 murmured, shamefacedly.
 
 THE RHYMER 37 
 
 ' Some day there will be, then ! ' said Mrs 
 Maclehose, cheerfully, 'and you, be faithful to 
 him, child! ' 
 
 'Faithful?' cried Alison, wide-eyed. 'But I've 
 never seen him, ma'am ; he doesn't exist.' 
 
 ' Ah ! he does exist, somewhere — a kindred soul,' 
 said the romantic visitor, nodding sagely. ' He is 
 only waiting for the chance — the divine chance.' . . . 
 
 ' I doubt he will never get it at The Mains,' said 
 the prosaic Alison. 
 
 'Faint heart!' cried Mrs Maclehose. 'Believe 
 in Love, the greatest of all the gods ! ' 
 
 Alison, never thus adjured before, looked 
 doubtful. 
 
 'My mother and father tell me not to think 
 about love,' she said, hesitatingly; 'they say 'tis 
 a delusion.' 
 
 ' They blaspheme, child ! ' cried the visitor, with 
 energy. "Tis love that has wrought me all the 
 woe in my own span of life, God wot, yet I believe 
 in him — believe in him still, with all my heart and 
 soul. . . . But tell me, love,' she went on, breaking 
 off in her rhapsody, 'who is it they would tie 
 you to ? ' 
 
 "Tis a Mr Cheape of Kincarley, in Fife,' said 
 Alison, hanging her head. Mrs Maclehose uttered 
 a little trill of laughter. 
 
 *0h, never, never Mr Cheape!' she tittered. 
 'Don't tell me 'tis the inevitable, the invincible, 
 the inveterate Jimmy Cheape ! . . .' 
 
 ' Then you know him ? ' cried Alison, eagerly. 
 
 'Oh, Lord, child!' said Mrs Maclehose, 'who 
 
 doesn't, dear? He has stumped the streets of 
 
 Edinburgh, and every sizeable town in the country, 
 
 in search of a wife this twenty years and more!
 
 38 THE RHYMER 
 
 Jimmy Cheape ! No, Alison (for you'll let me call 
 you Alison ? I like you, child, and will love you, 
 I know — 'tis all arranged by our Fates). No, no ! 
 'tis not you that are destined for Mr Cheape ; never 
 think it ! ' 
 
 ' I would not think it, if I could help it,' said the 
 literal Alison. ' But 'tis all arranged — indeed it is 
 — and my mother set upon it in her mind, and 
 nothing will turn her.' 
 
 * / will turn her ! ' cried the lively little grass- 
 widow, with her charming smile and a flash of her 
 dark eyes. 
 
 ' Will you ? ' said Alison, solemnly, leaning for- 
 ward and gazing at her new friend with devouring, 
 wondering eyes. ' How ? ' 
 
 A clock struck two. It was a timely diversion, 
 and Mrs Maclehose jumped down from the bed on 
 to her little bare feet. 
 
 ' Two of the clock ! ' she cried, ' and me with a 
 cold creeping down the spine of my back like a rill 
 of ice-water ! I must away to my bed, love.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' cried Alison, ' how selfish of me to have 
 kept you in a cold room, talking.' 
 
 "Twas I kept myself, dear,' said the visitor, 
 lightly. ' Not the first foolish thing I have done in 
 my life, or likely to be the last, either. Will you 
 call me, Nancy, child, and kiss me good-night ? ' 
 
 ' Sure,' cried Alison, ' I think you are a dream, 
 a fairy, or an angel ! ' The dream put out its arms, 
 took Alison's head into their embrace, and kissed 
 her curls. 
 
 ' We'll meet to-morrow,' she said, ' and then 
 you'll see I'm no dream.' Then she paddled over 
 the cold bare boards on those little feet, and casting 
 a last bright look over her shoulder to Alison in
 
 THE RHYMER 39 
 
 the bed, she was gone. Alison watched the h'ght 
 in the crack under the door, until it grew fainter 
 and fainter, and then disappeared. Then, not a 
 little comforted, she turned round in her nest, and 
 slept like a child. 
 
 The next morning, Alison ventured to take her 
 usual place in the household, and was met with 
 smiles. 
 
 ' Now you are come to your senses, Alison,' her 
 mother said, 'and you will live to thank me that I 
 showed you the way. See here, now,' she went on, 
 ' this fine Edinburgh madam that has come here 
 while you were up yonder, has gotten an influenza 
 that will keep her in her bed for a week, I'm 
 thinking. Not that I grudge it her either, for it 
 aye goes clean against the grain wi' me to have 
 sheets soiled for the one night ; I'd far sooner get 
 the week's work out o' them. You must take 
 madam's breakfast up, though, and make yourself 
 civil. Ally. She was aye a clever, going-about body, 
 Nancy, fine and gleg at the dressing of herself up. 
 'Tis a God-send her coming now. She'll set us in 
 the fashions for your wedding, and show us how 
 to sort my bonny silk.' 
 
 Alison shuddered ; but she prepared the tray 
 for the visitor's breakfast, and proceeded to take 
 it upstairs, her heart beating fast with curiosity. 
 
 Under the flowered curtains of the best bed a 
 little figure, still huddled in the pink wrapper, was 
 gripped in the agueish shivering of an influenza 
 cold. It started up, however, with unimpaired 
 liveliness when Alison appeared. 
 
 ' Ah, child,' she cried, ' I knew it would be you ! 
 Come, let us look at each other in the broad day- 
 light. Why, what a Juno it is!' looking xA.lison
 
 40 THE RHYMER 
 
 up and down. ' What a great, big girl, to be 
 topped by those baby curls.' 
 
 Alison came to the bed, pulled the tumbled 
 coverlet straight, and shook up the pillows, with 
 her sensible literal air. 
 
 'You are feverish, ma'am,' she said, 'and 
 shouldn't talk. Here is a warm shawl my mother 
 sends to hap about you, and she says, please, will 
 you keep still and warm, and she will bring you a 
 hot posset presently,' The invalid laughed in the 
 grave, girlish face. 
 
 ' Oh, Solomon ! ' she said, * and do you expect 
 me to obey your good mother, and do the wise 
 thing at the wise moment ? You little know poor 
 Nannie yet' Her dark, bright eyes grew full of 
 sadness for a moment, and she had the air of some 
 pretty, soft, appealing little animal — a kitten, per- 
 haps — checked in its play by a hurt. ' I want to 
 talk,' she said, ' to talk, and talk, and talk. We 
 must, you know, Alison, so as to see how we are 
 to outwit Mr Cheape.' 
 
 ' When you are better,' said Alison, ' we will talk. 
 I doubt you will hear plenty of Mr Cheape,' she 
 added, soberly. 
 
 At this moment a diversion occurred of a suffi- 
 ciently prosaic nature to defer further confidences 
 of a sentimental kind. The driver of the chaise in 
 which Mrs Maclehose had arrived the night before 
 sent a message to say that he could wait no longer, 
 but must return whence he came, and to that end 
 he must be paid. 
 
 ' Here, reach me my reticule, dear,' said the 
 invalid to Alison, and she hunted in the dainty 
 velvet bag for her purse, and in the purse for the 
 necessary coin. This, however, did not appear to
 
 THE RHYMER 41 
 
 be instantly forthcoming. A slight frown ruffled 
 her forehead, and the faintest flush rose on her 
 cheek. ' 'Tis most provoking, Ally,' she said. ' I 
 have run short. Will you run and ask your father, 
 love, to pay the man for me, and I will this day 
 write for more money to my cousin Herries, in 
 Edinburgh, who manages my affairs. You see I 
 trusted to be back in town immediately, and that's 
 how I've let myself run into so beggarly a state.' 
 She laughed lightly ; her embarrassment was gone. 
 
 Alison duly ran down to her father, who paid 
 two guineas to the driver, cocking his eye to him- 
 self as he did so. 
 
 ' Women's debts ! ' he remarked within his own 
 mind. ' It's little likely I'll ever see the colour of 
 that again.' And it may here be mentioned, as a 
 little matter strictly between him and the reader, 
 that he never did.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 As the sagacious mistress of The Mains had fore- 
 told, the influenza kept Mrs Maclehose in bed for 
 a week. Fever succeeded ague, and cold and head- 
 ache followed in their wake, and it was, for some 
 days, a very sick little woman indeed, that tossed 
 and tumbled between the linen sheets, under the 
 flowered hangings of the best room. Alison waited 
 upon her with a patience and prudence that had 
 presently their own effect upon the volatile nature 
 of the invalid ; these solid, good qualities in the 
 country girl seemed to have a singular fascination 
 for the little town lady, in whose character, it is 
 to be feared, they were conspicuously lacking. 
 Alison, on her part, felt also curiously drawn to 
 her guest. This delicate little personage, with all 
 her pretty belongings, her petulant temper, and 
 pretty ways, was a new type at The Mains. Simple 
 Alison felt it a privilege to wait upon one so fine 
 and dainty. She could lift her in her bed as though 
 she were a child, and both her tiny hands could lie 
 in Alison's one palm, and be spanned by a finger 
 and thumb. And yet Alison felt there were more 
 wits in one finger tip of this little lady than per- 
 haps in the heads of everybody else at The Mains 
 put together. Were there not poetry books upon 
 her dressing-table, and did she not, indeed, write 
 poetry herself? Alison had been for one year at 
 a young ladies' seminary in the town of Stirling ; 
 
 42
 
 THE RHYMER 43 
 
 but even the ' finish ' imparted by this experience, 
 could not diminish in her a sense of awe at the 
 Hterary accompHshments of her new friend. But I 
 think it was the storming of her confidence on that 
 first night of their acquaintance that really im- 
 pressed Alison with a sense of the new-comer's 
 cleverness and power. To the intensely reserved, 
 there is something almost preternatural in those 
 qualities in another which overcome and overleap 
 that reserve. And then Mrs Maclehose knew all 
 about Mr Cheape ! Secretly, but not very hope- 
 fully, for Alison's was not a sanguine nature, she 
 hoped for deliverance from her threatened bondage, 
 a deliverance that the cleverness of her new friend 
 should effect. 
 
 The first moment she could sit up in her bed, 
 Mrs Maclehose demanded pens and paper, and 
 said she must write letters. 
 
 ' Could I not write for you, anything that's 
 necessary ? ' Alison asked. ' You are still so weak.' 
 The invalid shook her head and smiled, 
 
 ' Ally,' she said, ' you don't know, or you don't 
 realise, I expect, that I'm a mother, and there are 
 my two poor little men all alone in Edinburgh town, 
 wondering what has happened to their mammy.' 
 
 'Your two little boys,' cried Alison, eagerly. 
 ' I'd like to know about them. Are they bigger 
 than Jacky ?' 
 
 ' Lud, child, yes, I should think so ! ' said the fond 
 mother, with, perhaps, a slightly-discontented air. 
 ' Monsters of eight and ten years old I At least, 
 Willy is a well-grown monster, the eldest. The 
 younger is small ; he's in but a crazy state of health, 
 God help him 1 I know not what to make of it.' 
 She moved uncomfortably in the bed, as if the
 
 44 THE RHYMER 
 
 thought goaded her. * For the bairns, or their 
 servant, Jean, I daresay you could scratch me a 
 line, Ally,' she went on,' ' but I've other and more 
 solemn letters in hand. You must know I have 
 one most sapient and noble cousin, Archibald 
 Herries, a writer to His Majesty's Signet, who lives 
 in the town, and to him must I render grave and 
 solemn account of myself, with a prayer for monies, 
 Ally, of the which I stand in parlous need at the 
 present moment.' 
 
 ' To be sure I could not write that letter,' Alison 
 acquiesced. Her patient, with a chin supported on 
 a little white hand, was regarding her attentively. 
 ' Do you know, Ally,' said she, ' you are rather like 
 my cousin Archie yourself, a sort of Solomon, all 
 the virtues and all the wisdoms and sobrieties 
 combined.' 
 
 ' Then you don't seem to like him much,' said 
 Alison, with a pout. 
 
 ' May God forgive me for an ungrateful and most 
 base wretch, if I do not ! ' cried her friend, with 
 unexpected energy. ' For of all the debts depend- 
 ent woman ever owed to protecting man, mine to 
 my cousin Archie is the greatest. I should have 
 been in the street, and my poor babes in the gutter 
 long since, but for him. And that's the truth, 
 Ally, and the plain truth. He who is my natural 
 protector, bound to me by all the most sacred laws 
 of God and man, chose to desert me, and leave me 
 to the care, and even the charity, of others. God 
 be the judge between us ! I swear I was guiltless 
 in that matter, and indeed guilt has never been 
 imputed to me. Do you believe it, Ally ? ' 
 
 ' Sure, I believe it with all my heart and soul,' 
 cried Alison, with kindling eyes.
 
 THE RHYMER 45 
 
 ' And there spoke an enthusiasm and a trusting 
 warmth of nature that were never Archie's, dear,' 
 said Mrs Maclehose, laughing once more. 'No, 
 you are not Hke him, love. 'Tis for a coldness of 
 nature, a perpetual suspicion that I blame him. 
 He's not a kindred soul, and we are ever tacitly at 
 war. God knows poor Nancy is no saint. But he 
 misjudges me ever, and the injustice pricks. But 
 there, that's enough. Let me get finished with this 
 proper, virtuous, tiresome letter.' 
 
 In the long evenings of convalescence this seem- 
 ingly ill-assorted pair were drawn closer and closer 
 together in the links of their sudden friendship. 
 
 ' Sing to me as you sing to Jacky, love,' Nancy 
 would say, nestling down among the pillows. And 
 in the gloaming of the quiet room, Alison, folding 
 her hands in her lap, would sing in her sweet deep- 
 throated voice those peculiarly poignant ballads of 
 love and longing and loyalty, with which, since the 
 memorable ' '45,' the whole of Scotland was flooded. 
 
 'Where got you that trick of song, love?' Mrs 
 Maclehose would ask, sentimentally, 'since you 
 say you have never loved ? ' 
 
 ' I had one dozen of singing lessons at the 
 school,' replied the ever-practical Alison, ' and I 
 had begun to the harp before I left' 
 
 ' Was it that year of school made you different 
 to j^our sisters, think you, Ally?' 
 
 ' Am I different ? ' asked Alison, wonderingly. 
 
 * Oh, I would not miscall the honest lasses,' 
 cried Nancy, ' they are all good and sweet, I am 
 sure. But about you there is a difference — a 
 gentler accent, a shade of softness — I know not 
 what.' 
 
 'Twas a very genteel school, indeed,' said 
 
 ( "■
 
 46 THE RHYMER 
 
 Alison, respectfully. ' But it was too dear. So I 
 only stayed but the one year, instead of three, and 
 poor Kate and Maggie never got at all.' 
 
 ' You'd be a treasure, with that " wood-note wild " 
 of yours to our bard. Ally ! ' 
 
 ' Our bard ? ' inquired Alison, not at all certain 
 what a bard might be. 
 
 ' Ay,' said Nancy, with a kindling eye. ' Our 
 bard, but not ours only ! The world's poet — the 
 singer for all time, and for all hearts — Robert 
 Burns ! Child, haven't you heard of him, the 
 ploughman poet ? ' 
 
 ' A ploughman ? ' said Alison, conjuring up the 
 vision of one Donald, the ploughman at The 
 Mains, with his stubbly beard and bowed legs. 
 
 ' A ploughman, yes,' cried Nancy, ' but what a 
 ploughman ! He has had the town at his feet, 
 Ally ! From the highest to the lowest in the land, 
 all men do him honour. And as for the women, 
 child, they are ready to kill each other for a glint 
 of his eye ! The very duchesses hang about him, 
 and there's not a titled lady that will notsorn upon 
 and flatter him to get him to her tea-table. Never 
 has the town gone so mad about a man before ! ' 
 
 ' And have you often seen him ? ' asked Alison. 
 
 ' To my lasting sorrow and vexation, never ! ' 
 cried Nancy, vehemently ; ' and, oh, Ally, 'tis the 
 one burning wish — the longing of my heart ! And 
 there's that insensible wretch, my cousin Herries, 
 who has the entry almost everywhere the poet 
 goes, and last winter saw him almost nightly, and 
 he scorns the privilege that I would sell my soul 
 for ! Him have I plagued, and others have I 
 plagued, to get me known to my idol ; but in vain, 
 as yet ! It will come, though ! Never was so
 
 THE RHYMER 47 
 
 ardent a wish that did not bring its own fulfil- 
 ment, ay, and its own punishment too, some- 
 times,' she added, with a sudden wistfulness. 
 ' Ally, you never have these passions, these rebel- 
 lious cravings, do you, child ? ' 
 
 'Sure, never,' said Alison, soberly, 'and never 
 would, I think.' 
 
 'But I'm made up of them!' cried the little 
 woman, ' and nothing stays me — no scruple, no 
 prudence — when they are hot within me ! Know 
 this of your friend. Ally, and be warned in time. 
 I wish you to know me as I really am. Nature 
 has been kind to me in some respects, but one 
 essential she has denied me utterly : it is that 
 instantaneous perception of the fit and unfit, which 
 is so useful in the conduct of life. But you are 
 rich in this, Ally, and that is why I think that you 
 might be my friend, and sometimes save me from 
 myself.' 
 
 ' I will be your friend,' said Alison, softly, 
 ' though, sure, there never was a humbler one ! ' 
 
 Thus would these two swear an eternal friend- 
 ship, over and over again. Alison heard more, 
 also — heard a great deal, indeed, about the 
 wondrous ploughman poet, whose image seemed 
 to possess the ardent imagination of her friend. 
 There was a certain little brownish, roughly-bound 
 book amongst those which were wont to litter the 
 coverlet of the best bed. It had a dog's-eared 
 and most ungenteel appearance, but it was the 
 Kilmarnock edition of the poems of Robert Burns, 
 and had its letters been in gold and its binding 
 of scented satin, it would not, in the then inflamed 
 state of public adulation of the poet, have been 
 too richly dressed. To the contents of this little
 
 48 THE RHYMER 
 
 book Alison listened, with a sort of tingling in her 
 blood. She had a nature full of unuttered music, 
 and she had been born and bred among those 
 simple country scenes of her native land, whence 
 the poet drew his inspiration. So he became, as 
 he had become to thousands of his tongue-tied, 
 voiceless, and strenuous countrymen and country- 
 women, the very mouthpiece of her soul ; and thus, 
 long before a tangled thread from this man's 
 chequered destiny became in- woven with the 
 simple web of her own life, Alison got her first 
 knowledge of Robert Burns. 
 
 But, in the meantime, the gay little invalid at 
 The Mains, announced herself cured, and, in a 
 cloud of pink wrapper and enveloping shawl, 
 tottered from bed to the arm-chair by the fire. 
 
 ' And, now, Ally,' she cried, ' now that my spirits 
 are come again, now for your good mother and Mr 
 Cheape ! '
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The task which the romantic Mrs Maclehose had 
 set herself in regard to AHson, was one entirely 
 after her own heart. She considered herself a 
 past-mistress in all things relating to the tender 
 passion ; and though she herself had met with 
 signal and disastrous shipwreck amid the shoals 
 of matrimony, there was nothing in life that inter- 
 ested her like affairs of the heart. On this occa- 
 sion, indeed, it was the marring, and not the 
 making, of a match, that she had in hand. But 
 what mission could be more legitimate, what 
 endeavour more congenial, than that of helping to 
 liberate a young and interesting friend from the 
 horrid bondage of a loveless contract ? That the 
 mistress of The Mains viewed the matter from a 
 different standpoint, she was, of course, aware ; in 
 her fertile brain, she had arranged a plan of war- 
 fare, and went to the battle wreathed in smiles. 
 
 The lady of the house herself opened the cam- 
 paign, by marching into the invalid's room one 
 morning with an armful of silk — the wedding silk, 
 which she spread forth before her guest. 
 
 ' Ye were ay a handy body at the clothes, 
 Nancy,' she observed. ' Now tell me how to sort 
 this silk for Alison, in the newest modes.' 
 
 ' Ah ! your lovely Alison — how interesting ! ' 
 murmured the guest, sweetly. 
 
 ' Alison's well enough,' said her impartial parent, 
 
 D
 
 so THE RHYMER 
 
 coolly. ' We think her none so lovely here — a good 
 girl, but homely ; none the less likely to make a 
 good wife to an honest gentleman.' 
 
 ' To be sure, to be sure,' said Mrs Maclehose, in 
 a sprightly tone, ' a little bird has told me of that 
 interesting matter ! ' 
 
 'Then it needna have fashed itself,' said Mrs 
 Graham, alluding to the feathered purveyor of 
 secrets, * for I was fair bursting to speak of 
 it myself 'Tis a most extraordinary piece of 
 good fortune to us, this substantial offer for a 
 tocherless lass like Alison. I cannot get over it 
 yet, myself 
 
 ' And yet, Alison ' — said the guest cautiously, 
 ' Alison herself does not speak of the matter 
 with the enthusiasm one expects in a young 
 heart on such an occasion.' 
 
 ' Do you gather grapes from thorns or figs from 
 thistles ? ' inquired Mrs Graham, contemptuously. 
 ' No, nor sense from glaikit lasses ! Alison's a 
 fool, and doesna ken what's good for her. But — ' 
 grimly — ' I've been teaching her, and she'll learn 
 yet!' 
 
 ' And the gentleman, ma'am ? ' inquired Nancy, 
 casually, ' I protest I have hardly heard his name? ' 
 
 "Tis one most excellent respectit laird,' said 
 Mrs Graham, swelling visibly with the import- 
 ance of the announcement, 'one Mr Cheape of 
 Kincarley, in the county of — ' But here Nancy 
 broke in upon her with a sharp titter, which, 
 however, she had the appearance of politely sup- 
 pressing. Mrs Graham looked at her sharply. 
 
 ' What's wrong wi' you ? ' she sarcastically 
 enquired. 
 
 ' Oh, la, ma'am ! nothing, I assure you,' said
 
 THE RHYMER 51 
 
 Nancy, in an obvious struggle with a mirthful 
 tendency, 'only Mr Cheape — ha — ha — ' and she 
 tailed off into a giggle. 
 
 'What dirty gossip o' the gutters ha' ye got 
 about the man?' said Mrs Graham, with rising 
 anger and a flashing eye, ' out with your scandal, 
 if ye must ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, scandal, lud, ma'am, no ! ' said Nancy, 
 ' Scandal and poor Jimmy Cheape were never 
 named together, only — ' 
 
 ' Only what', cried the irate lady of The Mains, 
 with a stamp of her big foot. 
 
 ' Well, ma'am,' said Nancy, coyly, ' I'd sooner 
 bite my tongue out, sure, than that it should 
 meddle with Miss Alison's good fortune. Only, 
 since you ask me, it does surprise me that so 
 distinguished a family as Graham of The Mains 
 shouldn't look higher for their eldest dausfhter 
 than poor Jimmy Cheape.' 
 
 ' A distinguished family,' said Mrs Graham, with 
 a mincing mimicry of her guest's tone, 'a dis- 
 tinguished family wi' seven daughters has to take 
 what it can get. It can ill afford genteel ideas 
 like yours, Nancy,' with somewhat withering 
 significance. 'But what's wrong wi' Mr Cheape, 
 to your fine notions, may I ask ? ' 
 
 'Well, ma'am, since you zui/l have it,' said 
 Nancy, with an air of reluctant candour, ' simply 
 that he's the leavings of so many other folk, — 
 that's all.' 
 
 'Oh, is he, indeed?' said Mrs Graham, with fine 
 sarcasm. 
 
 "Tis so old a tale, indeed,' pursued Nancy, 
 pictorially, ' that it stretches back clean and away 
 beyond my poor memiory. But even to my know-
 
 52 THE RHYMER 
 
 ledge, Jimmy Cheape has been the rejected of 
 ladies more than I can count, and such as are 
 not worthy to tie the shoes of Miss Alison.' 
 
 ' Oh, ay ! ' commented Mrs Graham, with a 
 vicious eye upon her informant. ' Well ? ' 
 
 'There was Jenny M'Lure,' continued Nancy, 
 with a reminiscent air. ' All of one winter he 
 was after her, not that sJie would look at him 
 though, and the whole town laughing and look- 
 ing on. And then there was Molly Baleny — she 
 might have had him, for she was near forty and 
 no beauty, but she put him to the door too. And 
 there was Jean M'Gregor, the cutler's daughter, 
 you know, in Nicol Street ; a fine dance she led 
 him, the hussy — for, after all, a laird was a bit of a 
 string to her bow. But, of course, she gave him 
 the go-by in the end, and, in my opinion, she was 
 heartless in the way she held up an old man like 
 that to be the jest of the town : 'twas no womanly 
 behaviour. And there were others, I assure you ; 
 he's been on his knees to some girl or another in 
 the public park, 'twas the season's great joke, but 
 I forget her name. 'Tis not that he's wicked or a 
 man of ill-conduct in any way, ma'am — but he is 
 so comical, and no woman will marry a man that 
 is a laughing-stock.' 
 
 ' Will she no ? ' said Mrs Graham, with a darting 
 eye. ' But some'll take a wastrel, and no be able 
 to keep him when they've got him ! ' Nancy 
 winced visibly under this vigorous blow, from no 
 uncertain arm. ' My woman ! ' her hostess pro- 
 ceeded, 'if I find you setting Ally against her 
 beau, it's the door you'll be shown, and that in a 
 hurry ! She's got to take Mr Cheape, or she's got 
 to beg. There's some 's content to beg, but it'll no
 
 THE RHYMER 53 
 
 be my daughter ! ' And the lady of The Mains, 
 gathering up the wedding silk, and with her head 
 in the air, marched out of the room. 
 
 Nancy sank back in her chair, worsted, she felt, 
 in this encounter. 
 
 ' Your good mother, Ally,' she said to her friend, 
 when Alison appeared, 'is somewhat bludgeon- 
 like in her methods of war. My poor little 
 weapons are too fine.' Alison smiled rather 
 wanly. 
 
 ' Our mother is very strong in her wishes, and 
 the getting of them,' she remarked. ' 'Tis not easy 
 to move her.' 
 
 'Ah, but wait till I get at your father,' cried 
 Nancy, recovering her spirits. ' I'm a wonderful 
 hand with the men.' 
 
 ' My mother is angry with you now,' said Alison, 
 quietly, ' and with me too. She has put me to the 
 clear-starching with the maids in the laundry, all 
 the afternoon, for fear I should sit with you.' 
 
 ' Oh, ho ! ' said Nancy, ' sets the wind in that 
 quarter ? But we'll see whose cleverest yet. Keep 
 a good heart, Ally — you'll not marry Mr Cheape ! ' 
 But Alison shook her head despondently, and 
 vanished. There were no more twilight talks 
 and songs in the gloamings after that. 
 
 Thus matters remained at a standstill for several 
 days, and Nancy chafed under the well-meant but 
 awkward attentions of Kate and Maggie, who were 
 sent to take Alison's place in the best room, about 
 the invalid. She longed to be gone. The dreari- 
 ness of the country at this season depressed the 
 little townswoman, and she settled a day in her 
 mind for her departure. 
 
 ' But I'll save that child from her virago of a
 
 54 THE RHYMER 
 
 mother,' she said to herself, with determination, 
 ' even if I have to carry her off with me by force. 
 Though where,' she added, with a little grimace 
 to herself, ' though where I'm to put the big 
 creature, if I take her. Lord only knows ! Is 
 there a corner of my garret she can sleep in? 
 Well, Providence must see to that ! ' 
 
 Nancy was never frustrated in a kind action by 
 so paltry a detail. The charming vision of herself 
 in the blotched old mirror — she was at her first 
 toilette — smiled back at her approvingly, with the 
 humid sparkle of her long, soft, dark eyes. She 
 was about to try her arts on the laird.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The mistress of The Mains, having mounted the 
 gig, was away to the weekly butter market ; Alison 
 was invisible, set, in a distant corner of the house, 
 upon some interminable domestic task, Nancy 
 opened her door, peeped out, and listened ; the 
 house was quiet. The laird, she knew, was 
 within and at her mercy, for she had heard he 
 had the rheumatics in his back, and could not go 
 forth in the damp. She tripped away down the 
 passage, and by peeping into one room after 
 another, at last found the library, and the laird 
 in it. 
 
 ' Here's the den,' she cried, gaily, ' and the lion 
 within ! ' And she looked up into her host's rugged 
 face with those eyes of hers, which no man in his 
 senses could resist, saving, indeed, a certain legal 
 gentleman, in Edinburgh, of a hard heart. 
 
 The laird was in a doleful mood, inclined to 
 those modified views of the desirability of life 
 which are fostered in a man by a touch of lum- 
 bago. He stood with his back to the green- 
 washed mantelpiece, with its pessimistic motto, 
 and his countenance was dourly set. It, however, 
 melted in a smile at the sight of his guest, as, 
 indeed, that guest intended that it should. 
 
 * And now I'm come to have a confidential talk 
 with you,' said she, ensconcing herself in his big 
 chair, and shaking a finger at him. ' 'Tis of your 
 
 55
 
 56 THE RHYMER 
 
 daughter, Alison. Laird, it can never be that a 
 man Hke you gives his daughter to a man like 
 Jimmy Cheape ! ' 
 
 ' Sells her, you mean,' said the laird, sourly. He 
 was indeed Alison's father, from whom she had 
 taken her own direct, literal ways of thought and 
 speech. ' 'Tis true, we have sold the lass.' 
 
 ' For shame — for shame!' cried Nancy. 'Your 
 best and bonniest ! I'll not stand by and see it 
 done. Sure as I'm a woman, I forbid the banns, 
 and will prevent it ! ' 
 
 ' You'd need be quick, then,' said the laird, with 
 a short sarcastic laugh. ' Ally doesn't know it, 
 for her mother keeps it quiet as yet, but the man 
 comes to-morrow s'en-night, and expects to find 
 all ready for the marriage.' 
 
 ' Lord-a-mercy ! then we must act promptly, 
 indeed ! ' said Nancy. ' I'm not without a practical 
 suggestion in the matter, I assure you. Instead 
 of giving the lassie to old Cheape, like a tit-bit to 
 an ogre, give her to me. Do you hear, laird ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, I hear,' said the laird, laconically. ' I would 
 if I could, mistress, for my stomach rises at this 
 marriage. But the wife is set on a husband for Ally.' 
 
 ' I'll get her another,' cried Nancy, eagerly. 'The 
 town's full of sparks, and to spare ! ' 
 
 ' A bird in hand is worth two in the bush, the 
 wife would tell you,' said the laird, with a sorry 
 smile. ' Besides, there's money between old Cheape 
 and me. I cannot back out of the bargain now.' 
 
 ' Tut, he'll never mind the money ! ' cried Nancy. 
 ' He's been a lender to half the fathers, brothers, 
 uncles, and guardians in Scotland ; for 'tis the only 
 way he can get word with a woman. It's second 
 nature to him to get the go-by, and if he misses
 
 THE RHYMER 57 
 
 Ally, he'll take up with one of her sisters in the 
 twinkling of an eye.' 
 
 ' 'Tis easy to be speaking to me' said the laird, 
 grimly. ' Why don't you speak to the mistress ? 
 'Tis her business rather than mine, surely?' 
 
 ' She's not to be moved,' said Nancy, demurely. 
 ' But, laird, that which cannot be done by force, 
 can often be done by guile. Are you willing, in 
 your heart of hearts, to be off with this marriage ? 
 I know you are ! ' 
 
 ' I am,' said the laird, rather heavily, for his 
 conscience spoke at last. 
 
 'Well, give me a hand, and 'twill be done ! ' said 
 Nancy. ' I leave this place in four days, and a 
 
 man and chaise from C take me to Green 
 
 Loaning to get the Edinburgh coach — isn't that 
 so? And I must leave this door in the dark of 
 the morning, before six ? Isn't that the case ? ' 
 ' Ay is it,' — said the laird, ' an awkward start.' 
 ' Make it yet an hour awkwarder,' cried Nancy. 
 ' And let no one know the time, save Ally and me, 
 and you. Let the chaise be at the outer gate, 
 and we'll slip down and be off before a soul's 
 stirring. Is the mistress a good sleeper ? ' 
 
 ' A ^ey and heavy sleeper in the mornings, now 
 that she puts on years and weight,' answered the 
 husband, with a sigh. ' She talks enough at night, 
 God wot ! But 'tis snoring in the morning, and I 
 that have to rise to bustle the maids from their 
 beds. Well ? ' 
 
 ' Then you can slip down without danger and 
 see us away,' said Nancy. ' I doubt, without your 
 countenance in the mutter, Ally would never 
 come. But with it she'll fly this marriage as she 
 would the devil.'
 
 58 THE RHYMER 
 
 * I believe she will,' the laird muttered ; but he 
 seemed to hesitate. ' 'Tis a simple enough plan,' 
 he conceded. ' I see nothing to hinder its working. 
 But how can I consent to foist the lass on to you ? 
 Her future — ' 
 
 * Ah — bah — the future ! ' said Nancy, ' let the 
 future take care of itself! There is but one for a 
 fine girl like Ally. And this storm will blow by, 
 besides, and you be glad to see her here again, 
 long before I am ready to part from her. For I'll 
 be glad of Ally, let me tell you. There's nothing 
 so needful in my unhappy situation as a com- 
 panion of my own sex. Are not the prudent 
 among my acquaintance telling me so every day 
 of my life ? So consent, for my sake as well as 
 Alison's, and believe that you confer a favour by 
 doing so.' 
 
 ' You make the debtor seem generous,' said the 
 laird, not unkindly, ' but I consent. Though the 
 Lord only knows what I shall say to the wife 
 when you're gone ! ' 
 
 'Ah, men must be brave — 'tis their duty!' cried 
 Nancy. ' And now, be wise too, and say not a 
 word of this to a soul — not to Ally even, for her 
 terror and indecision would discover themselves 
 in a moment. I'll break it to her but the night 
 before, and carry the citadel of her conscience and 
 her scruples by storm — sweep off with her on the 
 wings of surprise. You arrange with the driver 
 of the chaise : I will manage the rest.' 
 
 It was not, therefore, till practicall}' but a few 
 hours before the meditated flight that Alison knew 
 of the change in store for her. She had gone to 
 bed drowned in tears at the prospect of her friend's 
 departure, and in quiet despair at the conviction
 
 THE RHYMER 59 
 
 that now all chance of a rescue from Mr Cheape 
 was gone. Then Nancy came creeping up to her 
 room in the dark on tip-toe, like the little con- 
 spirator that she was, shading the rush-light with 
 her hand. Jacky slept beside his sister again, so 
 their talk was in excited whispers. 
 
 ' Ally,' Nancy said, leaning over the girl, and 
 patting her wet cheek with a little hand, 'cry 
 no more, dear love, 'tis all arranged with your 
 father, and in the happiest way ! No horrid Mr 
 Cheape for you ; you are free ! And you come 
 with me to Edinburgh town in the morning ! ' 
 
 'I — to Edinburgh ? ' whispered the startled 
 Alison. 
 
 ' To me, child, to me ! ' Nancy whispered back. 
 ' Did you think I was to part from my Ally 
 without a blow struck for her freedom, and leave 
 her to her fate? Oh, fie! faithless one! 'Tis 
 your father and I have fixed it all between us ; 
 your mother knows naught. The chaise comes 
 while she is still abed — more than an hour before 
 she thinks — and we steal away, with your father, 
 good man, to speed us at the gate. 'Tis quite 
 an elopement, I declare; only I, alas! am of the 
 wrong sex. You must rise. Ally, and put a few 
 duds together; the laird says he will send a trunk 
 after you to town. He has mine taken down 
 already, so there will be no noise in the early 
 hours. Will you come with me. Ally, and share 
 my humble garret? 'Tis a poor thing, but mine 
 own, and you're thrice welcome, God knows !' 
 
 Bewilderment still reigned in Alison's eyes and 
 brain. ' Must I leave them all/ she whispered, ' my 
 sisters and Jacky — ? ' 
 
 'Ay, must you,' said Nancy, with a little not
 
 6o THE RHYMER 
 
 unnatural impatience, * or stay, and be taken from 
 them by ogre Cheape in a fortnight ! ' 
 
 ' In a fortnight ! Was he coming so soon ? ' said 
 Ah'son, with a white face, and then the magnitude 
 of her friend's action on her behalf dawning upon 
 her, she cried, with a half sob, ' Oh, Nancy ! how 
 can I thank you for this deliverance ? ' 
 
 ' Then you'll come, Ally ? ' 
 
 'Come? How can I fail?' said Alison. 'And, 
 Nancy, what'll I say? But I'll not speak, I'll do. 
 I'll try with all my strength to do something that 
 shall reward you. I'll be your servant, anything ! ' 
 
 ' Be my own friend, sweetest — 'tis enough,' said 
 Nancy. ' And now, mind, not a moment later than 
 the half after four. 'Twill be as pitch as night, a 
 strange start. I protest 'tis a perfect adventure ! 
 I'd not have missed it for worlds. Keep a good 
 heart, Ally, just not too soft, you know, and brave.' 
 And she tip-toe'd away again, nodding and smiling. 
 
 Alison rose and dressed, and did not sleep again 
 that night, but sat still by Jacky's cot, her young 
 brain whirling with confused, grave thoughts. 
 When it was time to go she kissed Jacky, pulled 
 up the coverlet where he had tossed it from his 
 rosy limbs, and smoothed his curls, that were so 
 like her own. He had been her charge since 
 birth, and now she was leaving him to others. She 
 took a last look round the bare little room of her 
 maidenhood, and then with her bundle in her hand, 
 she slipped away down to the distant kitchen to 
 light a stealthy fire, so that Nancy might have a 
 cup of chocolate to start on. The old house of her 
 childhood seemed full of accusing shadows as she 
 flitted through it, dark and cold and strange to the 
 eye in these unholy hours. She was thankful when
 
 THE RHYMER 6t 
 
 Nancy joined her ; they both crouched over the 
 fire, for it was bitter cold. Both, too, heard 
 presently, with the sharp ears of excitement, the 
 distant rumble of wheels. The chaise had come. 
 
 The laird put his head in at the back door. 
 
 * Come, lasses,' he said. He had a lantern, and they 
 followed him out into the starlight of the winter 
 morning. A wind, forlorn and cold as the grave, 
 blew in their faces. The chaise was already piled 
 with Nancy's goods — the laird's doing with his own 
 hands. Alison could see the rough familiar figure 
 of him moving about with the lantern, the father 
 whose weakness and whose strength she knew and 
 understood, the man so much finer and nobler than 
 the woman who ruled him. The heart of the girl 
 yearned over him, and she flung her arms round 
 his neck. 
 
 ' There was nothing for it but to run, Ally,' he 
 said, patting her shoulder. And then he helped 
 her into the coach, for she stumbled, blind with 
 tears. And then the coach rolled away into the 
 dark, leaving the laird alone at the postern, whence 
 presently he turned slowly away. For in an hour's 
 time he had to meet his wife ; and it is my opinion 
 that, in these degenerate days of ours, a man has 
 won the Victoria Cross for less.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 On one of those dull November afternoons which 
 Mrs Maclehose spent in convalescence at The 
 Mains, her two little sons, in the good town of 
 Edinburgh, set out to walk from their mother's 
 house in the Potterrow, of the old town, to their 
 cousin Archibald Herries's office in the then very 
 modern George Street, of the new. As far as the 
 North Bridge their servant Jean accompanied them, 
 basket upon arm ; but she had shopping in the 
 Leith Row, and dismissed them in the direction of 
 George Street, with directions ' to be guid bairns, 
 not to play themselves on the road, to be civil to 
 their cousin and give him the message, and to 
 hasten home again before it was dark.' 
 
 They were little fellows of eight and ten respec- 
 tively, the elder, a well-grown sturdy boy with red 
 cheeks, the younger, a puny creature, with a small 
 pale face, in which were set his mother's eyes 
 without their laughter. Both were dressed alike in 
 little green suits which they had long out-grown, 
 and the frilled edges of their wide white collars 
 were in places frayed and torn. Their shoes were 
 worn, and as the younger one walked, indeed, the 
 sole of his little left shoe threatened momentarily 
 to part company with its sustaining upper, and 
 slip-slopped upon the pavement at each dragging 
 step. The two walked hand in hand, casting 
 
 62
 
 THE RHYMER 63 
 
 anxious glances upon the imposing-looking houses 
 to their right. 
 
 At the extreme west end of George Street, 
 indeed as far west as it then extended, was the 
 house they sought, — a high granite-built edifice, 
 with steps leading up to the door, upon which a 
 brass-plate held the names — ' Herries and Creigh- 
 ton, Writers to the Signet' It was with difficulty, 
 and only by standing on tip-toe, that Willy could 
 reach the knocker, and the attitude had the effect 
 of stretching him to such an extent, that it seemed 
 quite impossible he could ever shrink again within 
 the limits of the little green suit. 
 
 ' I doubt that was another tear, Danny,' he said 
 gravely to his little brother, as an ominous crack 
 made itself heard in the region of the arm-hole ; 
 but he managed to wriggle the sleeves to his 
 wrists again without further disaster. A cross- 
 looking old woman opened the door and admitted 
 them to the office. 
 
 In a light, handsome room to the front, above 
 stairs, the walls lined partly with books and partly 
 with piled-up boxes of deeds, a young man sat 
 writing at a table. He was of slight and decidedly 
 graceful figure, and soberly dressed ; his powdered 
 hair, tied with a black ribbon, lent perhaps additional 
 delicacy to his fair, rather over-refined, regular 
 features. He turned about in his chair, and his 
 cold blue eyes lit up, not unkindly, as the two 
 little boys were ushered into his presence. 
 
 ' Well, my men,' he said, ' so here you are. 
 What's the news ? ' 
 
 ' Mother's coming home. Cousin Archie,' said 
 Willy, pulling a letter from his pocket. 
 
 * Ay, so I hear,' said the young lawyer, not
 
 64 THE RHYMER 
 
 without a dryness in his tone. ' I have a letter from 
 your mother, too, you see,' and he tapped an open 
 missive on his desk. 
 
 'There is a beautiful new lady coming home 
 with mother, to stay with us,' said Danny, lifting 
 his large dark eyes to his cousin's face. 
 
 ' You don't say so ! ' said Cousin Archie. He 
 took the child up on his knee. 
 
 'Yes,' continued Danny, settling himself against 
 a comfortable shoulder. ' She has a little brother 
 of her own, and so she is to be like a big sister 
 to us.' 
 
 ' Oh, that's the idea, is it ? ' said Archibald 
 Herries. * And does your mother say where this 
 mighty fine young lady is to find a room ? ' 
 
 ' It was Jean sent us to ask j^ou that,' said Willy, 
 innocently. ' I sleep with mother, you know, and 
 Danny by Jean in the other room, but mother says 
 the lady will want Jean's bed, and Jean would 
 know where s/ie's to sleep, and may she get 
 M'Alister, our landlord, to hire us the garret? It's 
 empty, and 'twill make no difference to him.' 
 
 ' Except in the matter of the rent — none what- 
 ever, Willy,' said Herries, more drily than ever. 
 ' But that's a secondary matter which we need not 
 mention.' 
 
 He was frowning, and his delicate features looked 
 severe and cold. Nevertheless a smile lurked 
 about his lips, and it ended in a rather bitter laugh. 
 
 ' Tell Jean to get the garret from M'Alister,' he 
 said. ' You would not put her out in the street for 
 the new lady — would you, Danny ? ' 
 
 * To be sure not,' said Danny solemnly. Herries 
 had absently held one of the boy's thin legs, and 
 with a movement the ragged foot-gear caught his eye.
 
 THE RHYMER 65 
 
 ' That's a sorry shoe, Danny,' he said, ' What's 
 the matter with it ? ' 
 
 * Well,' said Danny, gravely, ' it is the sole com- 
 ing off, I think. It has been coming off for a long 
 time.' 
 
 'Why don't you get it mended, man?' the 
 cousin enquired. 
 
 ' It should have been mended,' Danny answered, 
 lifting those soft, dark eyes of his again. * But 
 Jean said there was no more money.' 
 
 Herries threw back his head and laughed. 
 
 * That's a sad complaint,' he said. ' But come, 
 boys, I'll walk home with you, and on the way 
 will get a new pair of shoes for Danny. Come ! ' 
 
 The three issued forth together, and walked 
 along George Street eastward. At the head of 
 the Leith Row they went into a shoemaker's, and 
 Danny was fitted with a stout new pair of shoes, 
 for which his cousin paid. Then they began to 
 climb the old town at a brisk pace, but presently 
 the younger child lagged behind. 
 
 ' Are the new shoes hurting you, my man ? ' 
 asked Herries. His usually rather curt tones 
 were very kind when he spoke to the little boy. 
 
 ' 'Tisn't the shoes, Cousin Archie,' said Willy, 
 answering for his brother. ' But Danny has a 
 sore leg that makes him hirple when he walks 
 far.' 
 
 * Oh ! he has, has he ? ' said Herries, looking at 
 the child in perplexity. ' Come, boy, I can carry 
 you up the brae, I think.' 
 
 He lifted the little creature, infinitely too small 
 and light for his years, to his right arm, and, with 
 a pause now and again for breath, carried him a 
 long way. They were mounting still, sometimes 
 
 E
 
 66 THE RHYMER 
 
 by steep and narrow causeways, sometimes by 
 actual flights of steps, A wintry sky of dulled 
 flame was spread over the wonderful rock-built 
 city round them, but the deep-cut valley in its 
 midst was lost in a murky vapour — half smoke, 
 half fog. When they got to the Potterrow, Herries 
 set the child down, and stretched his cramped and 
 aching arm. He was not a robust man, and the 
 burden had taxed his muscles. They walked on 
 until, in the narrow, echoing street, they came 
 upon an archway, commonly yclept ' The General's 
 Entry,' under which a door admitted to the common 
 stair leading to the humble lodging occupied, at 
 the present time, by Mrs Maclehose. 
 
 * Now, be off, boys, and away up to Jean,' said 
 Herries. 
 
 ' Good-night, Cousin Archie,' the children's 
 voices dutifully answered. 
 
 Herries heard their feet clatter on the stone 
 stair, then turned away. 
 
 A solitary walk was no novelty to Archibald 
 Herries, for he was, though young, a somewhat 
 solitary man in circumstances, perhaps by inclina- 
 tion as well. He was the last living representative 
 of a good old family in the south of Scotland, 
 which had, by a series of misfortunes, political and 
 other, lost lands and houses, and now threatened 
 itself to disappear. An orphan since his infancy, 
 Herries had been destined by his guardians for 
 the army, but a constitutional delicacy showed 
 itself early in the lad, and such a career became 
 manifestly unadvisable, though all his dreams and 
 ambitions, as a boy, were centred round it. He 
 was bidden to fix his thoughts on the law, then 
 considered perhaps the most highly respectable
 
 THE RHYMER 67 
 
 profession in Scotland, and it was intended that 
 he should be called to the Bar as an advocate. 
 But here again his unlucky star intervened, for 
 Herries soon found himself wanting in those very 
 qualities of brilliance and assurance which alone 
 can lead to distinction in such a career. The 
 more sober avenues of the law remained open to 
 him, and these he finally entered and pursued. 
 His circumstances — he had inherited a modest 
 but certain income — made his entry into a good 
 legal house, first as a subordinate and finally as a 
 partner, secure ; and from that point onward his 
 success was solid, progressive, and, indeed, dis- 
 tinguished. Intellectually well-balanced, shrewd, 
 long-headed, prudent, and not a little cold, Herries 
 at thirty, had all the weighty qualities of character 
 essential in the best class of family lawyer. The 
 heads of his firm retired, but not a client deserted 
 him, and he had, at this time, when he was about 
 thirty-three, perhaps one of the most extended 
 legal concerns in Scotland — a business worth many 
 thousands of pounds. He had taken as partner a 
 very respectable man of the name of Creighton, 
 much older than himself, who had been senior 
 and confidential clerk of the firm for over thirty 
 years. Mr Creighton occupied lodgings of his 
 own, from which he daily came and went ; but 
 Herries lived in the fine modern George Street 
 mansion, which he had bought, in solitary state, 
 but for his old housekeeper and a valet. Creighton 
 had his office in one of the rooms by day, and four 
 clerks did their work in yet another. It was a 
 most substantial establishment, already one of the 
 landmarks of New Edinburgh. In the eyes of the 
 world, Herries was indeed a successful person.
 
 68 THE RHYMER 
 
 Yet he carried, locked in his bosom, that sense 
 of failure and disappointment which dogs a sen- 
 sitive man, who pursues an uncongenial occupation, 
 and succeeds, yet without attaining a single desire 
 of his heart. 
 
 Socially, Herries had the Edinburgh world at 
 his feet. He bore a good name, he was a rising 
 man, and had a pleasing person and gentlemanly 
 address. Caps were set at the successful young 
 lawyer, naturally. But Herries, though not averse 
 to occasional dalliance, was hardly a lady's man. 
 One winter, indeed, a great beauty took the town 
 by storm, and Herries did a little more than 
 dangle in her train, and got a little more, too, 
 than mere crumbs from her table. But the 
 beauty, though she weighed him in the balance, 
 found him wanting, and married a title. It was 
 a disappointment to ambition — the wish to win 
 and wear what all men coveted— rather than to 
 love ; yet it had been a shock, too, that drove 
 further inward the already inward nature of the 
 man. He had buckled to his business after it 
 with a more dogged exclusiveness than ever. 
 
 Preoccupied, as usual, Herries walked rapidly 
 down towards the New Town, his thoughts busy 
 for the moment with the children from whom he 
 had just parted. As he rounded a corner, with 
 bent head, he knocked up against a man, who 
 seemed to be loitering on the causeway, none too 
 respectably, with a woman. The figure of the 
 man was big and burly, and he had a country- 
 man's plaid about his shoulders. The woman 
 was of the poorest class, of a tall figure, in a 
 draggled cotton gown, a shawl drawn over her 
 head. She seemed to cling to the man, and the
 
 THE RHYMER 69 
 
 man, half in jest, yet half in earnest, to cast her 
 off. She laughed — an odd, rather wild, laugh, 
 with little mirth, it seemed. Herries turned about 
 and stared after the couple, for he knew the man. 
 All Edinburgh knew that figure, and a passer-by, 
 a labouring man, accosted Herries with a laugh, — 
 
 ' Ay, ye may glower,' he said, with a boastful 
 air, ' ye may glower, and your eyes be fu' o' pride 
 — for that is Robert Burns ! ' 
 
 But if Herries stared after the retreating figure, 
 it was certainly not with pride. An expression of 
 disgust curled his fine, severe lips into lines more 
 fastidious than ever. 
 
 ' The dog ! ' he said, shortly and aloud, and 
 turned on his heel.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 When Hemes re-entered his house, he did not 
 •go up to his own rooms at once, but turned into 
 his partner's office, which was on the ground floor, 
 to the front. It was a smaller apartment than his 
 own, and its aspect was even more strictly in 
 keeping with the dry and severe nature of the 
 legal profession. Wire blinds shielded the rather 
 grimy windows from the street, and piles of dusty 
 documents, tied with tape, covered the bare tables 
 with a kind of methodical litter. A scorching fire, 
 untidily smothered in its own ashes, heated the 
 room to a stifling closeness. 
 
 Creighton himself was a tall, lean man, long over 
 fifty, gaunt as a withered reed, with a face of a 
 yellowish waxen pallor, which betokened delicacy 
 — a good deal of reddish whisker, fading into grey, 
 and sparse hair of the same colour. The rusty 
 black of his dress was respectable ; a shrewd eye, 
 a dry manner, constituted the rest of the outward 
 man. Of the inward, little, if anything, was known 
 to anyone, even to his partner. He was the son 
 of a minister ; a deadly quarrel with his family in 
 early life had separated him from every individual 
 of his own blood. So much was known. He made 
 no friends, and cared for nothing in the world but 
 his business — so much seemed apparent. Between 
 the man and his younger, but superior, partner, 
 there existed a certain, but absolutely unspoken 
 
 70
 
 THE RHYMER 71 
 
 sympathy ; there was a decided likeness in the 
 strength of their reserve and in the solitude of 
 their lives. As a matter of fact, though Herries, 
 in his youthful hardness, never dreamed of such 
 a thing, the elder man cherished towards the 
 younger, hidden as though it were a crime, a 
 sentiment of deep, and even soft affection. Herries 
 attracted, dominated, and possessed his partner ; 
 yet no one knew, as Creighton did, his faults 
 and weaknesses. And no one dreaded for him, 
 as Creighton did, with the experience of an 
 embittered life behind him — the effects of the 
 cold solitude and dry absorption in business in 
 which the young man lived. He was for ever 
 making efforts — little, tentative timid efforts — to 
 influence Herries to relax the young severity of 
 his aspect, and the rigid regularity of his habits. 
 It was sometimes rather an odd game that the 
 two played between them, out of business hours, 
 and, in an initiated onlooker, would have provoked 
 a smile. 
 
 As Herries entered his partner's room on the 
 present occasion, the latter, rather like a school- 
 boy caught in some illicit act, slipped a book 
 under some papers on his table. It was a little, 
 coarsely- covered brown book, seen, at that day, on 
 the tables of all men, gentle and simple, but perhaps 
 not quite the most suitable reading for an elderly 
 lawyer. Herries took a seat, his accustomed one 
 in interviews with his partner. 
 
 ' This room is over-hot, Creighton, surely,' he 
 said, 'but comforting enough after the streets.' 
 
 ' My chest has been troublesome lately,' answered 
 the elder man. ' These north winds flay me alive. 
 You have been out — it is good to be young ! '
 
 72 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' Oh, ay ! ' said Herries, discontentedly. ' I have 
 been out with my cousin's children — plague take 
 them ! Did I tell you that the annuities hitherto 
 paid to Mrs Maclehose by the Writers' and 
 Surgeons' Benevolent Societies are stopped ? I 
 had trouble enough getting them for her, five 
 years since, when Maclehose left her. Now that 
 'tis known he is making an income in Jamaica, 
 naturally such charitable support is withdrawn.' 
 
 • Ay, to be sure,' said Creighton, quietly. 
 
 ' I am writing to that damned scoundrel Mac- 
 lehose,' Herries went on, 'to say I will not pay 
 another penny for his wife and family. Yet there 
 are the school fees due for the boy Willy, and I 
 must give the lie to my words to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Well, well,' said Creighton, * the laddie must 
 have his schooling, sure enough.' 
 
 * I'll be cursed if I can see why I should pay for 
 it, though ! ' said Herries, angrily. Perhaps there 
 were few things that exasperated him more than 
 his partner's attitude in regard to the affairs of 
 Mrs Maclehose, as they concerned her cousin. 
 Here was a man, Herries reflected, who, of all 
 men, should have resented the intolerable and 
 altogether unbusiness-like nature of an arrange- 
 ment which made one man responsible for the 
 support of the wife and family of another, and 
 that other, one who was earning a substantial 
 annual income in a foreign country. Agnes 
 Maclehose was, indeed, cousin-germain to Archi- 
 bald Herries — the daughter of his mother's sister — 
 and his sole living relative. On her quarrel with 
 a worthless husband, he had considered himself 
 to play but a kinsman's and a lawyer's part in 
 arranging for her the details of a separation ; and
 
 THE RHYMER 73 
 
 when, with two young children on her hands, and 
 friendless, she had come to Edinburgh, he had 
 done his best to ameliorate for her the hardness 
 of her situation. He had taken in hand her 
 money matters : she had a small income derived 
 from money left her by her father, but it fell 
 far short of the modest necessities of even a little 
 household in the Potterrow. Out of his own 
 pocket, Herries supplemented its deficiencies, and 
 it was not the money he grudged, but the vio- 
 lation of a principle that he resented. And here 
 was Creighton — a lawyer, a man of sense and of 
 extraordinary shrewdness — who, instead of sym- 
 pathising with his resentment, would for ever try 
 to soothe it with ridiculous excuses. 
 
 ' She is your own blood,' he would say of his 
 partner's relative, ' you cannot put her on the 
 street.' Or, ' It is but a sup of porridge the bairns 
 will be wanting just now, not much, a flea's bite,' 
 and so forth, and Herries would fume in vain. 
 The old lawyer's private opinion of Mrs Maclehose 
 was none the less of an extremely unflattering 
 character ; he believed her to be a daughter of the 
 horse leech, who doubtless preyed upon his friend 
 after the manner of her kind, and the sound of her 
 voice in the passage sent shivers down his back, 
 for he was a woman-hater, or something very like 
 it. But she was yet, in his mind, the one tie that 
 Herries had, binding him to the world of kinship, 
 of human interests and human affection. And so 
 the man, whose own heart had perished of atrophy 
 within him, strove to keep life in the heart of the 
 other by the one means that naturally offered 
 itself 
 
 Herries, failing thus, as usual, to rouse his
 
 74 THE RHYMER 
 
 partner's sympathy on the score of the Maclehose 
 difficulty, rose to go, and by a chance movement 
 of some papers on Creighton's table, he disclosed to 
 view the guilty little brown book hidden under them. 
 His finely-drawn eyebrows arched themselves in 
 a kind of contemptuous query. ' At it again ? ' 
 he said, 'that jingle that the town rings with? 
 Your poet's star is in the descendent now, though, 
 Creighton,' he added. 
 
 * Never, sir ! ' said Creighton, hardily. . ' That 
 star will never set ! It shines to all time, — like 
 Shakespeare's, like Homer's, for the matter of 
 that. You'll not put me out of conceit of my 
 poet, sir ! ' 
 
 ' Deuce take him ! ' said Herries, half carelessly, 
 half in earnest. ' My ears are sick of his name. 
 We are like to hear less of it this winter, though, 1 
 think ; the creature palls at last. How the women 
 fawned upon him last year. Pah ! ' 
 
 ' Women will fawn on anything — a dog, a 
 dwarf, a china monster,' said Creighton; 'but 
 neither their fawning nor their neglect will touch 
 the fame, the genius of Robert Burns ! ' He spoke 
 with heat, and his dull eye kindled. 
 
 Herries looked at him with a mild wonder. 
 
 ' It passes me,' he said, ' this mad enthusiasm for 
 a rhymer — of dirty rhymes, too, for the most part. 
 To me they reek of the midden and the yard, and 
 neither they nor their author are fit furniture for 
 drawing-rooms — that's my contention. But there, 
 sir, good-night ! I leave you to your poet. By 
 the way,' he added, ' this reminds me that I saw 
 Master Bard on my way home to-night, at his old 
 tricks. But it is not duchesses and fine ladies are 
 his game now, but his ov/n kind, it would seem.'
 
 THE RHYMER 75 
 
 'God send him back to the fields and the hills ! ' 
 ejaculated Creighton, with warmth. 'The town is 
 no place for poor Rob, and I doubt they have 
 ruined the lad between them all ! But I must be 
 gone, too, sir. Dick has been waiting on me this 
 hour and more in the cold.' 
 
 Dick — well known to half the town as ' Creigh- 
 ton's Dick' — was a dog, a gaunt and hairy Skye 
 terrier, with appealing eyes, who owned Creighton 
 as master. Every morning he followed the lawyer 
 to his office, returning home by himself, and every 
 evening he came for him, waiting on the doorstep 
 for Creighton to appear. He never failed, and the 
 townspeople, on his line of route, would time their 
 doings by the punctual coming and going of the 
 lawyer's dog. 
 
 ' Come, man ! ' Creighton would say, as he closed 
 the sounding door behind him, and the dog, though 
 stiff and old, would spring at his knees. This 
 night was one of a penetrating coldness, and 
 Creighton seemed to shrink together as he met 
 the blast. But he faced it, and man and dog took 
 their accustomed way down the windy granite 
 street.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Alison's journey to Edinburgh with her new 
 friend was certainly the most exciting and novel 
 experience which her quiet Hfe had yet afforded. 
 It was hardly more than daylight when they got 
 to Green Loaning, and exchanged their country 
 conveyance for the Edinburgh stage coach. There 
 were but few people travelling at this season, and 
 they had the interior of that vehicle all to them- 
 selves. Nancy soon had it littered with all the 
 paraphernalia which ever seemed a part of herself 
 — the down cushions, the scent bottles, the poetry 
 books, the pencil ?.nd tablets for recording any 
 sudden outburst of the Muse — all the thousand 
 little odds and ends, so new and so marvellous to 
 Alison, the country girl of simple habits and few 
 possessions. Nancy was in high glee, the mood, 
 as it were, of some general of a feeble army, who, 
 by an adroit and timely stratagem, has defeated 
 and outwitted a foe infinitely stronger than him- 
 self 
 
 ' Well, Ally,' she said cheerfully, for Alison was 
 a little tearful, just at first, ' is it not a comfort, 
 child, that you've left home with the blessing of 
 one parent at least ? As to the other, well, your 
 mother is a resourceful lady, I am sure, and will 
 find a good use for Mr Cheape yet. She will get 
 him for Kate or Maggie — ' 
 
 ' Oh, no, no ! ' cried Alison in horror. ' But 
 
 76
 
 THE RHYMER 77 
 
 indeed, my mother will be sorely vexed/ she 
 added ; ' and what my poor father will say to her, 
 I cannot think. And, Nancy, how shall I ever 
 face her again myself? ' 
 
 "Tis far too soon to think of that, love,' said 
 Nancy, comfortably. ' Perhaps you need never 
 face her at all, in the way you mean. What you 
 have to think of now, child, is all the pleasant new 
 things you have before you — the town, new friends, 
 new faces. 'Tis but a hole and corner of a home, 
 I'm taking you to. Ally, but it has a cheery hearth, 
 and you'll not be dull, I think.' 
 
 ' How could I, how could anyone, be dull with 
 you ? ' cried Alison. And, indeed, that seemed a 
 very unlikely contingency, the least likely of all. 
 
 The coach rumbled on, sometimes smoothly, when 
 Nancy chattered without ceasing, sometimes with 
 din and noise, when she would fall into a pensive 
 mood. Once they had a long pause for a rest or 
 change of horses, and it was then that Nancy 
 rummaged in her bag and drew out a little case 
 of miniatures. 
 
 ' Ah, my little men ! ' she said softly. ' You 
 haven't seen them, Ally.' The case held pretty 
 little pictures of Willy and Danny — Willy with 
 his rosy cheeks, and Danny with his mother's eyes, 
 turned sad and sorrowful. Alison looked at them 
 with delighted interest ; these were to be the sub- 
 stitutes, for a while, for Jacky and her sisters. 
 
 'You have not seen the mother-half of me. Ally,' 
 Nancy was saying softly ; ' and yet, do you know, 
 I am nothing if I am not a good mother ; 'tis my 
 best point.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Alison, sympathetically, and yet 
 with a faint feeling of surprise. She had heard so
 
 78 THE RHYMER 
 
 much about so many things from her fascinating 
 new friend, but so very little about the children. 
 However, Alison reflected, people always speak 
 least about that which lies nearest their hearts. 
 
 ' Yes,' Nancy went on, gazing at the miniatures 
 the while, * there are friends of mine, Ally, who say 
 to me they wonder I can love the children of such 
 a father. My answer is, I love them the more, owe 
 them the more devotion and duty, for having given 
 them such a father ! ' 
 
 The sentiment seemed unexceptionable, and 
 found instant echo in Alison's loyal breast. She 
 noticed there was a third miniature in the case, 
 but it was covered with a piece of silk. Nancy 
 now removed this and disclosed the portrait of a 
 young man, extremely handsome, in a dark style, 
 but the reverse of pleasing. 
 
 "Tis he !' she said, holding the miniature out to 
 Alison, and turning her head away, with a sigh. 
 
 'Mr — Mr Maclehose?' whispered Alison, deli- 
 cately. 
 
 ' Ay,' said Nancy, ' my deserter, my betrayer, 
 I may, indeed, call him ! For did he not betray 
 my youth, ruin my happiness, destroy my life? 
 And yet, I'm made so. Ally, that I can't part from 
 his image, but keep it there, with the faces of his 
 innocent children. He was the lover of my youth 
 — I can't forget it ! ' She propped the miniatures 
 up on the seat in front of her, and continued to 
 gaze upon them, with many head-shakings, and soft, 
 moist eyes. But presently the coach went on, and 
 her mood changed utterly; she fell to discussing 
 the contents of a little basket, which the hospitality 
 of The Mains had prepared for her over-night. 
 "Twas only meant for one, Ally,' she laughed.
 
 THE RHYMER 79 
 
 ' Little your good mother thought that two would 
 be at its demolishment ! But there's enough and 
 to spare ; the lady has a generous hand.' 
 
 They had quite a gay little meal. The 
 neglected miniatures overturned with the jolting 
 of the coach. Mr Maclehose's, indeed, fell down 
 among the straw at the bottom of the vehicle, 
 and it was Alison who finally picked him up, 
 dusted him, and replaced him in the case. The 
 short day began to close in now ; the tired travel- 
 lers spent the rest of the journey half asleep, and 
 mostly in silence. 
 
 It was a clattering over cobble-stones — a din 
 indescribable of wheels and horses' hoofs — that 
 woke Alison at last to a realisation of her arrival 
 in the town. The coach drew up at its office in 
 the Grassmarket, and they got out there. A man 
 was waiting, with a ' hurley ' or barrow to take their 
 boxes, while the two ladies themselves walked, 
 a link-boy flashing his torch before them. How 
 high and dark seemed the houses, how narrow 
 the echoing streets ! Alison, dazed and a little 
 frightened, kept close to her companion, who 
 chattered gaily, with undiminished and irrepres- 
 sible vitality. They came to the Potterrow 
 eventually, and to the dark archway and stone 
 stair which led to Nancy's ' garret,' as she called 
 it. A very decent serving-woman was holding 
 a light at the stair-head, and presently two little 
 boys had rushed out, and half-smothered their 
 mother with hugging arms and raining kisses. 
 
 ' Oh ! gently, boys, gently ! ' cried Nancy, laugh- 
 ing and kissing all at once. Then she put an arm 
 about Alison. ' Come, Ally,' she said, ' and be 
 welcome to my little nest ! '
 
 8o THE RHYMER 
 
 It was a little nest indeed. Alison thought it 
 the tiniest, yet the cosiest and homeliest room 
 she had ever seen. Such a bright fire leapt in 
 the polished grate, such cosy red hangings were 
 drawn across the windows ; the polished panelling 
 of the walls gleamed so cheerfully, and there was 
 a table drawn to the hearth. Presently, they were 
 sitting there, over a dish of tea ; but Nancy could 
 get no peace to eat or drink for the boys. They 
 seemed both on her knee at once — Willy, with 
 rough boyish arms about her neck — Danny, with 
 adoring eyes, never taken from her face. 
 
 ' You see, they love their little mother, Ally,' she 
 said, and her eyes were full of tears. Alison cast 
 a motherly eye upon the children. It was very 
 late, she thought, in her matter-of-fact way, for 
 little boys to be out of their beds, especially the 
 younger, who looked so small and ' shilpit' Then 
 she reflected she would ask Nancy, as soon as 
 possible, to be allowed to let out their clothes 
 — more especially Willy's — for the discrepancies 
 of the little green suits were at once apparent 
 to her practical eye. Nancy, in the meantime, 
 was frollicking about the little room, putting 
 things into place, giving a pat here, a push 
 there — a little tug to a curtain, or change of 
 position to a screen or chair. Presently, she 
 fell upon a packet of letters that had awaited 
 her arrival, and was instantly absorbed in them, 
 her quick, little, ringed fingers busy with their 
 fastenings. All at once she gave a little cry of 
 rapture and surprise. 
 
 ' Ally,' she called, ' oh. Ally ! what do you 
 think ? The gods are kind at last — Fortune 
 smiles ! Did I not tell you I'd get my heart's
 
 THE RHYMER 8i 
 
 desire? Here is a letter from my cousin Nimmo — • 
 Miss Nimmo — and she asks me to a tea-drinking 
 at her house to-morrow; 'tis actually to meet 
 — to meet and be made known to, the Poet 
 — my poet — the world's poet — the immortal 
 bard — ah ! magic name — to Robert Burns ! ' 
 Alison smiled down at her friend with her kind, 
 gentle grey eyes. 
 
 ' I'm so glad, Nancy,' she said ; ' 'twill be a great 
 event — and how lucky you are home in time ! ' 
 
 ' La, yes, child, indeed ! ' said Nancy. ' Suppos- 
 ing I had missed it, I'd have gone mad, I think, 
 with sheer vexation ! Ally, you've brought me 
 happiness, you've brought luck to my house! ' She 
 flung an arm about Alison's waist ; she was almost 
 dancing with glee. Her great dark eyes shone and 
 glowed, her vivid lips were parted, to let her hurried 
 breathing come and go. Beside the quiet, calm, 
 unstirred country girl — a something tropical, she 
 seemed, turning to passion, as the flower turns to 
 the light it cannot live without. 
 
 ' But now, to bed ! ' she cried. * To bed, boys, 
 Alison, all. To-morrow must come quick, quick — 
 on wings. Ally, on wings ! ' 
 
 So the little rooms were darkened, and Alison, 
 feeling rather big and strange amid her new sur- 
 roundings, took possession of Jean's closet, feeling 
 more at home when she found that Danny slept 
 beside her, in a little cot like Jacky's.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A NORTH wind, whistling at the windows, awoke 
 Alison next morning from rather troubled dreams 
 of The Mains, and her mother, and Mr Cheape. 
 But it is difficult not to be cheerful at twenty, and 
 Alison, who was a sensible and wholesome young 
 woman, had soon put away night-thoughts, and 
 was prepared to enter heartily into all the brisk 
 novelty of her surroundings. Nancy's home, if a 
 garret, was a very lively garret, with the boys at 
 their play, Jean's cheerful industries, and its own 
 gay, fascinating little mistress, tripping here and 
 there, with laughter ever on her lips and in her 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Why, Ally,' she cried, ' the sun shines on you, 
 child ! 'Tis the first fine morning for a month. 
 You must get a walk and see the town.' She was 
 busy with a dress, as she spoke, a gay thing of rose 
 pink, just sobered down with black, that she had 
 taken out of a press. 
 
 ' For, you see, love,' she said, ' I must be modish 
 to-night, if ever so in my life. Had there been 
 time, I'd have had a new gown to deck poor 
 Nancy's fading charms, and fit them for a poet's eye.' 
 
 ' You'd look pretty in anything,' said Alison, 
 meaning every word. Nancy laughed, with the 
 liquid sparkle of her wonderful almond eyes.' 
 
 ' But, child, you shall not sit in here all day, 
 watching me trim my silly self for Nimmo's tea- 
 
 82
 
 THE RHYMER 83 
 
 drinking,' she said. ' I will tell you what we'll do. 
 Willy and Danny shall take you between them : 
 I have not, indeed, the time myself this morning, 
 or I'd come with my Ally as the first of pleasures; 
 but you shall walk over to the New Town, and to 
 my cousin Herries's, and get me the packet of 
 monies that is due. 'Tis mighty awkward in him 
 not to have it waiting me here. I've to borrow 
 from Jean already ; but it makes a nice outing on 
 a sunny morning. Will you go, child ? ' 
 
 'Surely,' said Alison. And she went away to 
 prepare herself, for her first walk in the streets, in 
 the little closet she could hardly turn in. She 
 tied on, as she was wont to do at home on Sun- 
 days, her wide hat of rather sunburnt straw, over 
 the ' mob ' that was supposed to keep her hair in 
 order. So that her sweet, grave face had a double 
 framing of clean frills and soft unruly curls. A 
 cross-over tippet covered her handsome shoulders. 
 It was almost a summer suit, but Alison had no- 
 thing else. 
 
 ' Lud, what a country figure the poor child cuts,' 
 was Nancy's inward comment as Alison stood 
 before her. ' I must see to her clothes presently, 
 presently.' She came to the stair-head to see the 
 little party set off, bidding the boys take great care 
 of their friend. 
 
 A gay north wind blew high that day through 
 the grim streets of Edinburgh town. It was a 
 morning of bright, shallow, winter sunshine. When 
 they had gone down into the Cowgatc, and up 
 again on the other side, Alison and her little guides 
 found themselves on the ridge of the city, and 
 below them they could see the nascent New Town 
 spreading itself, and beyond that, a lovely distance,
 
 84 THE RHYMER 
 
 rounded by the blue hills of Fife, and watered by 
 the widening Forth. It was a day and scene to 
 lift the spirits to their zenith. The keen wind 
 searched the thin folds of Alison's summer gown, 
 and blew the curls about her face, which grew rosy 
 with the cold. Her blood ran warm, and she 
 laughed, with the little boys, just for pure health 
 and happiness and freedom. 
 
 However, v/hen they reached George Street, 
 Alison became subdued. Was she not, probably, 
 about to meet the terrible Mr Herries, that most 
 exacting and particular gentleman, of whom even 
 Nancy stood in awe? The severe aspect of the 
 housekeeper, who sourly asked her business at the 
 door, entirely failed to reassure her ; and what with 
 the flutter in her manner, the low tones of her voice 
 in which she asked to see ' the gentleman in the 
 office,' it was not surprising, perhaps, that a mis- 
 take arose. So that she was shown into Mr 
 Creighton's room, instead of Herries's, the little boys 
 tugging dumbly, but unavailingly, at her skirts the 
 while. 
 
 Mr Creighton rose in all the confusion and dis- 
 may of spirit which the entry of a female into his 
 sanctum was wont to cause within him. In his 
 gaunt, elderly figure Alison perceived the very 
 image of Archibald Herries, which Nancy's casual 
 references to her cousin had managed to call up in 
 her imagination. 
 
 ' Will you be good enough to excuse this in- 
 terruption, sir?' she timidly began, seeing that 
 Creighton made no effort to open the interview. 
 ' I am come from my kind friend, Mrs Maclehose, 
 on a message, to receive a packet at your hands 
 which she expects.'
 
 THE RHYMER 85 
 
 Creighton was looking at her with the unsparing 
 penetration— it had a kind of gimlet-like quality 
 — of his habitual regard. Alison's unconscious 
 grey eyes met his without flinching ; it was in- 
 deed he who first looked away. ' Who was the 
 woman ? ' he wondered. Somehow, with her full, 
 large presence, her fresh face and country attire, 
 there seemed to have come a breath of the fields 
 and hills into his fusty room. 
 
 ' Mrs Maclehose is not accustomed to confide 
 her messages with me, madam,' he said. ' It is 
 likely she meant you to apply to Mr Herries.' 
 
 ' Why, sir,' said Alison, confused and blushing, 
 ' are you — are you not — ' The lawyer emitted a 
 dry chuckle. 
 
 ' I am not Mr Herries,' he said, smiling. ' In 
 the matter of years I have some advantage, doubt- 
 less, over that gentleman, but he is my superior, 
 ma'am. I am only Andrew Creighton — at your 
 service, of course. May I ask, now,' he went on, 
 drily, ' how you are led to think of Mr Herries as 
 old enough to be his cousin's father? (It was 
 like the little Jezebel,' he was saying to himself, 
 and he meant poor Nancy, 'to make her cousin 
 out an old man, and spoil his chances with a likely 
 lass ! ') 
 
 But Alison protested she knew nothing of 
 Herries's age, stammering, as all truthful people 
 will, over a white fib. 
 
 ' You thought all legal gentlemen were old, 
 perhaps ? ' said Creighton, quite genially, ' but I 
 protest not ; some of us are young and handsome, 
 I assure you ! ' He invited his guests to a seat, 
 which they were too timid to refuse, and had soon 
 evoked from Alison her name and county.
 
 86 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' Graham — Graham of The Mains, to be sure,' he 
 said. 'Why, I remember your father well. He 
 used to be in and about the town in his youth, but 
 he never comes now, I take it.' 
 
 ' 'Tis a long way off, and my father is busy, and 
 there are too many of tis' Alison explained, and 
 the lawyer seemed fully to understand this preg- 
 nant statement. 
 
 ' Family cares,' he gravely remarked, * soon make 
 a solid man out of a young spark. But you,' he 
 went on, 'you are come on a visit of pleasure, I 
 understand, and must do our old city the fullest 
 justice. You must see the sights, madam — Holy- 
 rood, the Castle, the Crags. But, doubtless,' with 
 a clumsy effort to be gallant, ' there are plenty 
 ready and willing to do the honours of Auld 
 Reekie to Miss Graham of The Mains.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, sir,' said Alison, quite simply ; 
 'there is no one but Mrs Maclehose, but she is 
 the kindest of the kind, and will show me every- 
 thing that I ought to see.' 
 
 ' Oh, ay, indeed ! ' said the lawyer in a different 
 voice. After that Alison rose to go. 
 
 ' I will bid you good-day now, sir,' she said, 
 with the modest air that had so taken the crusty 
 old lawyer, ' and I will trust to your kindness to 
 let Mr Herries know that his cousin sent a message 
 for the monies.' (' Trust her for that ! ' interpolated 
 Nancy's instinctive foe.) 
 
 He saw his guests to the door with, for him, a 
 singular show of courtesy. When he came back 
 into his room he stood at the window, peering 
 over the blind, holding a rough chin between 
 finger and thumb in an attitude of deep contem- 
 plation. ' Graham of The Mains,' he muttered
 
 THE RHYMER 87 
 
 ' a good name, and a fine lass ! She looked true. 
 They cannot all be deceivers and liars, surely. 
 Will he give any heed to her, though? There 
 will be opportunity, chances enough. But no, no ; 
 I need never think it' And rather impatiently 
 he turned to his interrupted work, and was soon 
 buried in its details.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 When Herries, who had been absent on business, 
 returned to his house, he was annoyed to find 
 that he had missed the emissary from his cousin. 
 ' That means, I suppose, that I must e'en trail out 
 over there myself after office hours,' he said to 
 himself. ' Plague take the woman ! And yet she 
 must be visited at some time or another.' Visits, 
 rather of business than of pleasure to his trouble- 
 some charge in the Potterrow, were a part of the 
 routine of his life. They would generally be spent 
 in a wrangle over accounts, and yet hardly a 
 wrangle either, for it takes two to make such a 
 thing, and Nancy was incapable of quarrelling. 
 But Herries would spend a laborious hour trying 
 to instil into his volatile charge some notion of 
 the nature of money, and the value of keeping 
 and giving an account thereof. He might as well 
 have tried to instil into the passing winds an ap- 
 preciation of these practical details. Nancy had 
 but one notion of money — to spend it. Not that 
 even Herries, in his severest moments, could call 
 her selfishly or systematically extravagant, which 
 was the more provoking. It was an infinitesimal 
 house-keeping — that of the tiny household in the 
 Potterrow ; but by systematic ideas of cutting her 
 coat according to her cloth in all things, Nancy 
 would not, or could not, be governed, and Herries 
 would drive himself nearly crazy over the futility 
 
 SS
 
 THE RHYMER 89 
 
 of his efforts to coerce this delicate, frail, light, 
 feminine thing that so smilingly defied him. 
 
 This night, as he prepared himself to walk over 
 to the Potterrow, another annoyance from a 
 feminine source assailed him. Lizzie, his house- 
 keeper, demanded an untimely interview by knock- 
 ing at his door and then entering his room, followed, 
 at a discreet distance, by, apparently, a satellite. 
 
 'Well, woman, what is it ? ' he demanded crossly. 
 
 * Weel ye s'ud ken what it is,' said Ailie, who 
 used all the freedom of speech towards her master 
 of an old servant of his family, which, indeed, she 
 was. ' Was I no' telHn' ye yestreen it was the 
 day I was to gar ma sister's husband's niece — 
 it's the lass Mysie — come oot ower frae the Wab- 
 ster's Close, to see if she wadna do ye for a help tae 
 me aboot the hoose, noo a'm that auld and failed ' — 
 
 ' Oh, the devil take her ! ' said Herries, im- 
 patiently. ' Of course she'll do if she suits you. 
 It's your business, isn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Na ! it's just no my business ! ' retorted the old 
 woman, sourly. ' For when I said I wad like weel 
 to hae a lass, ye hummed and haw'd, and — " the 
 dangers o' the toon ! " quo' you — to a young lassie 
 wi' the beaux and sic like. 'Od, I'se gar ye see I'se 
 gotten ane that wull hae nae sic havers. Come 
 ben, Mysie ! ' She called to her relative, who had 
 remained, meanwhile, on the landing without, and 
 who now obediently appeared. ' Tak the screen 
 aff ye !' commanded Lizzie, alluding to the tartan 
 shawl commonly worn about the head and face by 
 the poorer women of that day. 
 
 Mysie divested herself of this garment, and dis- 
 closed to view a countenance certainly destitute of 
 any conspicuous allurement to the aforesaid beaux.
 
 90 THE RHYMER 
 
 She was a very tall and somewhat grenadier-like 
 young woman, with a pale, rather haggard, face, a 
 quick, roving glance, and a general air as of some- 
 thing newly caught and altogether untamed. 
 
 ' She has the three nieces wi' her gude man, ma 
 sister,' continued Lizzie, ' and I'se warrant ye weel 
 I waled the little bonniest o' the bilin' ! Mysie '11 
 no be bathered wi' the lads, I'm thinkin'.' 
 
 She contemplated her connection with grim 
 approval, almost pride ; but Mysie, who had 
 hitherto listened to the curious encomium of her 
 lack of dangerous charms with a perfectly 
 apathetic indifference, uttered, at the last words, a 
 sudden, odd laugh. Herries looked up sharply, 
 but the naturally rather heavy face had become 
 stolidly grave again, and Mysie, ordered to do so by 
 her relative, proceeded meekly to leave the room. 
 
 'I've seen her before, somewhere, surely?' said 
 Herries, thoughtfully, teased by some vague reminis- 
 cence. ' Rather a rough diamond, isn't she, Lizzie ? ' 
 
 ' 'Oo — a wee thing, mebbe — ay ! ' said Lizzie, 
 cheerfully. ' She's fresh aff the fields, doon 
 Colinton way, howkin' tatties . . . but she's 
 takken wi' a notion for genteel sairvice i' the toon. 
 'Od, she'll get it wi' me, onyway ! ' Thus promising 
 abundant, wholesome occupation for her hopeful 
 protegee, Lizzie departed to nether regions, well 
 pleased. Herries felt that he had not cottoned 
 greatly to his new retainer. But the choice of a 
 scullion seemed, for the time being, a matter of 
 such infinitely small importance, that he had pre- 
 sently forgotten Mysie as completely as though 
 she had never existed. 
 
 Presently, having dined, he walked briskly up 
 the town in the gloaming. Lights were beginning
 
 THE RHYMER 91 
 
 to twinkle from the houses in the old town — lights 
 so high up in the gathering haze, that they seemed 
 to strain to the stars. The ill-lighted and malodor- 
 ous wynds and closes clattered to the deafening 
 din of their granite-given echoes ; harsh voices 
 called to each other across the narrow spaces ; 
 there floated from the castle height the toll of a 
 bell, giving the hour. Herries picked his way to 
 the Potterrow, and was admitted to his cousin's 
 house by the discreet Jean. 
 
 With the privilege of intimacy, he walked un- 
 announced into the little parlour. But for the 
 dancing firelight it was in darkness, the cosy, red 
 curtains drawn, and those within seemed in no 
 hurry for the lights. 
 
 'Well, cousin!' said Herries, carelessly, as he 
 entered. But so very tall a woman's figure rose 
 from the hearth, where it seemed to have been 
 seated — displacing two little boys as it did so — 
 that Herries realised at once it was not his Cousin 
 Nancy, Jean saved the situation at this critical 
 moment by bringing in a pair of lighted candles. 
 And thus Archibald Herries and Alison Graham 
 saw each other for the first time. 
 
 Alison shook in her shoes, for she felt that this 
 could be none other than the redoubtable Herries. 
 And Herries, who was in a bad temper, inwardly 
 cursed his luck which had betrayed him into an 
 awkward interview with a country miss. 
 
 * Mrs Maclehose is gone out to a tea-drinking, sir,' 
 Alison managed to say, standing shyly where she 
 had risen. ' But she should presently come home. 
 It is past the hour when she promised to return.' 
 
 ' I apologise for my intrusion,' said Herries. 
 ' Let me present myself, in Mrs Maclehose's ab-
 
 92 THE RHYMER 
 
 sence — her cousin, and your servant, Archibald 
 Herries.' He bowed, with the accustomed little 
 flourish and affectation of the day, and Alison stole 
 a look at him half frightened and half fascinated. 
 She had never seen so fine a personage as this 
 young man in all her days, with his smartly cut, if 
 sober, coat — his laced frills, the powder in his hair, 
 the ring upon his finger. How fine and delicate 
 and clear-cut were his features, how cold and keen 
 his blue eyes, under those ironically-arched and 
 finely-pencilled eyebrows. No wonder, Alison 
 thought, that Nancy was afraid of him. He was 
 terrible: much more so, being so smart and fine, 
 than if he had been a snuffy old gentleman, such 
 as Alison, in her fancy, had painted him. And 
 yet, behold, the moment he sat down, Danny 
 inserted himself between his knees, and Willy 
 lolled against his shoulder, with the clumsy affec- 
 tion of boyhood. The children, evidently, were 
 not afraid of this terrible person. Alison, in an 
 agony of shyness, was wondering if she must in- 
 troduce herself, when Herries saved her the trouble. 
 
 ' And so you are come to explore the capital, 
 Miss Graham,' he said, showing that he knew her 
 name, 'but doubtless you knew it before?' 
 
 ' No, indeed, sir,' said Alison. ' I never was in a 
 town in my life, excepting Stirling, where I was at 
 school.' 
 
 ' Ah, indeed ! ' said Herries, suppressing a yawn, 
 but not at all suppressing a bad-tempered tendency 
 to be covertly rude to this country girl, who was 
 going to bore him. ' And when you were not at 
 school, in Stirling, you lived — ? ' 
 
 ' I lived at my father's house, sir,' said Alison, 
 quite simply.
 
 THE RHYMER 93 
 
 ' Hum-m,' said Herries, perhaps a trifle discon- 
 certed. 'I believe that I have often heard of The 
 Mains,' he went on, condescendingly, ' a rural 
 solitude. And what did Miss Graham do at The 
 Mains ? ' 
 
 ' I minded the turkeys, sir,' said Alison, ' and did 
 as I was bid.' She was not, in spite of her shyness 
 and timidity, very well pleased with the con- 
 descending tone of this fine young townsman, and 
 spoke roundly. The answer was amusing to 
 Herries, and changed his mood. He looked atten- 
 tively at the speaker, but would not admit there 
 was anything to admire. A ' big bouncing miss,' 
 he called her in her thoughts. But, nevertheless, 
 he looked again ; and once, he caught, full in the 
 eyes, the innocent candour of her wide grey glance 
 — and before it, he was aware that his own gaze fell. 
 
 * And have you made friends with these little 
 men ? ' he asked, in a totally changed tone ; and 
 Willy and Danny grinned. After that they con- 
 versed very amicably about the little boys, their 
 lessons and their play, Danny's delicacy and 
 Willy's school. Herries made himself vastly 
 agreeable, as he well could do when he chose ; 
 and Alison was quite startled when she saw how 
 low the candles had burnt, which were quite 
 respectably long when Jean had brought them 
 in. But still Nancy tarried. 
 
 ' My cousin is late, surely,'said Herries. ' I, too, was 
 bidden to the great Nimmo's, but 1 suspect I have 
 passed a much more profitable evening where I am.' 
 
 'But, indeed, no, sir!' said Alison, in all good 
 faith. ' P^or the great Mr Burns, the poet, was to 
 be at Miss Nimmo's, and 'twas to meet him that 
 Nancy was so wild to go.'
 
 94 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' I'm the more glad I was absent, then,' said 
 Herries. ' Mr Burns is not a person to my taste.' 
 
 ' Why, sir,' said Alison, wonderingly, ' don't you 
 admire his great poems ? ' 
 
 * I never read them,' said Herries, ' and never 
 wish to. And, moreover,' he continued, severely, 
 ' 1 gather they are no fit reading for a lady, what- 
 ever they may be for men.' 
 
 'But why?' cried Alison, forgetting her shyness, 
 in her surprise, 'sure, sir, there's the most beau- 
 tiful things in them, all the best feelings you can 
 think of, and so often religion and the highest 
 thoughts. . . .' 
 
 ' Then all I can say is,' said Herries, shortly, 
 ' that their author adds hypocrisy to vice, and be- 
 comes the more odious in consequence.' 
 
 Alison gave a little gasp. She, who pored over 
 ' The Cottar's Saturday Night,' and poems to ' The 
 Mountain Daisy' and 'A Field Mouse'; and Herries, 
 who heard the town talk of ' Holy Willie's Prayer,' 
 and the even less-edifying satires, were, indeed, 
 little likely to agree on the subject of the genius 
 of Burns. But even had Herries stopped to con- 
 sider the difference of their points of view, his 
 opinion of the poet would have remained unaltered. 
 And so it was that Alison found herself, for the 
 first time, fluttering against that stone wall of 
 prejudice which raised itself so soon in Herries's 
 nature. She had too much tact to pursue the 
 subject, and presently there were sounds without 
 which proved a timely interruption. It was the 
 chairmen putting down the returning guest at 
 the foot of the stair. 
 
 ' Ah, there's Nancy at last, sir,' cried Alison, ' so 
 you'll see her before you go.'
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 All her life long, even when she was an old, 
 old woman, did Alison remember the vision that 
 Nancy made as she came, fresh from Miss Nimmo's 
 memorable party, into the little parlour that night. 
 She was in her pretty dress of pink and black, her 
 little shoes had high pink heels, and a pink rose 
 fastened the lace lappets in her hair. But it was 
 her face that was illumined : her parted lips were 
 scarlet, her eyes glowed, her cheeks were delicately 
 flushed. She clasped her hands together as she 
 ran into the room, crying to Alison : ' Oh, Ally, 
 I have seen him ! And, oh, much more than that : 
 I've talked with him ! 'Tis the crowning night of 
 my life. . . .' And then, all at once, perceiving 
 Herries, her face fell, and she stopped short in 
 her rhapsody. ' You here, cousin ! ' she said, in a 
 changed voice. ' Well, 'tis an age since we met. 
 And now I must postpone my raptures, I know, 
 for you'll not approve their object.' 
 
 ' No need to name him,' said Herries, blandly, 
 ' Miss Graham has enlightened me. And so,' he 
 added, very disagreeably, it must be confessed, 
 ' tJiat dog has come back from the dung-hill to 
 the drawing-room.' 
 
 'Herries!' exclaimed Nancy, passionately, ' how 
 . . . how dare you speak so ? ' 
 
 ' Tut, cousin ! I've the freedom of my tongue, 
 haven't I, even though I speak of your consecrated 
 
 95
 
 96 THE RHYMER 
 
 bard ? But there, I'll not wound your sensibilities 
 and those of Miss Graham any further to-night.' 
 Herries laughed as he spoke. ' I'll take myself off, 
 and leave you ladies to enjoy your raptures. A 
 mere man has no chance when there's a poet on the 
 
 ' Nay, Archie,' said Nancy, more gently, throwing 
 herself, with a little sigh, into a chair and leaning 
 back in it. ' Stay a while. 'Tis no wish of mine to 
 drive you away, God wot ! ' 
 
 Herries stood on the hearth, looking down at 
 his cousin with his cool, critical, half-satirical 
 regard. Her little innocent arts, so infallible, as 
 a rule, in the conquest of his sex, her languishing 
 glance, her merry smile, had no more effect upon 
 him than summer breezes on the bastions of a 
 fort. He called her in his thoughts, ' a little 
 baggage,' teasing as a midge, perhaps, but hardly 
 more important in the general scheme of things. 
 That the ' little baggage ' might have passions, 
 strong to move her, and strong to move the little 
 world around her — strong enough, perhaps, to turn 
 aside the deep and placid current of his own 
 existence — was a thought that never crossed his 
 brain. Nancy, in the meantime, appreciated per- 
 fectly his attitude towards her, and it inspired her 
 with a kind of petulance — the petulance of a 
 charming woman at fault with a man, for once. 
 Yet she always tried ' to be pretty with Herries,' 
 as she phrased it. It was her nature, and her 
 weakness, to be ' pretty ' with everyone. 
 
 Alison, at this juncture, had left the cousins 
 alone, taking Danny to his bed, for the child 
 drooped with fatigue, in spite of his eagerness 
 to sit up late. Herries watched her departure.
 
 THE RHYMER 97 
 
 * I don't quite gather who she is, and where she 
 comes from, your very — your very ample young 
 friend ? ' he enquired, lazily. 
 
 ' My friend is Miss Graham of The Mains,' said 
 Nancy, with some tartness. 
 
 *Oh, I know that much,' said Herries. 'But 
 how she comes to be your friend, and to be here, 
 gives food for enquiry. I've hitherto not seen 
 that misses from the country were much to your 
 taste.' 
 
 'She has a little history, Archie,' said Nancy, 
 covering her stony relative (quite unavailingly) 
 with one of her softest glances — ' a little history 
 that might melt even your hard heart.' 
 
 'Let us hear it, and perhaps I'll melt,' said 
 Herries, drily. 
 
 ' I found the child in a dreary, God-forsaken 
 hole of a country place,' Nancy began, in narrative 
 style, 'one of a prodigious family — seven girls — 
 think of it ! And they were going to marry her, 
 against her every wish and instinct, to a man old 
 enough to be her father. And so I acted Pro- 
 vidence and bore her off, in spite of them, and 
 here she is.' 
 
 ' Good God, cousin ! ' said Herries, with a lift 
 of his eyebrows that Nancy particularly disliked ; 
 'you mean to say you took the girl from her 
 parents — interfered with their projects for her 
 future — and now burden yourself with the re- 
 sponsibility of her maintenance ? Heavens ! ' 
 
 ' Her own father helped me — at the end,' said 
 Nancy, pouting. ' He was a decent man, and 
 thankful to be off the devilish bargain of selling 
 his daughter to an old horror. Yes, I call it 
 devilish — hellish — if you prefer the word ! ' 
 
 G
 
 98 THE RHYMER 
 
 * Oh, Lord ! ' said Herries, as though words failed 
 him. ' And who, pray, was the bridegroom you 
 have helped to cheat ? ' 
 
 ' Old Cheape — you know him — Cheape of Kin- 
 carley,' said Nancy. 
 
 ' A most respectable person, and excellent 
 parti !^ exclaimed Herries, now in his most pro- 
 voking mood. ' Why, a warm man is old Cheape, 
 with as cosy a bit of property in the east neuk of 
 Fife as there is in broad Scotland. And you have 
 cheated Miss Graham out of this fine setting-down ! 
 What better could she have hoped for, in her situa- 
 tion ? Upon my soul, but you have done the poor 
 girl a bad turn. And how do you mean to make 
 up for it ? ' 
 
 It was no soft glance with which Nancy now 
 eyed her exasperating relative ; her eyes flashed, 
 and her little fingers literally tingled to box his 
 ears. 
 
 ' Archie,' she said, with a little toss, ' I think 'tis 
 time you were back among your law books and 
 your papers, for you can't breathe, I think, in a 
 kindlier atmosphere.' Herries laughed, not ill- 
 humouredly, however, for there was real mirth in 
 the twinkle of his eyes. 
 
 * I'll be gone, dear cousin,' he said. ' I'd present 
 my condolences to Miss Graham, but she's vanished. 
 Poor young lady, I protest I grieve for her. Well, 
 good-night, Nancy. We will converse on business 
 another time — your packet is on yonder table, by 
 the fire.' He took his departure, still smiling — 
 that provoking smile of his, with the eyebrows 
 raised. 
 
 ' I'm d d if it's altogether a laughing matter, 
 
 though — ' he said to himself as he went down the
 
 THE RHYMER 99 
 
 stair. ' For is Nancy — or am I, rather, for it comes 
 to that — to feed, clothe and fend for that pro- 
 digious miss up yonder? 'Tis a mighty prac- 
 tical question, and no joke.' It was a question — 
 a rather delicate one, perhaps,— which only time 
 could answer, which it did, in all due course, and 
 with the greatest plainness. 
 
 In the room which the young lawyer had left, 
 and to which Alison had returned, the candles 
 flared down in their sockets, and the fire burned 
 low, but still its two occupants remained there, 
 deep in talk. Or rather, one talked, and the 
 other listened ; for it was Nancy who poured 
 forth all the pent-up raptures of her first inter- 
 view with the poet, while Alison sympathised — 
 struggling, it must be confessed, with a certain 
 feeling of sleepiness the while. For it was no 
 doubt because Nancy tried to describe precisely 
 that which is indescribable — the nameless fascina- 
 tion of genius — the overpowering magnetism of 
 an unique personality — that she failed, on this 
 occasion, completely to convince her usually pliant 
 listener. 
 
 ' I am afraid,' said Alison, presently, with a 
 pensive air, ' that your cousin, Mr Herrics, does 
 not think that Mr Burns is quite a — quite a good 
 man.' 
 
 * Herries ! ' exclaimed Nancy, indignantly, ' you 
 heard him ! And pray, did you ever hear anything 
 so intolerant — so insufferably unjust, in your life ? 
 Because, forsooth, a man is not cut precisely after 
 his own pattern — cold, bloodless, passionless, like 
 himself — Herries condemns him ! He will make 
 no allowance for a nature different to his own — 
 subject to temptations which never assail him, and
 
 loo THE RHYMER 
 
 the sport of circumstances whose difficulty he has 
 no idea of. Herries, indeed ! Ally, if life were as 
 Herries would make it, 'twould be a desert, and I'd 
 die of thirst. But, Heaven be thanked, though I 
 depend upon him in a measure, and must therefore 
 obey him in many outward things, he cannot bind 
 my soul ! That is free — to take its own flights — 
 to seek its own companion in a kindred spirit, 
 which understands it, and whom it understands.' 
 
 Sleepy Alison did not pause to enquire whether 
 this was merely a poetical generalisation, or 
 whether the 'kindred spirit' were Mr Burns. 
 She looked gently and patiently — a little wonder- 
 ingly, perhaps, at the fretted, passion-tossed little 
 creature at her side. 
 
 ' Come to bed, Nancy,' she whispered per- 
 suasively, as to an excited child. ' 'Tis so late, 
 dear — long, long past one of the clock.' 
 
 * To bed ! ' exclaimed Nancy. ' And who could 
 sleep, after such an evening as I have spent ? But, 
 of course, I'll come, love. 'Tis a world of prose, 
 and one must eat and sleep, as though poesy were 
 not. But, Ally ' — she crept close to the girl, and 
 whispered at her ear with flushed face, and 
 brightening eyes — ' Ally, he is coming here ! ' 
 
 'Who?' said Alison, a little startled. 'The— 
 the poet ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, child,' said Nancy, ' the bard. He's to 
 honour my poor hovel with his presence. Think 
 of it ! And you will see him, Ally — ay — and hear 
 him. For don't suppose that I forgot my Ally in 
 my raptures. I said to him, " I have a song-bird, 
 sir, up in my eyrie, whose wood-note wild will 
 delight you." You remember how I told you, 
 Ally, he delights in a voice to sing over to him
 
 THE RHYMER loi 
 
 the old country airs and catches, and this he told 
 me himself to-night So you must be in song, 
 sweetest — when he comes, in a day or two — and 
 we will tune the old harp, and have a heavenly 
 evening with the Muses,' 
 
 This, surely, was a prospect to delight any girl, 
 and fill her brain with dreams. But Alison, as she 
 went to bed that night (prosaic girl — I grieve to 
 state it of a heroine), never thought of the honour 
 in store for her. In the first place, she was sleepy, 
 and in the second — well, in the second, her thoughts 
 seemed inclined to stay elsewhere. There flickered 
 before her eyes — it would come — the most teasing, 
 tantalising little picture — the cameo-like outline 
 of a profile, virile though delicate — and oh, so 
 dreadfully severe ; the steely penetration of cold, 
 cold blue eyes ; the lines of a figure that held 
 Danny on its knee, and had Willy leaning heavily 
 against its shoulder. And the following, or some- 
 thing like it, was Miss Graham's last waking 
 thought that night. 
 
 ' I've heard Nancy call him " little," but he's as 
 big as me, and I ' (with a deep sigh) ' am so much, 
 much too big for a woman. ... If I were as wee 
 as Nancy, I'd call him . . . tall'
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The fiq-ure of Robert Burns at all the Edinburgh 
 parties of the winters of 1786- 1787 is as classical 
 among the classical portraits of literary history as 
 that of Byron at Ravenna, or Shelley at Geneva, 
 or Scott among the woods of Abbotsford. It is 
 the imposing and yet pathetic spectacle of a Titan 
 in a chain of flowers. For here was 'a man, a 
 peasant pure and simple, taken from the plough, 
 to be the pet for a while of fine ladies in genteel 
 drawing-rooms, and the plaything of men, who, 
 though they were pigmies beside him, yet covered 
 him with an easy condescension, and held him 
 as the object of a gracious, if fitful, patronage. 
 Burns had borne the ordeal of his sudden popu- 
 larity with wonderful steadfastness of mind. The 
 natural shrewdness of the Scottish peasant was 
 combined in him with the splenetic melancholy of 
 the poetical temperament ; and the combination 
 aided him to a singularly just view of his position 
 and its dangers. He was never over-sanguine ; he 
 suspected that his course, like that of other meteors, 
 would be brief, if brilliant ; and, so far as it lay 
 within the bounds of Edinburgh society, so it 
 proved. That society — that brilliant little world 
 of fashion, intellect and power — has been held to 
 account for its treatment of the peasant-poet, whom 
 it feted for a season, and then dropped. It had 
 hailed him with acclamation because he was a 
 peasant — the more wonderful a genius for being 
 
 102
 
 THE RHYMER 103 
 
 so — and then, because he was a peasant, it held 
 him at arm's length. It was no more than he 
 himself had foretold, though in foretelling it he 
 had hardly realised the embittering effects upon 
 his proud and sensitive temper. It was a great 
 and cruel injustice — the thoughtless inconsistency 
 of a selfish world — but, under the circumstances, it 
 was inevitable and almost natural. It seems cer- 
 tainly to have been the fact that, by the time his 
 first season in the capital was over, the attitude of 
 two-thirds of its society towards the poet was, like 
 that of Herries, one of a growing repulsion. 
 
 It was at this juncture, at the beginning of his 
 second season, that Burns met Mrs Maclehose in 
 the drawing-room of Miss Nimmo. All the little 
 world gathered at that party had smiled at the 
 result; but it was a smile entirely devoid of malice. 
 No one knew, or even thought, any harm of the 
 charming little grass-widow — victim of a heartless 
 desertion — who lived so simply and so blamelessly 
 with her two young children in her garret in the 
 Potterrow, under the strict guardianship of that most 
 respected and rising young man, her cousin, Archi- 
 bald Herries. Her weakness for the Muses was well 
 known, and her passion to be made acquainted 
 with the poet of the hour had long been a jest. 
 While, as to Burns, there was no question at all 
 what his opinion would be of a pretty and charm- 
 ing young woman of lively parts, who was ready to 
 fall down and worship him. So, when the two 
 came together, and sat the whole evening side by 
 side upon a sofa, engaged in a conversation so 
 absorbing, that they had neither eyes nor ears for 
 the rest of the world — everyone nodded and 
 laughed and let them alone.
 
 I04 THE RHYMER 
 
 Burns at this time had come to Edinburgh on 
 business connected with the pubHcation of his 
 works. He was lodged in a couple of rooms in 
 St James's Square in the New Town, and kept, on 
 the whole, but doubtful company. Fine friends, 
 as already hinted, were growing cold, and fine 
 ladies, in high places, fastidious. In the lesser 
 intellectual circles — as at Miss Nimmo's — he was 
 still welcome. But it was not a happy or prosper- 
 ous period in his life. Money matters worried, and 
 conscience pricked. A summer's dalliance in his 
 native place had reduced his much-enduring Jean 
 Armour to a condition which resulted in that meek 
 woman's ignominous expulsion, for a second time, 
 from her father's house. Other matters, also of a 
 tender and delicate nature, were giving trouble. 
 From a poet's love affairs it is seldom discreet to 
 lift the veil. It can only be said that their fre- 
 quency never seems to negative their fervour, 
 while they last. Burns had a capacious heart, 
 which could furnish shrines for several idols at 
 one time; a complex nature where, as ever, the 
 Soul and the Satyr strove for unequal mastery. 
 It may be imagined how delightful to such a 
 temperament was the balm of Mrs Maclehose's 
 generous adulation. The poet was precisely in 
 that condition when a man desires to be soothed, 
 to be flattered, to be made to forget his own short- 
 comings and the world's cruelty. And who so 
 clever to keep him in such a mood as the fascinat- 
 ing little grass-widow of the Potterrow ? So their 
 spirits rushed together, and they swore an eternal 
 friendship on the spot. In a couple of days, it 
 was arranged, the poet should come and take a 
 dish of tea with Mrs Maclehose at her house, and
 
 THE RHYMER 105 
 
 that lady was in the seventh heaven. But, to 
 quote the bard himself, — 
 
 ' The best laid plans of mice and men 
 Gang aft a-gley ' — 
 
 and the tea-drinking, at that early date, never took 
 place. Either on the way home from Miss Nimmo's, 
 or on some errand the following day, the poet was 
 knocked down in the street by a coach, and thus, 
 instead of hastening to the Potterrow on the wings 
 of an exalted friendship, he found himself crippled 
 and confined to his lodging in St James's Square 
 with a broken knee-pan and a highly-irritated 
 temper. In the Potterrow the news of this un- 
 timely accident came as a crushing disappointment. 
 Nancy cried like a child, and Alison, who had not 
 shed such tears herself since she was seven years 
 of age, strove to comfort her with every device of 
 words and every promise of future compensation 
 that she could think of. 
 
 ' He'll come yet — of course he will, Nancy,' she 
 said cheerfully ; ' and then, you know, he'll write.' 
 
 Alas ! easy words ! Had poor Alison but fore- 
 seen with what a fatal facility he would, and did, 
 write : with what awful and voluminous avidity 
 they both would fall upon pens, ink and paper, she 
 would not have spoken so lightly. Could she but 
 have had a vision of that weary sequence of thick 
 letters, that only too often her own faithful though 
 unwilling hands would have to carry, she would 
 not have been so delighted when the first one was 
 written and the first received. Nancy, in a fever 
 of thwarted eagerness, had at first threatened to 
 rush off to visit the bard in his confinement. 
 
 ' I 7mist see him ! ' she cried, stamping her little
 
 io6 THE RHYMER 
 
 foot. ' I shall, and will ! What's to prevent me ? 
 Am I not a wife and mother? Are we not all 
 relatives — sons and daughters of Adam ? Why 
 should a censorious world put difficulties in the 
 way of my visiting my poor friend? I'll not be 
 bound by these ridiculous conventionalities ! ' But 
 Alison's sound natural sense averted the threatened 
 indiscretion. 
 
 ' 'Twould embarrass the poor man to receive you, 
 Nancy,' she sensibly said. ' You know you have 
 told me yourself how low is his station in the 
 world, and 'tis little likely he has a room fit to see 
 ladies in, and it would hurt his pride that you 
 should find that out. And then — and then, your 
 cousin, Mr Herries, who does not favour — ' 
 
 ' Drat my cousin ! ' said Nancy, petulantly, ' and 
 you to quote him, as solemn as the owl himself! 
 But 'tis true — God's truth, indeed — I daren't offend 
 him. And most consumedly it would offend his 
 highness — such a visit on my part — if it got to his 
 ears. No, you are right. Ally — wise, Ally ! I see 
 it. I'll abandon this visit, though 'twould but be 
 one of kindness and mercy. I'll take me to my 
 pen. Thank Heaven for the pen, Ally, that per- 
 mits no real separation — no severing of souls — 
 between friend and friend ! ' 
 
 The Pen ! Little, busy, inky devil, that, when 
 the tongue would stammer and the lips be stiff, 
 blabs out the inmost secrets of the heart ! Be- 
 trayer and tell-tale, with a treachery that is worse 
 than tongues, because indelible ! Specious ally, 
 who turns king's evidence, and becomes the most 
 relentless witness to our follies ! Pin's point, now 
 steeped in honey and now dipped in gall, oh, 
 power of hurt, far deadlier than the honest sword.
 
 THE RHYMER 107 
 
 this pricking Pen ! Sensible Alison, when, long, 
 long years after this, she came to hold in her hand 
 certain letters, yellowed and faded with age, and to 
 read, marvelling greatly, their turbulent, passionate 
 pages, thought this, and more, of the dangerous 
 doings of the quill ; although, to be sure, she never 
 expressed herself in the language of hyperbole. 
 That was not her way. 
 
 When, however, the first two or three of these 
 letters were written, and their answers received, in 
 those gay early days in the Potterrow, Alison was 
 delighted, because they made her friend so happy. 
 
 ' We are to make it a regular thing,' Nancy ex- 
 plained, ' and who knows. Ally, but that it may 
 become one of the classic correspondences in our 
 language ? We are to have borrowed names chosen 
 by him. How I love this fancy of Arcadian names 
 in such a commerce ; it gives the last delightful 
 touch of romance. He is to be " Sylvander," and 
 I " Clarinda." Now is not " Clarinda " a pretty 
 name, Ally ? Heard you ever a sweeter or a more 
 musical ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tis very pretty, indeed,' said Allison, good- 
 naturedly. Secretly she thought it an outlandish 
 appellation. ' I think " Nancy's " quite as pretty,' 
 she added, truthfully ; ' though, to be sure, a 
 stranger could not call you so at once.' 
 
 ' Why, that's just it ! ' cried Nancy. ' Don't you 
 see how we avoid vulgar familiarity on one hand, 
 and chilling formality on the other ? 'Tis the most 
 perfect idea. I am in love with it, Ally ! ' 
 
 Alison smiled benignly on her little friend, quite 
 unaware that the cloud, no bigger than a man's 
 hand, had appeared on their horizon, the cloud 
 that would some day cover the sky.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 One day, about this time, our heroine received a 
 great surprise, not to say a violent shock, in a letter 
 from her father. She came running in with it to 
 Nancy, who had not risen, with a very white face. 
 
 ' Lud, child ! ' cried her friend, looking up from 
 the composition of a morning poem, 'what is it?' 
 
 ' My sister Kate is to have Mr Cheape ! ' gasped 
 Alison. Nancy burst out laughing. 
 
 ' Well, love,' she said, ' what did I tell you ? 
 And why pull such a long lugubrious face over it? 
 Could any arrangement more altogether natural be 
 imagined ? There is another of you disposed of, 
 your mother pleased, and Mr Cheape fitted with a 
 wife at last.' 
 
 ' Oh, how could she do it ? ' wailed Alison, allud- 
 ing to her less-fastidious sister. * Kate, too, the 
 bonniest of us all ! ' 
 
 ' Well, dear, she gets the wedding silk and a 
 man with it,' said Nancy, ' I'll be bound she is 
 quite content.' 
 
 But Alison, not so easily consoled, wept over the 
 horrid fate of her sister. Her father, otherwise, 
 wrote cheerfully. The impending wedding had 
 restored good humour to his consort, and he ex- 
 pressed a belief that Alison, if she had a mind to, 
 might now return home, and all would be for- 
 gotten and forgiven. The laird, however, pro- 
 ceeded to counsel his daughter to remain where 
 
 io8
 
 THE RHYMER 109 
 
 she was for the present, and ' get all the good she 
 could for her coach-hire to the town,' as he ex- 
 pressed it, after the matter-of-fact manner of The 
 Mains. 
 
 * Sure, Ally, you'd never think of leaving me ? * 
 said Nancy in sincere alarm, and with imploring 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Indeed, I've no wish to,' said Alison. 
 
 ' For, you know,' went on the little woman, cling- 
 ing to Alison's hand, which she fondled as she 
 spoke, ' I get to lean on you, Ally, day by day, 
 and more and more. You're so big, and strong, and 
 steady, not a poor little straw like me, blown about 
 by every wind.' 
 
 Alison looked a little doubtful. ' I'm big and 
 strong, I know,' she said pensively, ' but I doubt 
 'tis more in the body than in the mind, Nancy. 
 I'm like a child in leading-strings, I sometimes 
 think. 'Twas our mother kept us all so, I suppose, 
 being herself strong-willed.' 
 
 ' Well, to be sure,' said Nancy, with a laugh. 
 ' you'd have married Mr Cheape if it hadn't been 
 for me.' 
 
 ' Yes, I believe I should,' said Alison, slowly. 
 ' It seemed best for everybody. I'd never have 
 had the power alone, to break with it. So, you 
 see, I doubt my own strength, Nancy, when I'm 
 put to it' 
 
 Possibly Alison's straight mind was already 
 puzzling itself over the problem of that Platonic 
 correspondence which had now become such a 
 part of life in the Potterrow — bringing a feverish 
 element into it. Letters came and letters went 
 every day. Sometimes they were entrusted to 
 the ' caddies,' or town's messengers, but these
 
 no THE RHYMER 
 
 proved a disagreeable class to deal with. Scenting 
 an intrigue, they were extortionate, and Nancy's 
 slender purse could endure no such constant 
 drain. So it came about that Alison, only too 
 naturally and too often, became friendship's mes- 
 senger, and very heartily did she grow to dislike 
 the walk between the Potterrow and the poet's 
 lodging. St James's Square, now little better 
 than a ' slum,' was even in those days an un- 
 attractive locality. Unlike the rest of the New 
 Town, it was meanly built, and had a squalid air, 
 its denizens being not among the most respectable 
 or desirable of the city. Disagreeable and mean- 
 ing glances would be cast at the tall young lady, 
 still very countrified in " her air and dress, who 
 hurried along, either alone, or only with a little 
 boy for company. Then, at the dingy house 
 where the poet lodged, the door would be opened 
 either by a rough-looking man, with a very 
 insolent and disagreeable manner (it was, indeed, 
 none other than the poet's precious friend and 
 crony, Nicol), or by a slatternly woman, with a 
 sly glance, greedy for a bribe. The bribe, alas ! 
 at Nancy's instigation, was given by Alison's 
 innocent and shrinking hand. How could she 
 help it ? This element of secrecy — of the under- 
 hand — in the affair vexed her to the soul. She 
 did not doubt that the correspondence in itself was 
 perfectly innocent. Nancy gave her to understand 
 it was the most high-souled, the most improving, 
 the most inspiring correspondence that ever was 
 carried on. It treated almost exclusively of 
 religion and the Muses, and it was to be the 
 means of bringing the poet to better ways of 
 thinking — especially on the former important
 
 THE RHYMER iii 
 
 subject. Yet, Nancy said, this was a censorious 
 world ; it would at once wickedly misunderstand 
 a correspondence between a married woman, in 
 her delicate position, and a man of the poet's 
 character and condition. Therefore, it must be 
 kept quiet — most especially from Herries, with his 
 distorted views and unjust judgments, must it be 
 kept a secret. Alison sighed, but she loved and 
 trusted her little friend, and acquiesced. 
 
 Nor, at this time, must it be supposed that 
 Alison's life was all a running of messages, or even 
 a willing drudgery for Nancy's little boys, which 
 she herself would gladly have made it. Far too 
 kind-hearted was the little mistress of the Potter- 
 row to permit of this. She desired above all 
 things that her young friend should be seen and 
 admired, and one fine morning she had suddenly 
 said, — 
 
 * And now, Ally, we must see to your clothes, 
 love ! Look, the sun shines ! We'll e'en away to 
 Madam Cantrip's this very minute, and see the 
 fashions.' 
 
 ' But,' cried Alison, aghast, ' I've no money to 
 buy new clothes, Nancy ! ' 
 
 Nancy simply pinched her cheek and laughed, 
 ever so sunnily and gaily. 
 
 ' The world may call me poor,' she said, ' but 
 I'm not too poor to have the luxury of giving to 
 those I love — once and away. And, child, if you say 
 one word about it — make one objection — I'll pack 
 you off back to The Mains, and never love you 
 more.' 
 
 So Alison submitted, and it was not with a bad 
 grace. The discrepancies of her toilette — entirely 
 conceived, cut and furnished forth at The Mains —
 
 112 THE RHYMER 
 
 troubled her greatly. Remember that she was only 
 twenty, and had never had a fine gown in her life. 
 
 ' A pelisse for the cold streets, dear, and hood 
 to match,' said Nancy, cheerfully, ' and a muslin 
 — yes, I think, a muslin for the evening — the East 
 India muslin is so much in vogue.' 
 
 This was as they walked down to the mantle 
 maker's, and that diligent personage, as she eyed 
 the proportions of her new customer, was quite of 
 opinion that a pelisse was the very thing to do 
 them justice. 
 
 ' The elegant and the fragile for you, Mistress 
 Maclehose,' she astutely remarked, ' the handsome 
 for miss ! ' 
 
 And very handsome indeed that pelisse proved 
 when it came home, being of cloth of a cosy 
 crimson, silk-lined and fur-bordered, with a most 
 coquettish hood, that would just show a curl or 
 two, and was indeed mighty becoming to its 
 wearer. To Alison it seemed a garment fit for a 
 princess ; she could not get over its wonders and 
 beauties, and hardly knew herself when she put it 
 on. And, in truth, it worked a wondrous trans- 
 formation in her air. 
 
 ' Well, I declare ! ' Nancy exclaimed, eyeing her 
 over when she tried it on, ' you are quite the fine 
 lady, child, and I feel put away in the shade ! ' 
 
 The white muslin robe was also a triumph — cun- 
 ningly embroidered, and showing more of Alison's 
 fine white throat and shoulders than had ever been 
 seen before. Nancy's taste finished it with a blue 
 silken scarf, and a blue snood for the curls. 
 
 ' There,' she cried, ' you'd charm the eyes of 
 Archie himself, if he had any, but he's blind, dear ; 
 we must seek you some gallanter beau.'
 
 THE RHYMER 113 
 
 Having thus enhanced the charms of her protegee 
 with fine clothes, Nancy was not content, but 
 turned a careful eye on her accomplishments. 
 
 * You must have lessons on the harp, Ally,' said 
 she, ' and for the voice, love. Such talent as yours 
 must not be neglected. And then you will be the 
 more able to charm our poet when he comes — our 
 poet, who shall be nameless ! ' 
 
 Therefore, one Schetki, a teacher of music, was 
 summoned to instruct Miss Graham for two hours 
 in the week in the management of the voice and 
 harp. So that the little room in the Potterrow 
 echoed to sweet sounds, the twanging of long- 
 silent strings, the deep, sweet notes of Alison's 
 voice ; while Nancy, bent with flushed cheeks over 
 her little desk, scribbled her interminable letters — 
 letters, alas ! losing more and more of their dis- 
 creet Platonic tone. The while, two little round- 
 eyed boys would stop their play and listen to the 
 singing ; and busy Jean would pause at the door to 
 catch the floating tune. 
 
 So passed away two or three busy and happy 
 weeks. I daresay it would be about the Christmas 
 time, when such things are common, that a batch 
 of bills was delivered at the door of a certain rising 
 young lawyer in the New Town. Among them 
 were two — one from a certain mantle-maker of 
 first celebrity, and one from a much respected 
 teacher of the musical arts. They contained, 
 severally, these interesting items : — 
 
 To a Pelisse, in Crimson Padtiasoy, 
 
 lined silk, bordered fiw, . 5 guineas. 
 
 To a Robe, Indian Muslin, embroidered, 
 
 3 guineas and 1 5 sliillings. 
 H
 
 114 THE RHYMER 
 
 And further : — 
 
 To Lessons in the Harp and Voice 
 given at Mistress Maclehosds in 
 the Potterrow, . . .2 guineas. 
 
 But as to how these interesting and expensive 
 disclosures were received by their victim, it would 
 not be discreet in me, at this point in my story, to 
 tell.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 It would be in the course of these December 
 weeks that Creighton, Herries's associate in 
 business, formed a habit of coming, oftener than 
 usual, to his partner's room, for a chat before 
 leaving the office. Herries had no objection, but 
 he rather wondered what brought the man. There 
 was to be noticed, certainly, at this time, an 
 increasing feebleness in Creighton's health. He 
 coughed frequently, and his breathing seemed to 
 trouble him. Herries thought that perhaps he en- 
 joyed the additional comforts of his superior's room; 
 he would walk about in it rubbing his hands, talking, 
 rather aimlessly, about trifles. Once he rather aston- 
 ished Herries by an enquiry after the health of Mrs 
 Maclehose — that lady being no favourite of his, 
 
 ' Your relative and her children are well, I trust ? ' 
 he said, in his formal way. ' Ahem ' — with a labori- 
 ously unconscious air ; ' I daresay you will be seeing, 
 now and then, the young gentlewoman who at pre- 
 sent seems to form one of Mrs Maclehose's circle ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Graham ? I'll be sworn I do ! ' said Herries, 
 laughing. ' He would have bad eyesight who failed 
 to see anything quite so big and strapping, up in 
 my cousin's garret there, for all the world like a 
 gowk in a hedge-sparrow's nest.' 
 
 ' She seemed a pleasing and unassuming young 
 woman,' said the elder man, mildly. ' She in- 
 advertently paid me a visit in my office some 
 time since. I have been looking up the old books, 
 
 "5
 
 ii6 THE RHYMER 
 
 and find that the young lady's grandfather was a 
 client of the old house, when the century was in 
 its teens. It would be a genteel recognition of 
 the old connection to show her some little civility 
 on this her first visit to the capital.' 
 
 ' What could you do for a girl like that ? ' in- 
 quired Herries, carelessly. 
 
 ' Well,' said Creighton, with a nervous air, * I 
 did think — I was thinking that a tea-drinking — ' 
 
 'A what?^ said Herries, looking at his partner 
 as if he thought him gone mad. 
 
 ' Well, an asking of the ladies to tea one day,' 
 said Creighton, with a look of guilt. ' But I dare- 
 say 'tis impossible — impossible,' he went on, as 
 the look of incredulity refused to fade upon the 
 younger man's face. ' Something else might be 
 thought of — showing the town to the young lady, 
 there's much in this old city instructive to a young 
 mind. And 'tis a pity the poor thing should go 
 back, to be buried in the country, without seeing 
 all she can; but I'm helpless there ; these streets 
 kill me just now.' But Herries seemed to smile 
 upon this latter suggestion as a suitable one. 
 
 ' Show the lions of the city to Miss Graham ? ' 
 he said. ' Well, we might see about that. 'Twould 
 be an act of good-nature to the country-mouse. 
 I'll oblige you if I can find the time.' 
 
 One of the genuinely kind impulses to which 
 Herries, in spite of his apparent coldness, was 
 often subject, whimsically seized him on this 
 matter. He had now seen Miss Graham several 
 times. She was his cousin's guest ; after all, per- 
 haps he owed her a civility. So, one morning, 
 when no business of importance was demanding 
 personal attention, he set off for the Potterrow,
 
 THE RHYMER 117 
 
 with a view to suggesting a day of sight-seeing 
 to his cousin and her friend. 
 
 Both ladies were fortunately at home, and pro- 
 fessed themselves delighted with the idea. 
 
 ' The driest thing imaginable, love, and just like 
 him to propose it,' said Nancy, in a vivacious 
 whisper, as the two went off to prepare themselves 
 for a walk. ' But 'tis proper you should see all the 
 tiresome things, and, of course, I must come as 
 duenna, though, Lord knows, you'd be as safe with 
 Archie in a desert as with your grannie. Not but 
 what it is kind of him to propose this,' added the 
 little woman, with compunction, — ' kind in sub- 
 stantial, but no romance : that's his character.' 
 
 Alison was taking her new pelisse out of its 
 cherished folds, and brushing her curls into extra 
 good order. Nancy playfully pushed her away 
 from the one mirror of the establishment. 
 
 ' No good to dress yourself up for Archie, dear,' 
 she said, laughingly. * Were you dressed in parch- 
 ment and tied up with tape 'twould be all one to 
 him. 'Deed, in that case, you might take his 
 fancy, for you'd then resemble his dearly beloved 
 law-papers that he lives by. But come now, for 
 my gentleman hates being kept waiting.' 
 
 They were quite a merry party as they picked 
 their way over the cobbles of the Potterrow, 
 although it was a raw, sunless, disagreeable morn- 
 ing. Children played and screamed in the gutters, 
 and hawkers yelled to the echoes, as they made 
 their way down the High Street and the Canon- 
 gate towards Holyrood Palace, which was their 
 destination. Herries knew the city much as a 
 rabbit knows its burrow. There was not an 
 antiquity he did not point out, not an archway
 
 ii8 THE RHYMER 
 
 or an effigy that escaped him. So that their 
 progress was deliberate, and Nancy had heaved a 
 sigh or two, and stifled more than one yawn in 
 her enormous velvet miifif, before the palace gates 
 closed upon the little party. 
 
 * Now, 'twill be all history,' groaned the little 
 duenna to herself. ' I know Archie : not an anec- 
 dote, not an incident will he spare us. Bless 
 the man, there he goes — Queen Mary, Darnley, 
 Rizzio, Bothwell ! Well, Ally's happy at any 
 rate. Mercy, how the child devours him with her 
 eyes ! You'd think she'd never seen a man before, 
 and neither she has, poor love. Now, any other 
 young buck would be pleased, and throw a little 
 gallantry into his manners ; but not he. Oh, Lord — ' 
 
 This was a smothered ejaculation as Herries, 
 having fully expounded one suite of rooms, pro- 
 ceeded systematically to the next. He was enter- 
 ing into this business of sight-seeing with all the 
 energy and thoroughness which characterised him 
 in his profession. He had that passion for the 
 mastery of detail which is essentially a masculine 
 trait. A picturesque general impression of things 
 would have satisfied Alison, and come not amiss 
 even to Nancy. But for Herries, there was nothing 
 too minute to be examined and explained ; every- 
 thing must be seen, and seen thoroughly. Nancy 
 dropped behind and neither he nor Alison noticed 
 the fact. As for Alison, her young limbs never 
 felt fatigue, and she followed where she was led, 
 interested and well pleased. It would all come 
 back to her afterwards, that happy, if hard-worked, 
 morning : those stately rooms and stairways, 
 once silent witnesses to the darkest pages of her 
 country's history; those frowning portraits on
 
 THE RHYMER 119 
 
 dim, panelled walls ; and ever, before all, the 
 living picture of her guide — the alert figure and 
 keen face, the slim pointing hand, the dignity, 
 the distinction that were Herries's own, though 
 he was neither a giant nor a god. He was so 
 kind, too ; for, to be sure, Alison thought, it must 
 all be very stale and dull to him. Issuing from 
 a careful and instructive examination of the chapel, 
 they discovered Nancy, seated on a bench, half 
 in laughter and half in tears of pure exhaustion. 
 
 * I can no more ! ' she exclaimed. ' Not another 
 step, Archie, for my life. You must put me in 
 a coach and send me home, and you two finish 
 the sight-seeing by yourselves, for 'tis past me 
 to look at another object, antique or modern.' 
 
 ' We have not done the half that I intended,' 
 said Herries, seriously. He had planned a day, 
 it was now barely noon, and he liked to keep to 
 a plan. It needed only a very little of Nancy's 
 deft management to enforce her own suggestion. 
 A coach was called, and she was put into it ; it 
 rumbled off, and she nodded and smiled and waved 
 her hand to the couple whom she left standing in 
 the palace-yard. 
 
 ' There, now,' she said to herself, with a sigh of 
 thankfulness and relief, ' what a most admirable 
 idea ! With any other man 'twould not have done, 
 I could not have left the child ; but with Archie, 
 the very thing ! He'll be quite happy schooling 
 her for another hour and bring her home safe as a 
 church, and she, dear innocent, will never know how 
 dull she's been. . . . And now, my soul, to other 
 thoughts ! ' And before Potterrow was reached, 
 ' Clarinda's ' next letter to ' Sylvander ' was all 
 aflame, written on that busy, burning little brain.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 'Shall we dine?' Hemes said, suddenly. On 
 leaving Holyrood they had taken a short walk in 
 the King's Park, in order that Alison might admire 
 the crags. Returning to the town they had hunted 
 amid devious ways for a certain ancient church, 
 and here in the graveyard, among the lank, decay- 
 ing grass, the slanting tombs and fallen emblems 
 of mortality, Herries had pointed out the blackened, 
 mouldering slab which marks the grave of Rizzio. 
 
 Then they had come up the High Street to 
 St Giles, and had made an exhaustive survey of 
 that interesting edifice. And now they had climbed 
 up the Castle-walk, and stood upon that wondrous 
 summit, the rock that crowns the northern capital. 
 It was here, perhaps, that the faintest shadow of 
 a lessened alacrity had fallen across Alison's 
 manner, when invited to scale a bastion and visit 
 a most interesting gun there situate. 
 
 ' Are you hungry ? ' Herries had enquired. 
 
 'Very,' said poor Alison, and then could have 
 bitten her tongue out for making an admission at 
 that day considered so very ungenteel. But, indeed, 
 it was now long since breakfast time, and a sup of 
 the boys' porridge at half-past eight, and a hunk 
 of their bread, although a nutritive, was not a very 
 lasting, meal. Healthy Alison was indeed hungry, 
 and Herries's ' Shall we dine ? ' had a most tempting 
 sound. 
 
 1 20
 
 THE RHYMER 121 
 
 'Your cousin will be expecting me, sir/ she 
 demurred, as in duty bound. 
 
 *Oh, Nancy dines at mid-day with the boys, I 
 know,' said Herries, 'and that's two hours and 
 more a-gone. 'Tis not a fashionable hour to ask 
 a lady to take dinner. But we've deserved it — so 
 let us dine.' 
 
 He considered a moment. He could not take 
 his present companion to dine alone with him at 
 any of the frequented taverns of the city. But he 
 suddenly recalled a little place where they could go 
 with safety and decorum. It was a resort called 
 ' Lucky Simpson's Howff ' — a couple of clean rooms 
 kept by an old wife, and much frequented by 
 simple folk landed from the country, in the neigh- 
 bouring Grassmarket, who feared the prices and 
 temptations of more fashionable establishments. 
 
 ' Come,' said Herries, encouragingly. * It is not 
 more than five minutes' walk, and Lucky has 
 always the pot upon the fire.' And Alison seemed 
 to have no choice but to follow. 
 
 Presently, at the corner of a close, they came 
 upon the oddest little house in the world, whose 
 tiny granite gable, with its crows'-steps, stood side- 
 ways to the street. They entered by means of a 
 little outside stairway, and were soon seated in the 
 low-ceilinged, heavily-raftered room, where Lucky 
 Simpson dispensed her simple hospitality. The 
 woman — a stirring old body, in striped cotton 
 gown and snowy ' mutch ' — waited upon her guests 
 herself, and seeing that on this occasion she had 
 'the quality' to deal with, she spread a coarse 
 homespun cloth upon the table, and furnished it 
 with two-pronged forks. Lucky's accustomed 
 guests dined off the bare boards, and ' supped their
 
 122 THE RHYMER 
 
 meat' with horn spoons, as a rule. She now 
 lamented that the day's dinner was nothing more 
 genteel than 'sheep's head, done wi' the collops 
 and the braincakes.' But to Herries and his 
 hungry companion this sounded appetising enough. 
 
 They were seated one on each side of the homely 
 little table. Alison had loosened the strings of 
 her hood — it fell back a little from her freshened 
 face, and the little clustering curls about her 
 temples. She was looking about her, all uncon- 
 scious of possible scrutiny, the pleasure of the 
 situation bright upon her face. Herries looked at 
 her — perhaps for the very first time — with real 
 attention, and a something of her personality, its 
 simplicity and trustfulness, its gentle candour, was 
 borne in upon his mind. 
 
 ' My God ! ' he said to himself — and a kind of 
 pang assailed him — ' how innocent she looks ! 
 It is a woman's body, but sure, only a child looks 
 out of those eyes.' And he felt a sudden warm 
 impulse of kindness and goodwill go out of him 
 towards this grave, shy, country girl. 
 
 But the arrival of the sheep's head, steaming in 
 a savoury manner, put an end to reflection. 
 
 ' Now this is indeed a most sadly ungenteel dish, 
 as Lucky says, to put before a lady,' Herries said. 
 ' Miss Graham has perhaps never tasted anything 
 so common ? ' 
 
 ' Who— I, sir ? ' said Alison, simply. ' Why, don't 
 I get my dinner off it every Monday at The 
 Mains?' 
 
 ' Every Monday ? ' said Herries, amused. ' Now, 
 why on Mondays, pray ? ' 
 
 ' Why, sure,' said Alison, shocked at the unprac- 
 tical nature of the query, 'because the sheep is
 
 THE RHYMER 
 
 123 
 
 killed on Saturdays, and so we get the head on 
 Mondays, by nature, sir.' 
 
 ' At that rate,' said Herries, laughing, ' you must 
 work down the animal, I suppose, and have the 
 tail on Saturdays?' But Alison shook her head, 
 smiling and dimpling. No ; it appeared the tail 
 came up on Thursdays ' roasted with the gigot,' and 
 was usually the portion of ' Ferran,' the collie dog. 
 
 And so they had a good deal of conversation 
 over that little meal, and were very friendly, and 
 even merry. Those who knew Herries only under 
 the frigid reserve and severe pre-occupation of his 
 usual manner, would have been astonished to see 
 how he unbent, how simple were the jokes he 
 cracked with Lucky, how kind and gentle his 
 converse with his timid guest. 
 
 Lucky brought in a steaming toddy, and Herries 
 would have it that Alison must ' taste.' Out of his 
 own glass — before he touched it himself — he must 
 ladle a drop into hers, with Lucky's funny old toddy- 
 ladle, with the worn and dented silver bowl, and 
 spindly, long black handle. Yes, that was a pleasant 
 hour, but, like all such, over too soon. They must 
 go. Alison, from an inner pocket, had produced a 
 remarkably attenuated little purse. 
 
 ' I suppose, sir,' she said, ' it is now time that we 
 should pay for our dinner? ' 
 
 Herries leaned his elbows on the table, and, 
 smiling, looked long and deep into her eyes. Well, 
 he had looked into a woman's eyes like that before 
 — perhaps too often. But never before had the 
 depths of Alison's innocent being been plumbed 
 by such a gaze. It troubled her — but with how 
 sweet, how perilously sweet a trouble ! Her eyes 
 fell, and the colour crept to her cheeks. Herries
 
 124 THE RHYMER 
 
 looked away, but his voice was kind when it 
 spoke. 
 
 ' When a lady does a man the honour to dine 
 with him,' he said, smiling, ' she is not generally 
 asked to pay the reckoning.' Alison blushed scarlet, 
 as one detected in some awful solecism, and huddled 
 the little purse out of sight. 
 
 ' I— I didn't know,' she stammered. 'You must 
 excuse me, sir. I never dined out with — with a 
 gentleman before.' 
 
 ' I'll be sworn you never did ! ' Herries said to 
 himself, in great amusement. 
 
 After that they rose and went out into the 
 streets again, where the short, gloomy winter after- 
 noon was already darkening into evening. Herries 
 naturally escorted his charge up the town towards 
 the Potterrow. They mounted the worn flights 
 of steps, the steep closes and murky wynds, with 
 the brisk step of youth refreshed — Alison the 
 first and least fatigued. Herries felt himself admir- 
 ing her for the first time. 
 
 ' Now, that's a handsome jacket,' said the inno- 
 cent man to himself, eyeing the red pelisse, ' and 
 I protest, its sets a handsome figure ! A fine free 
 step the girl has, too — country-bred.' Altogether, 
 he was very well pleased with his companion that 
 night. 
 
 When they reached the Potterrow it was nearly 
 dark, and the ill-trimmed flaring lantern that hung 
 in the General's Entry was already lit. 
 
 * Will you not come up to your cousin's tea- 
 table, sir ? ' asked Alison, shyly. 
 
 ' I thank you, no,' Herries answered. ' Make my 
 excuses to Nancy. I have business this evening.' 
 
 ' I — I should thank you for a very pleasant day.
 
 THE RHYMER 125 
 
 sir/ said Alison, timidly. ' I have greatly enjoyed 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Herries, with a little flourish, ' the 
 pleasure was mine ! I trust we have other enjoy- 
 able days, in company, to come.' And with that 
 they parted, and Herries walked down the town 
 alone. 
 
 * If all pleasures were as innocent and as cheap, 
 mistress,' he said to himself, thinking of Alison's 
 little speech, ' men would be better and richer than 
 they are ! ' And he laughed when he thought of 
 the modest total of Lucky's bill. On his doorstep 
 he found Creighton's terrier, Dick, shivering in the 
 cold. ' Come in, beastie ! ' he said, ' and lie by the 
 fire till your master goes.' 
 
 He was in a singularly softened mood, and in 
 high good humour with all the world.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Mrs Maclehose, having provided her young 
 friend with a pretty gown, was of no mind that 
 that garment should waste its sweetness in a cup- 
 board. It was now the height of the Edinburgh 
 winter season, and she was full of engagements ; so 
 that the two ladies were presently immersed in quite 
 a whirl of mild dissipation. They went to kettle- 
 drums, sometimes night after night ; to literary 
 soirees, such as Nancy loved, where lions, of more 
 or less celebrity, mildly roared ; sometimes to 
 concerts at the St Cecilia Hall, for which Herries 
 would send them tickets ; and once or twice even 
 to a rout in the Assembly Rooms, where Alison 
 looked on at, but could not join, the extremely 
 stiff and joyless dancing of the day. At nearly 
 every entertainment they frequented, Herries would 
 be present, for it was by virtue of his introduction 
 that his cousin had the entree everywhere, and he 
 was widely known. He was heartily sick of the 
 social round, but it was necessary for his pro- 
 fessional interests that he should be seen, and he 
 was fully aware of the fact One pair of eyes 
 watched the door for his coming in those days, 
 though he did not know it. Alison, in a room 
 full of strangers, would look longingly for the one 
 face that she knew, and, almost unconsciously, her 
 eyes would follow the now familiar figure. She 
 thought that all the world watched him thus. For, 
 
 126
 
 THE RHYMER 127 
 
 surely, he had a better carnage, a finer head, a 
 smarter coat than any other man. Herries cer- 
 tainly had distinction, but he was below, rather 
 than above, middle height, and not, naturally, one 
 to rise above a crowd. 
 
 With what a curious, new, expectant joy had 
 Alison looked forward to meeting him for the first 
 time after that happy day of sight-seeing ! But 
 here her ignorance of men, at any rate of this man 
 in particular, built up a disappointment for her. 
 Herries at Lucky Simpson's — Herries entertaining 
 a simple country girl, whom he regarded as a child 
 — was very different from the Herries of evening 
 parties and the social treadmill. When next 
 Alison saw him, and he gave her a formal five 
 minutes of his arm in a crowded drawing-room, 
 he was like a stranger again — cold, stiff, dressed 
 in reserve as in a garment. It was the nature of 
 the man, and, in time, Alison learned the difficult 
 lesson that it set her, as one learns who loves his 
 task. But she certainly got little aid from Nancy. 
 
 ' 'Tis a strange being — Archie,' his cousin would 
 say, discussing him after some chance meeting. 
 ' A riddle to me. Ally, who can generally read a 
 man like a book. Many a time I wonder what is 
 in the heart of the creature — what are the motives 
 of his actions, the ruling passions of his life. I've 
 known him since he was a boy, and at all the 
 crises of my life he's been at my elbow — the 
 adviser, the protector, the benefactor. But, I tell 
 you, child, I know no more what he really thinks 
 on any subject under the sun, than the child 
 unborn ! And what is more, I know no one who 
 ever did ! And yet I'd not have you think I 
 underrate his good qualities,' she went on earnestly.
 
 128 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' I see his solid worth, and I respect it. But 'tis 
 my most unlucky star has ruled it, that I must 
 be dependent on a man I fear. I live by love, 
 Ally — by sympathy, confidence, communion ! I 
 can forgive — I hope to be forgiven. But Herries 
 asks no forgiveness, and he grants none. He — he 
 drives me to subterfuge. Ally, I swear against my 
 proper nature ! ' 
 
 Alison never doubted that, first in Nancy's mind, 
 as she spoke, and first in her own, was the thought 
 of that eternal commerce with St James's Square. 
 It throve apace, like some ill weed with a fair leaf, 
 but choking roots. And now, as the weeks went 
 on, and the poet wrote of gradual recovery from 
 his hurt, the letters would give place to meetings, 
 and even Alison, in her innocence and her con- 
 fidence in her friend, knew instinctively that in 
 these meetings there would be danger. If only 
 Herries might be told of them, even though he 
 disapproved ! But on the subject of the poet he 
 was unapproachable ; he bristled with prejudice, 
 as a porcupine with its quills. Alison's unerring 
 judgment forced her to see that he was unreason- 
 able and unjust. 
 
 However, at this juncture, both Alison's anxieties 
 (in this direction) and her little gaieties received 
 an interruption. The boy Danny fell dangerously 
 ill, and all her pity and care went out to him. She 
 was aroused one night to hear him moaning in 
 the cot beside her, and she ran to waken Nancy. 
 Both of them hung over the child, terrified to find 
 that he knew neither of them, but wandered and 
 cried in a high fever. The faithful Jean, roused, 
 ran out into the windy, desolate streets at dawn to 
 call a physician.
 
 THE RHYMER 129 
 
 Alison knew well that the child had ailed. She 
 had urged it upon Nancy ; but, of late, Nancy had 
 cared so little : she seemed, more and more, to 
 push everything from her but the one thing, and 
 that, alas ! was not her child. The boy suffered 
 from a running sore or abscess on the hip. It 
 troubled him always, and now, perhaps, some 
 knock or hurt, had aggravated it. Alison shud- 
 dered to find it so inflamed — searing, like a live 
 cinder, the delicate flesh. When Jean returned, 
 she had secured no one but a callow student — a 
 timid ignoramus, who either could not, or would 
 not, lance the sore. He sent, however, a jar of 
 leeches. Nancy screamed at the horrid things. 
 But Alison took them in her fingers, without a 
 qualm, and laid them on the child's burning skin. 
 They gave a temporary relief, and he fell into a 
 troubled doze. 
 
 'Ally,' said Nancy, an hour or two later, 'the 
 child must have the best physician in the town. 
 I have heard Archie talk of taking him to Mr 
 Ross, one of our first surgeons. Will you, like 
 your own sweet self, go over to George Street, and 
 tell my cousin he must bring the man here — beg 
 him to do it — rather, without loss of time ? ' 
 
 <I — cro to Mr Herries's ofiflce?' stammered 
 Alison, overwhelmed with doubt. 
 
 ' 'Tis a savage morning, and I hate to send you, 
 child,' said Nancy, coaxingly. ' But Jean's so busy, 
 and I cannot — I cannot leave the child. You hear 
 how he calls for me every minute. Perhaps we 
 could get a messenger. . . .' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Alison quietly, ' I'll go, Nancy.' 
 
 It was not the weather that daunted her, but a 
 new sensation — a womanly instinct that made her 
 
 I
 
 I30 THE RHYMER 
 
 shrink from the idea of putting herself in Herries's 
 way. Supposing he should think her bold ? But 
 her strong common sense told her that most pro- 
 bably he would not think of her at all, one way or 
 the other ; and this, certainly, was no time to let 
 herself be hindered in helpfulness by silly, un- 
 necessary scruples. So she put on an old, rough 
 cloak of Jean's, wrapped a screen about her head, 
 and cheerfully faced the storm. 
 
 Half an hour later she stood in Herries's warm, 
 handsome room, her rosy cheeks bedewed with 
 rain, and the drops sparkling on her curls. She 
 told of Danny's suffering, and gave the message, 
 simply, quietly, in fewest words. 
 
 ' Why, in conscience, does my cousin send you 
 out on such a day ? ' exclaimed Herries, in extreme 
 irritation. ' Could she not put her servant on the 
 job ? It is preposterous ! ' 
 
 'Jean was very busy, sir. The whole house is 
 upset since four this morning,' Alison answered, 
 quietly, 'Your cousin could not leave her child 
 to come herself 
 
 ' My cousin " leaves her child " on other occa- 
 sions fast enough,' said Herries, with a sneer. 
 'This crisis in the boy's health,' he went on, 
 sternly, 'comes of her own neglect. 'Tis weeks 
 since I warned her that she should call in a 
 physician, and I gave her an introduction to Mr 
 Ross. However, since you are good enough to be 
 her messenger, tell her that I will bring or send 
 the man in the course of the day. It is no sine- 
 cure, I think you must perceive, Miss Graham, to 
 be the self-appointed guardian of another man's 
 children.' 
 
 He spoke with great bitterness, and Alison
 
 THE RHYMER 131 
 
 could not but feel that he was justified. Her 
 message was delivered, and she could but go. 
 So deep was Herries's annoyed preoccupation, 
 that he barely bowed as he held the door open 
 for her exit. 
 
 He sat down moodily to his desk again when 
 she was gone. But presently, though some little 
 interval of time had elapsed, his sharp ears caught 
 the sound of her voice, downstairs it seemed. 
 What delayed her? he wondered, irritably; and 
 supposed he must descend and see. What he 
 did see, as he came downstairs into the hall, was 
 the spectacle of his partner, Creighton, bare- 
 headed in the rain, helping Miss Graham into a 
 coach, while a clerk, who had apparently just 
 fetched it, held open the door. Herries felt him- 
 self redden to the very forehead with a boyish 
 shame. The coach rolled off, and Creighton came 
 in, shaking the rain from his coat. 
 
 'My good sir,' said Herries, meeting him, 'our 
 noble profession of the law is making a Diogenes 
 of me, and I seem to have forgotten the manners 
 of a gentleman. But you make up for my 
 deficiencies.' 
 
 ' Nay, nay,' said Creighton, in confusion, ' I but 
 saw the child trying to open the door against the 
 blatter, and I could not let her walk forth into 
 the rain. That was all. I hear she brings ill 
 news.' 
 
 ' 111 enough,' said Herries. ' But what special 
 sort of churl was I to confound her with her news ? 
 A good girl, doing far more than her duty by me 
 and mine.' 
 
 ' Ay, a fine lass, a very fine lass,' said Creighton, 
 looking earnestly at the younger man.
 
 132 THE RHYMER 
 
 'And yet, like the rest of them,' said Hemes, 
 musingly. ' She comes to a man's house as to 
 a shop, for something useful — all 'tis good for.' 
 
 ' Nay, now,' said Creighton, smiling, ' we know 
 who it is teaches her that trick here. 'Tis not 
 of her own doing, or on her own trokes. Be 
 just, sir.' 
 
 And so it was that Alison's elderly conquest 
 in George Street took up the cudgels on her 
 behalf and never dropped them again as long 
 as he had strength to hold them.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 The eminent surgeon came to the Potterrow im- 
 mediately, and said his oracular say after the 
 manner of his kind. Sea air he prescribed, and, 
 even more stringently, sea water — douchings and 
 rubbings for that piteous little limb, fast shrinking 
 in a fell disease. Country milk he further insisted 
 on, and a nourishing diet. Better put the child, 
 he said, to some farm or seaside cottage, where 
 he could get the full benefit of a country life. 
 There were plenty decent folk along the coast, 
 he opined, accustomed to the boarding of delicate 
 children from the town. But that would only be 
 when the child was fit to move — not yet. In the 
 meantime, he lanced the sore, which operation 
 afforded everyone in the little establishment in 
 Potterrow a harrowing morning. The mother — 
 ' distracted,' as she said — paced up and down the 
 parlour, fingers in her ears ; while, in the little 
 closet-bedroom, Alison held Danny's hands, and 
 honest Jean steadied the quivering little thigh 
 beneath the lancet. The operation gave great 
 relief, and in a few days Danny was convalescent 
 — an interesting invalid, indeed, with larger and 
 more cavernous dark eyes than ever, and laid, in 
 high dignity, upon a couch, drawn near the parlour 
 fire. 
 
 Herries came nearly every day to see him. He 
 got into a comfortable habit of coming towards 
 
 ^33
 
 134 THE RHYMER 
 
 evening, just when Nancy's pretty tea-table was 
 spread in the parlour, and candle-light and fire- 
 light danced upon the panel, and the cosy, red 
 curtains were drawn against the dreary night. It 
 was really very pleasant, and Herries came, in 
 these days, to dislike the empty solitude of his 
 own house at this hour, when Creighton would be 
 gone, and the clerks dispersed to their homes He 
 did not pause to ask himself why his cousin's 
 room now seemed so vastly agreeable of an even- 
 ing. He was not an analytical personage, and he 
 still believed that it was to see Danny and watch 
 his progress that he came. Was he not busy 
 making arrangements for the little boy's removal 
 to the seaside, which the doctor wished to hasten, 
 in spite of the coldness of the season ? He spoke 
 constantly of an old nurse of his own, who was 
 married and settled at the village of Prestonpans 
 — a decent woman, accustomed to the charge of 
 children. He was in treaty with her for little 
 Danny's board, and presently the matter seemed 
 settled. 
 
 ' 'Tis one of your own delightful, good, sensible, 
 charming plans, Archie,' Nancy said, comfortably. 
 ' No one else could have devised anything half so 
 suitable. Sure, dear cousin, you are as wise as 
 Solomon ! ' 
 
 Herries did not reply, but he looked at his 
 relative, between half- closed eyelids, with the 
 satirical glance he always kept for her — not that 
 it could half express the nameless exasperation 
 which this little, cooing, wooing, winsome woman 
 roused in his suspicious nature. Perhaps, just now, 
 he was a little tired of being called so sensible. 
 Aristides, though history does not say so, may
 
 THE RHYMER 135 
 
 have been as wearied as his neighbours of hearing 
 himself called the just. 
 
 In the meantime, Alison was very happy — who 
 so happy in all Edinburgh? She had Danny to 
 take care of, and she was one of those born care- 
 takers of the sick and weak. She carried him in 
 and out of the parlour in her strong arms ; twice 
 daily, with unhesitating nerve and tender fingers, 
 she would dress his sore ; all day long she would 
 play with him, sing to him, talk to him, playful 
 yet reasonable, at once tender and firm. She did 
 not know how a certain pair of lynx eyes watched 
 her with the child. The owner of the lynx eyes 
 did not himself know how narrow was their 
 scrutiny. He was quite unconscious of the fact 
 that all he saw, worth mentioning, in that little 
 room was the figure of a tall girl with grey eyes, 
 who played with a little boy. It was Nancy who 
 remarked at this time that she had never before 
 known her Cousin Archie to be musical. He cer- 
 tainly did evince a singular interest at present in 
 the musical progress of Miss Graham, asking 
 questions about the thoroughness of Professor 
 Schetki's style, the duration of his lessons, and 
 such-like technicalities. It may be that the appear- 
 ance of a certain bill in his budget at home had 
 something to do with this sudden interest in the 
 arts. Certainly, at this time, ♦ and nearly every 
 night, the young lawyer had a habit of pulling a 
 certain account— nay, two — out of a bundle in his 
 desk. He would turn them over and over, look 
 at them, fold them up, and then unfold them 
 again. Sometimes his eyebrows would merely 
 arch themselves, very high indeed ; sometimes he 
 would emit a soft, short whistle ; once he smiled.
 
 136 THE RHYMER 
 
 That was when he put the bills away for the last 
 time, and it is his biographer's duty to state they 
 were discharged. 
 
 All this time, while the mere prosaic matters 
 of every-day life went on as above, a certain 
 high-souled correspondence, which took no note of 
 common things, continued to unite the Potterrow 
 with St James's Square. Alison still took letters, 
 weary of the job, but loyal to her friend. Some- 
 times she was rewarded by hearing priceless ex- 
 tracts from the effusions which came in return. ' / 
 am delighted^ my lovely friend^ with your enthusiasm 
 for religionl wrote the poet. ''Tis also my favotirite 
 topic' Alison thought this sounded very nice — 
 pious, even. Perhaps there was no harm after all, 
 and Herries was, yes, he was too strict in his 
 censures of a genius whom he did not, and would 
 not, understand. Yet she sighed, and sometimes 
 wished there was no poet in St James's Square. 
 
 Once, near dusk, she and Nancy were walking 
 in the New Town, and the latter took a perverse 
 fancy to stroll into the square herself. 
 
 ' But I left your note this morning, Nancy ! ' 
 protested poor Alison. 
 
 "■ I know, I know, child,' said Nancy, whose 
 face had an eager look. ' But I've been virtue, 
 prudence itself. Ally, and never set foot in the 
 sacred precincts myself Now 'tis dusk nearly, and 
 no one about. You know my romantic nature. I 
 would see with my own eyes the shrine of genius. 
 Come, love, be generous to your friend ! ' And 
 they dawdled some minutes in the wretched, 
 grimy square, — Nancy, holding her muff to her 
 face, but peering up at the windows of the houses. 
 Alison did not know that a foolish pen had
 
 THE RHYMER 137 
 
 written that morning : ' / am promised to be in 
 your square this afternoon, and if your window be 
 to the street, shall have the pleasure of giving you 
 a nod! Nor did she hear the poet's Hvely re- 
 joinder of the next day : ' You don't k?iow the 
 proper storey for a poefs lodging, Clarinda ! Why 
 didn't you look higher ? ' 
 
 And then, coming out of the square, in the 
 very neck of it, whom should they run against but 
 Herries himself. 
 
 ' This is an odd hour and place for you ladies 
 to be walking alone,' said he. And Alison saw 
 how his eyes narrowed with suspicion, and his 
 lips set themselves in their most obstinate folds. 
 But Nancy was inimitable in self-possession and 
 unconcern ; said something about a visit to a 
 clockmaker in the square, and then talked of the 
 weather. Alison, poor Alison, had felt the shock 
 so, that her very heart jumped. Then followed 
 the sickly sensation, so horribly novel to her young 
 strength, of a feeling of faintness. She knew that 
 her very lips grew white, as she stood there 
 listening to Nancy's prattle. How foolish it was 
 . . . but, oh, would Nancy never go ! At last she 
 nodded a lively good-night to her relative, and 
 they separated. 
 
 ' La, child ! ' Nancy exclaimed, as they scurried 
 home, ' that was a queer mischance ! And did 
 you see how mighty odd my gentleman looked 
 at us? He knows, all the world knows. Burns 
 lodges in the square. But I think I put him 
 off the scent ; he knows my big wag-at-the-wall 
 clock comes from Jamieson's, and that's in the 
 square too. . . . But, Ally, what made you turn 
 so white ? Are you not well, love ? Sure I'm sorry
 
 138 THE RHYMER 
 
 you had a qualm ; 'tis horrid, vapourish weather 
 just now, but could anything on earth have been 
 more opportune ? For now, if Archie takes it 
 into his head that either of us has a sentimental 
 interest in the square, it must be you ! ' She 
 laughed her little soft, thrilling laugh, and tripped 
 gaily along beside her silent companion. ' But I 
 don't think,' she added presently, * that he saw 
 anything. It was too dark.' 
 
 That night Alison had a nightmare. She 
 dreamt that she walked somewhere, but there was 
 a chain about her feet ; and ever, as she tried to 
 hurry on, the chain tightened, bruising her ankles, 
 cutting even into the flesh. On some height be- 
 yond her stood a iigure. Its face was hidden, but 
 she knew that it was Herries. Then Alison 
 awoke, and found that she was crying.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Herries was not greatly disturbed at the meeting 
 in St James's Square, after the first flash of annoy- 
 ance. It was one of those incidents, Httle thought 
 of at the time, which may, at a later date, loom 
 large ; a link in that chain of circumstantial evi- 
 dence which sends many a culprit to his doom. He 
 merely hoped, irritably enough, that his cousin was 
 not playing tricks, making a fool of herself about 
 the poet (he knew the poet's lodging perfectly), and 
 he made a definite resolve to interfere, if this should 
 be the case. Not only, he reflected, must Nancy 
 walk warily on her own account, but she had, under 
 her charge, a young and inexperienced girl, who 
 must on no account be exposed to dangerous poetic 
 wiles. Miss Graham, it struck him, had looked 
 pale; doubtless, she had confined herself too closely 
 nursing Danny. He must design some little dis- 
 sipation for her. As a matter of fact, he had two 
 in view. 
 
 ' Are you still of a mind to give the ladies their 
 tea-drinking, sir?' he inquired, genially, of his 
 partner, walking into that gentleman's room one 
 evening. 
 
 ' To be sure, to be sure,' said Mr Creighton, con- 
 cealing his amazement with creditable dexterit}-. 
 ' Only, my poor rooms. . . .' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear sir,' said Herries, affably, ' con- 
 sider this house at your disposal, and Lizzie at 
 
 139
 
 I40 THE RHYMER 
 
 your service. She will do everything. And, now 
 I come to think of it, my room above stairs is the 
 more cheerful, more suited to ladies than this. 
 What do you think ? ' 
 
 ' I entirely agree,' answered Mr Creighton, with 
 the solemnity of a judge, ' My portion of the 
 entertainment will doubtless consist in amusing the 
 ladies when they arrive,' he added, with a kind of 
 stiff jocularity. But Herries declined to see the 
 joke. 
 
 ' Shall I convey your invitation to my cousin 
 and Miss Graham, and perhaps I may beg you to 
 extend it to the boy, Willy?' he inquired, in a 
 business-like tone. 
 
 ' Assuredly,' answered his partner. ' And if you 
 can manage gracefully to convey to Miss Graham 
 the idea that this little civility on my part is a com- 
 pliment to our ancient connection with her family, 
 I shall feel that the genteel thing has been done.' 
 It must be admitted that Mr Creighton, in spite of 
 his age and profession, could enter, with wonderful 
 spirit, into a little game. When his partner had gone, 
 he rubbed his hands together with a delighted air. 
 
 ' It is working ! ' he said to himself * Who would 
 have thought it, so soon ? But he needs tender 
 handling, the lad. I must take care.' 
 
 Herries had no difficulty in arranging a day with 
 the ladies of the Potterrow, when they should 
 enjoy the hospitalities of Mr Creighton. It was to 
 be on a Thursday, and the matter was fixed. 
 However, when the morning came, Nancy, with 
 great finality, announced her intention of keeping 
 the house all day. 
 
 ' But, but,' cried Alison, in dismay, ' -we promised, 
 Nancy ! '
 
 THE RHYMER 141 
 
 'So we did, dear,' said Nancy, with provoking 
 coolness, ' and we'll keep our promise, that is, you 
 shall, you and Willy. But as for me, to take tea 
 with those two, with that old mummy of a writer, 
 that hates me like poison, and good, dull Archie, 
 that we've had such a dose of, of late, — my dear, 
 'twould choke me, and that's a fact ! Now, don't 
 look so shocked. Besides,' she added, lowering 
 her voice, ' to be strictly honest, and you know I 
 am so with you, my love, and tell you everything — 
 I've other fish to fry. Ally, my poet is free to-day, 
 for the first time ! For the very first time, he goes 
 out. All sorts of tiresome engagements bind him 
 this day, he says, that he dare not neglect. But 
 there's a chance. Ally, a little, little chance, like the 
 faintest star in the firmament, that he may visit his 
 friend. Think of it, and you'll see that not for a 
 kingdom would I risk his not finding me here. 
 Far more likely 'twill be to-morrow or Saturday 
 . . . but ... oh. Ally, it might be to-day !' 
 
 ' But for me,' — said Alison, troubled at heart, 
 ' can I possibly go to the house of these gentlemen 
 alone ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, lud, child, with Willy, yes, of course ! ' ex- 
 claimed Nancy, impatiently. ' Why, now,' she went 
 on, with a titter, ' were it a question of taking tea 
 with old Creighton alone, your duenna might hesi- 
 tate, but with Archie there, why, every element 
 of propriety is present. Don't you know him yet, 
 child ? As safe as a church, haven't I told you a 
 thousand times, and about as lively. There, run 
 away now, and get your things out. I'm sure I wish 
 you had a gayer spark than Archie to dress up for.' 
 
 ' I think Mr Herries is very kind to — to us,' said 
 Alison, with her head in the air.
 
 142 THE RHYMER 
 
 'Kind?' said Nancy, 'kind as a grandfather, 
 dear. Who ever doubted it ? ' 
 
 When the hour arrived, Alison in her fine peh'sse 
 and hood, and Willy, wriggling in the agonies of 
 his ' Sunday suit,' were prepared to start. There 
 was a look of beaming pleasure on Alison's face, 
 but it clouded over when she saw that Nancy drew 
 from her desk the inevitable letter, shut and sealed 
 for delivery. 
 
 'Ah, love,' Nancy cried, in her softest voice, 
 ' you'll leave this for me on the way home, won't 
 you ? 'Tis on your road coming by the bridge, 
 and won't take a minute.' 
 
 ' Must I — umst I take it ? ' said poor Alison, 
 looking very blank. ' I — I thought you expected 
 Mr Burns to-day. . . .' 
 
 'The merest chance, child,' cried Nancy, im- 
 patiently. ' And this note is most particular, Ally, 
 for it tells him all my movements for the next few 
 days, so that there may be no chance of our missing. 
 'Tis not like my Ally to refuse me a little favour 
 like this,' she added, reproachfully. 
 
 ' I'll take it, Nancy,' said Alison, sadly. Refuse 
 Nancy a favour? How could she? But the 
 letter in her pocket seemed to burn her. To 
 leave it meant a moment of degradation always. 
 But to leave it — going straight from Herries's 
 house — hiding it from him all the time — hurt 
 her honour, hurt her very heart. 
 
 In the meantime, in Herries's fine room, the 
 feast was spread, and Mr Creighton hovered 
 round it, fascinated. He had made a reckless 
 expenditure in sweet cakes ; there were enough 
 to feed a multitude. Herries had had enough 
 to do coercing the savage Lizzie into unearthing
 
 THE RHYMER 143 
 
 the best china, and the beautiful silver tea-service 
 — a family heirloom. Now, he regarded the 
 preparations with a contented eye. The room 
 was one of those exceedingly handsome ones for 
 which the larger Edinburgh mansions are justly 
 famous. Three long windows looked out into 
 George Street : round the cornice ran a delicate 
 frieze, one of the masterpieces of Adams ; and the 
 high mantel was decorated with medallions — 
 white upon green — from the same hand. In the 
 slim classicality, the severe grace of these 
 moulded figures, an observant eye might have 
 traced a resemblance to the young host, 
 especially trim this afternoon in fresh powder 
 and a new coat. He was reflecting that this was, 
 properly speaking, the drawing-room of his house. 
 If he ever married, he must shift his business 
 quarters elsewhere, and this house must become 
 his private residence. The entrance of Mr 
 Creighton's guests broke in upon his reverie. 
 
 It was a very pleasant tea-party, indeed, in 
 spite of the absence of Mrs Maclehose, which 
 was regretted with due politeness. Mr Creighton 
 devoted himself grimly to the entertainment of 
 Willy, who, perched precariously upon the edge 
 of a high chair, regarded his overtures much as 
 he might those of a well-intentioned ogre. Mr 
 Creighton ' pressed ' the cakes — boys, he reflected, 
 could eat a limitless quantity. Willy was too 
 frightened to refuse ; he ate, until the powers of 
 mastication were all but paralysed, and then 
 rolled helpless eyes of repletion towards Alison, 
 silently imploring succour. 
 
 But Alison, it is to be feared, was not paying 
 that attention to her young charge, which was
 
 144 THE RHYMER 
 
 customary with her. She had been requested 
 to make the tea — an absorbing process always ; 
 and then, Herries was helping her, kind, 'as 
 a grandfather,' of course. How pretty was the 
 china and the silver ! The goodly spread made 
 her think of gala days at The Mains, with a touch, 
 an ache, of home. The conversation was all 
 that a grandfather, at his best, could have attained. 
 
 ' You must tell my cousin,' Herries was saying, 
 'that I have arranged to take Danny down to 
 Prestonpans on Saturday. 'Tis sudden, but Ross 
 presses the change, while this clearer spell of 
 weather lasts. I'll have a comfortable coach at 
 the Grassmarket — the boy will travel in warmth 
 and comfort. Nancy will come with him, doubt- 
 less. And you — I trust you will honour us. Miss 
 Graham ? 'Tis a fine drive, and there's much of 
 interest to be seen at Prestonpans.' Alison said 
 it would be delightful. Then she rose to go, for 
 it grew late. 
 
 ' 'Tis a fine clear evening to take the air,' said 
 Herries, ' and if Miss Graham walks, may I have 
 the honour to escort her to the Potterrow ? ' His 
 glance was searching hers. His escort . . . through 
 the grim streets, under these rosy skies of the 
 winter twilight? Her eyes shone acquiescence. 
 And then — and then she remembered Nancy's 
 letter, and the willing answer died on her lips.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Herries was waiting for her to speak ; his quick 
 eye caught, first, the eager, answering look, then 
 the cloud, the hesitation, the confusion. 
 
 * I could not trouble you to come with me, sir,' 
 said Alison, in a low voice, her eyes on the ground, 
 * Willy and I know the way well' There was 
 the unmistakable note of refusal in her speech. 
 
 Herries raised his eyebrows ; his irritable pride 
 was at once in arms. ' Very well,' he said coldly ; 
 ' then I will have a coach called. At this New 
 Year season you cannot be permitted to walk in 
 the streets at this hour, with no protection but 
 Willy.' 
 
 ' I wish to walk, sir,' said Alison, miserably. 
 She was, indeed, a poor actress ; inventions and 
 excuses came never a one to her aid. Mr Creigh- 
 ton advanced unexpectedly to her rescue. 
 
 ' These coaches,' he said, ' are a terrible expense, 
 the drivers extortionate, indeed, especially going 
 up the town. There is the lass, Mysie, sir,' — to 
 Herries, — ' could she not be spared to accompany 
 Miss Graham?' 
 
 ' She is big enough to do the dragon, certainly,' 
 said Herries, with a short laugh. ' Mysie be it, 
 then ; I'll have her told.' He left the room, with 
 an air of offence, to give the order. 
 
 ' 'Tis a pity you could not let Mr Herries go 
 with you,' Mr Creighton said softly to Alison. 
 
 K
 
 146 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' The walk would have done him good ; he sits too 
 confined to his work.' 
 
 Alison raised her grey eyes to the old man's 
 face; they were dimmed with her vexation, her 
 shame. But she had no time to speak, for Herries 
 returned to say, curtly, that Mysie waited below 
 for her charges, and presently both gentlemen saw 
 their guests to the door. 
 
 When Herries returned to his room, followed by 
 his partner, he kicked at the fine fire in his grate, 
 a way he had when annoyed. 
 
 ' Madam was up to some little trick, there,' he 
 said sharply. 
 
 * Tut ! tut ! ' said Creighton. ' Why jump to ill 
 conclusions, sir? We men of the law are too apt 
 to be suspicious. It does not do with women; 
 they have ways with them that seem little and 
 secret to us, but are quite innocent.' 
 
 ' I like no such ways,' said Herries, dourly. 
 * What has she to hide ? Why could she not let 
 me go with her ? ' 
 
 ' For the very reason, lad,' cried his partner, in 
 desperation, ' that there comes a times when a lass 
 will not do, for proper pride, the very thing that 
 her heart longs for most. 'Tis near on thirty 
 years since I had to do with a woman in kindness, 
 but I remember that. Man, did you not see the 
 colour on her cheek and the glint in her eye, when 
 you first spoke ? ' 
 
 ' A man that is not fool and puppy does not 
 see such things,' said Herries, virtuously. 
 
 But he was mollified. 
 
 Alison, meanwhile, was by no means enjoying 
 her walk home. Her heart was hot and sore 
 within her. It was hard to have missed that
 
 THE RHYMER 147 
 
 pleasant escort, to have been obliged to offend so 
 kind a friend. Would he forgive her? These 
 melancholy thoughts were interrupted by Willy, 
 who, generally an active child, was lagging in a 
 tiresome way. 
 
 * Ally,' he said at last, with the dire directness of 
 childliood, ' I am feeling that sick. . . .' 
 
 * You have had too much cake,' said Alison, 
 sternly. 
 
 "Twasn't my fault, then,' cried Willy, resent- 
 fully, ' 'twas that old man that made me.' And 
 ruefully he put a hand just where the ' Sunday 
 suit ' fastened with most unpleasant tightness over 
 Mr Creighton's too liberal hospitality. But no 
 terrible results ensued, and Alison had soon for- 
 gotten Willy's woes in wonder at the strangeness 
 of the escort which Herries had substituted for his 
 own. 
 
 Mysie was certainly an odd figure. What a 
 queer young woman for a servant, Alison thought, 
 and with what very strange manners ! Mysie, in 
 a draggled cotton gown, and screen by no means 
 modestly covering her charms, was no sooner out 
 of sight of her master's windows, than she began 
 to stalk along as though the town belonged to 
 her, swinging her arms, occasionally casting a sly, 
 sideward glance at her companions, but more often 
 leering at a passer-by. It was the New Year time, 
 and the streets were full of half-drunken loafers of 
 both sexes. Mysie soon attracted all the attention 
 that she wanted ; shouts of laughter began to follow 
 her, and soon a sorry jest or two. Her bold 
 manner grew bolder, her step more free ; yet, in 
 the abandonment of her air, there would have been 
 apparent, to an experienced eye rather recklessness
 
 148 THE RHYMER 
 
 and despair than any genuine flaunting. There 
 was, too, a peculiarity in her gait which Alison 
 was too young to note, or to understand, had she 
 noted it. Only the odd behaviour of the woman 
 struck her. It was very disagreeable. She 
 tightened her clasp of Willy's hand, and quickened 
 her pace. 
 
 But at the end of Princes Street she had to stop. 
 There was that odious letter to be delivered, and 
 delivered secretly, as Alison well understood. 
 ' Mysie,' she said, with what courage she could 
 summon, ' I wish to turn up here on a message. 
 Wait here, if you please, with the young gentle- 
 man, until I return.' 
 
 ' Na, I'll no wait,' retorted Mysie, with a cunning 
 look. ' I'm for comin' wi' ye.' 
 
 Alison knew not what to do ; resistance, she felt, 
 would only make a scene. 
 
 ' I am only going to leave a letter in the square,' 
 she said quietly; 'you can come if you choose.' 
 
 ' Whatna square?' enquired Mysie. 
 
 Alison did not answer, but hurried on. When 
 St James's Square opened up before them, she 
 felt a hand upon her arm. 
 
 ' What's the like o' you doin' here ? ' Mysie asked, 
 in a fierce whisper. But when they came to the 
 accustomed door, and Alison stopped, the woman 
 released her hold, and burst into a peal of laughter. 
 ' Here,' she cried, ' Here ! Eh, lass, but this dings 
 a' ! You anither o' them, and you in silks and 
 satins ! Eh, but he's a braw lad ! ' She held her 
 sides with laughter, arms akimbo, and stared at 
 Alison with her strange, wild eyes. Alison was 
 now certain she was demented. 
 
 ' Come away, come away,' she said soothingly ;
 
 THE RHYMER 149 
 
 she had hurriedly slipped the letter in between 
 the door and its lintel. But Mysie would not be 
 cajoled. 
 
 'Anither o' his jo's ! ' she ejaculated, and then 
 she bent to Alison's ear, ' Whar is't ye meet 
 him, lass? And what is't ye pit intil the letter ? 
 I canna write him ma'sel', or I would — I would — 
 — my certes, yes ! ' Alison tried to shake her off. 
 
 ' I don't know what you are talking of,' she said, 
 'and neither do you. The letter is neither your 
 business nor mine.' 
 
 ' Ah, ye needna be tellin' me that ! ' said Mysie. 
 ' But I'se no trament ye, lass,' she added, with a 
 sudden change of tone. ' We maun be movin', 
 too.' The unhappy creature sighed ; her mood 
 of excitement seemed over, and she walked 
 along quietly and dejectedly, her step dragging 
 on the stones. Suddenly she paused, seizing 
 Alison's arm. * Lass,' she whispered, ' ye — ye ken 
 him ? Think ye he'll be guid to Mysie in her 
 trouble?' 
 
 ' Who ? What trouble ? ' asked Alison, startled, 
 and suddenly moved to a kind of shrinking pity 
 for the woman. But Mysie did not explain, only 
 gave her a strange look and heaved a convulsive 
 sigh. To Alison, the disagreeable idea presented 
 itself that her companion might babble among 
 Herries's servants of the leaving of the letter. 
 Well, where you desired silence you gave a fee. 
 Nancy had taught her that. She felt in her pocket 
 for her purse ; there was only a crown in it, which 
 seemed a great deal, but it must be given. 
 
 ' This is for your trouble, Mysie,' she said, when 
 they had reached the General's Entry, but the 
 words suggesting discretion which she had meant
 
 150 THE RHYMER 
 
 to utter, literally stuck in her throat. They were 
 unnecessary. 
 
 ' I'se no tell on ye, lass,' said Mysie, with a 
 cunning look, as her dirty fingers closed upon the 
 coin. Alison shuddered, but dismissed her quietly. 
 
 The incident had disturbed her a good deal, and 
 when she entered the parlour, she had a rather 
 pale face and frightened eyes. 
 
 ' Bless the child,' cried Nancy, who, with a litter 
 of paper round her, was scribbling verses by 
 the cosy hearth. ' What ails you ? Has old 
 Creighton's tea given you the indigestion ? Be 
 sure, love, if there was poison in the cup, 'twas 
 meant for me ! But, Ally, you look scared : what 
 is it, love ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tvvas — 'twas nothing much,' said Alison, strug- 
 gling to rid herself of the disagreeable impressions 
 of her walk. ' Only, Mr Herries has such a strange 
 servant-lass that he sent across the town with us ; 
 she behaved so — so odd.' Nancy laughed. 
 
 ' Was that all ? ' she said flippantly. ' Gentle- 
 men have often " strange servant lasses," dear, and 
 I dare say Archie, for all his prim ways, is no 
 better than his neighbours.' 
 
 Alison's cheeks suddenly flamed scarlet, and her 
 eyes blazed, as she caught the innuendo. 
 
 * That — that was a wicked thought, Nancy,' she 
 said, 
 
 'La — Innocence, don't look so scandalised,' 
 laughed Nancy. ' What a spit-fire it is ! But take 
 my word for it, Ally, men are men, love, and not 
 old maids ! ' which was an undeniable truth ; and 
 not a surprising one, perhaps, on the lips of the 
 confidential friend of Mr Burns, the poet.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 The Bard had not visited the Potterrow on that 
 evening, as Alison was not slow to discover. But 
 Nancy was in a niood so gay, so full of sparkle, 
 that her friend presumed that the famous visit 
 was a pleasure only for a very little time deferred. 
 
 ' Nancy,' Alison said, venturing on a subject 
 which she felt was too mundane to find favour at 
 the moment, 'Mr Herries says that he takes Danny 
 down to the seaside on Saturday.' 
 
 ' Does he, love ? ' said Nancy, coolly. ' Well, 'tis 
 vastly good of him, Pm sure. But if he expects 
 dutiful maternal attendance from me on that day, 
 he can't get it ; for Pm most particularly engaged 
 at home.' 
 
 ' He — he begged of us both to come,' said Alison, 
 in rather a low voice. 
 
 ' Well, dear, 'twill be a nice jaunt for you,' said 
 Nancy, cheerfully. ' And with you there to take 
 care of Danny, the less need for me. 'Twas 
 exactly so I planned it, in my own mind. Child, 
 Ally, of what use you are to me ! What did I do 
 before I had you ? ' She came over to Alison's 
 side of the hearth, patted the girl's cheek and 
 playfully pulled a curl. But Alison's heart was 
 troubled. 
 
 ' Nancy,' she said, timidly, ' don't j'ou think 'twill 
 seem a little — a little odd to Mr Plerries that you 
 do not go with poor Danny ? ' 
 
 151
 
 152 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' It may seem as odd as it pleases, love,' answered 
 Nancy ; ' I am not going.' 
 
 Alison looked at her friend in sore perplexity. 
 There was — there had been for some time — a 
 change working in the little woman, a hardening 
 process, it seemed. It was a hiding process, too, 
 for it seemed to raise a barrier between her and 
 Alison, between her and the children, between 
 her and the common, wholesome, pleasant things 
 of every-day life. She let the girl, the children, 
 the household, — the rest of the world, for that 
 matter, — go their own ways ; while she, absorbed, 
 intent, wrapt in some dream, seemed to breathe 
 a separate air. A kind of hard eagerness was 
 taking the place of her old bright gaiety; a 
 certain determined selfishness seemed to conquer 
 the keen, if perhaps rather shallow, sympathy, that 
 made her personality so winning in its normal 
 phases. Wistfully, across the boundless levels of 
 her girlish inexperience, Alison looked at her little 
 friend. What ailed her? How could she help? 
 One tremendous, one unswerving resolution formed 
 itself gradually in the girl's mind at this time ; 
 she was there to help Nancy, to stand beside her 
 through thick and thin. Nancy had helped her, 
 had saved her from an abyss of life-long misery. 
 She would be Nancy's friend to the last limits of 
 undeviating loyalty. 
 
 But in the meantime, Alison being young, looked 
 forward to Saturday ; with rather a fearful joy, 
 perhaps, for how was one to meet an offended — so 
 justly offended — a friend as Mr Herries, after the 
 offence? She half- feared some message would 
 arrive, coldly declining the pleasure of her society 
 on Saturday's expedition. Was it not quite pos-
 
 THE RHYMER 153 
 
 sible — probable, even? But Saturday arrived, 
 bringing no such cruel message, however richly 
 deserved ; and Alison, from her little northern 
 window, saw the Rose of Day blush and quiver 
 through the cloudless winter sky, and knew that 
 another glorious frost-bound day was granted for 
 Danny's safe removal to the sea. 
 
 They made quite a triumphal procession going 
 down to the Grassmarket. First went Jean, bear- 
 ing in her stout arms the little invalid, almost lost 
 in shawls ; then came Alison, with his bundle and 
 his box of toys; Willy capered in the rear; and 
 Nancy, Nancy herself, armed with her own inimit- 
 able, charming, dazzling impudence, tripped down 
 with them to see them off. She met her cousin 
 with an unabashed front. 
 
 ' I am not coming, Archie,' she said, in a plaintive 
 tone, and with a melting glance. ' My mother's 
 tact tells me 'tis better to have the parting with 
 my poor Danny now, and here, whilst the child 
 is excited with the start and the pleasure of his 
 drive. Were I to come, and then leave him in a 
 strange place, there'd be a sad scene, most detri- 
 mental to his health, and shattering to my poor 
 nerves.' Herries simply raised his eyebrows ; but 
 he presently drew his cousin aside, while the others 
 were busy setting Danny and his belongings in 
 the coach. 
 
 ' I am rather doubtful,' he said, with an unusual 
 air of indecision, ' doubtful of the propriety of my 
 — ahem — taking Miss Graham upon this excursion 
 alone.' 
 
 ' Doubtful of a fiddlestick, Archie,' retorted his 
 cousin with vivacity. ' La, cousin, who could the 
 poor child go witli if not with you ? Ain't you
 
 154 THE RHYMER 
 
 safe as a convent ? and then with the two little 
 fellows and all — You're joking, surely ? You'd 
 never disappoint the girl of her jaunt for such a 
 silly reason ? ' 
 
 Herries said no more, but he looked rather spite- 
 fully at his cousin. Perhaps he was not flattered 
 at being told he was ' as safe as a convent,' 
 
 In the meantime, the coach was ready for its 
 start. Herries had selected a fine roomy vehicle, 
 with a glass front, and had ordered three horses. 
 Danny was in a seventh heaven of delight, and so 
 forgot the pain of parting. There was a cracking 
 of whips, a tremendous clatter of hoofs on the 
 cobbles, a cheer from the little crowd that had 
 collected to see the start. Nancy, from the cause- 
 way, fluttered a dainty pocket-handkerchief, and 
 Jean waved her work-worn hand. Hers were the 
 only tears that watered this farewell ; one or two 
 fell on her coarse apron as she trudged home be- 
 hind her mistress. 
 
 ' Yon poor bairn will never come back,' she said 
 to herself, and drew the back of her hand across 
 her eyes. 
 
 The village of Prestonpans lies, as all men know, 
 about ten miles east of Edinburgh, on the shores of 
 the Firth of Forth, as it widens to the sea. It is a fine 
 drive down there, by the Portobello and the Mussel- 
 burgh roads, for you perceive that there widens 
 out before you one of the great waterways of the 
 world — the ocean-path to this cold northern country 
 of our love. Perhaps only the trading vessels and 
 the fishing boats go there now, but it was the 
 galleons of old that cleaved that mighty swirl, half 
 river and half sea, and the sailing ships that brought 
 Queen Mary to her fateful kingdom, curtseyed to
 
 THE RHYMER 155 
 
 that tawny tide. The instructive Herries was not 
 slow to point out these matters to his young com- 
 panions. There was no cloud upon his august 
 brow, and so Alison became very happy. They 
 were busy with the little boys all the way down, 
 curbing the frantic excitement of Willy, who had 
 been promised an hour on the sands, and encour- 
 ageing Danny, whose spirit flagged, and who asked 
 plaintive and difficult questions about his mother's 
 absence. It was high noon when they rattled into 
 Prestonpans, and Alison stepped out into the 
 village street, where the queer, little, secretive- 
 looking white houses shouldered each other on to 
 the road, and the growl of the sea could be heard 
 at their backs. 
 
 The woman who was to have the charge of 
 Danny lived in a little house to which you climbed 
 'by a wooden outside stair. She was a most cheer- 
 ful person, whom Herries addressed as ' Isabella,' 
 and who, in her turn, patted him on the shoulders, 
 and called him ' Master Archie.' She bustled 
 them all into the warm, clean, homely cottage, 
 and showed off with pride her preparations for 
 Danny's sojourn — his little bed covered with a 
 patch-work quilt, his chair with a cushion on it, 
 the very kitten to play with ' when he wearied.' 
 She lugged out of some recess a curious old 
 battered tin vessel, bearing some faint resem- 
 blance to the modern hip bath. 
 
 ' Ye see,' she said, ' I'm well acquaint wi' they 
 delicut bairns. It's a while sin' syne, but I had 
 ane wi' me — the brawcst bairn ever ye saw — but 
 he had the one leg shorter than the t'ither, and 
 ay the somethin' wrong wi' the one foot ; an' it was 
 the sea watter for him too. Here's his bit bath —
 
 156 THE RHYMER 
 
 I hae ay keepit it. One Walter Scott they ca'd 
 him,' she added, ' a writer's son ; a gran' strappin' 
 Gallant now, though he hirples yet ; but he's mindfu' 
 o' an auld body, and comes to see me whiles.' 
 And her listeners of that benighted generation 
 heard that wonder-working name, and knew it not 
 for a magician's ! 
 
 Then it was arranged that Alison and her escort 
 should take Willy to the sands while the day was 
 at its best, and when they came back Isabella 
 would give them a * sup o' broth and a tattie,' she 
 said, ' to warm them up before the long drive 
 home.'
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 It was one of those days when the land lies under 
 the spell of a long and sunny frost ; the ground 
 rang iron to the foot, but the sea smiled and 
 sparkled to the sun, and the Lomonds of Fife, 
 beyond the Firth, were clear against the winter 
 sky. Herries and his companions walked briskly 
 down the village and along the links. Away to 
 their right stretched the fields, where, not a gener- 
 ation since, the blood of a great battle had been 
 spilt, but where now the peaceful stubble grew 
 over the scattered implements of war and over 
 the bones of men, — and quiet cottages smoked to 
 tranquil skies. 
 
 'Shouldn't you like to be a soldier, Willy?' 
 Alison asked the little boy, who pranced beside 
 her, tugging at her arm. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Willy, ' Fd like to be a soldier. But 
 I shouldn't like to be shot,' he added, cautiousl)'. 
 
 ' 'Tis a fancy of all boys,' said Herries. ' They 
 don't all qualify it, like Willy here. It was more 
 than a fancy with me, God knows ! ' 
 
 ' With you, sir ? ' asked Alison, in surprise. 
 
 ' I dreamed of soldiering, said Herries, bitterly, 
 ' till I waked to find myself tied to a desk.' 
 
 ' Was — was it a great disappointment, sir?' asked 
 Alison, timidly. 
 
 * One of those disappointments that mark a man 
 for life, I think,' said Herries, tersely. ' Nearly 
 
 157
 
 158 THE RHYMER 
 
 all my family in the past bore arms, and the love 
 of it is in my blood. 'Tis the gentleman's profes- 
 sion, to my mind. But I was a sickly boy, and 
 held unfit to apply for His Majesty's commission, 
 so behold me, a poor scrivener, at your service ! ' 
 
 Alison stole a look at the speaker. Could it be 
 the fine, the successful, the apparently self-sufficient 
 Mr Herries who spoke thus feelingly of disappoint- 
 ment? To Alison, it seemed that such a man must 
 always have, — must always have had, — all that he 
 wanted. But, evidently, this was not so. 
 
 ' I'll not be so afraid of him now,' thought 
 Alison. 
 
 They had come to another little village, just of 
 fisherman's huts, that seem to cling to the very 
 rocks of the sea. Here there was a harbour, and 
 the delicate tracery of masts and rigging rose 
 against the sky. As they stood watching, a little 
 fleet of fishing boats — catching a faint breath of 
 the freezing wind — unfurled their tanned brown 
 sails, and put to sea. 
 
 * Ah, Willy, see the bonny boats ! ' cried Alison ; 
 and catching the boy by the hand, she ran with 
 him away down the little street, and out upon tlie 
 sandy links beyond. 
 
 Herries followed at his leisure, his hands behind 
 him, and his head bent. The few words that he 
 had spoken of himself to Alison had disturbed his 
 serenity ; such words, however commonplace, when 
 spoken of the inner self by a man so wrapt in 
 reserve as Herries, are apt to affect the speaker 
 thus, for their utterance is the breaking of the rule 
 and habit of a life. He stood, and looked absently 
 seawards. A schooner, under full sail, was beating 
 up the firth. How slow, how infinitely tedious,
 
 THE RHYMER 159 
 
 was her tacking course ! It seemed to Herries, 
 just then, to typify his own life, for ever 
 beating up against the wind of his tastes and 
 inclinations, in the uncongenial profession of his 
 adoption. Had anyone asked Herries the ruling 
 motive of his existence at this time, he would have 
 answered, drearily enough, and with no thought of 
 taking credit to himself, ' A sense of duty.' Sober, 
 in an age of drunkenness, and constitutionally fas- 
 tidious where the manners of the times permitted, 
 and even sanctioned, an extreme of licence — 
 Herries had something of the melancholy in him, 
 which dogs a man who is born before his time. 
 Neither boon companions had he, nor social 
 pleasures, nor tender friendships ; all these he 
 seemed to have outgrown. Life, at the very 
 springs of it, seemed to have gone dry. And yet 
 he was a man with all the appurtenances of success, 
 who commanded the respect of other men, and 
 held his head above the crowd. Duty — success — 
 respect. . . . How laudable it sounded ! And 
 yet there was something wanting, greater than all 
 these. 
 
 He strolled on along the links, while Alison 
 and Willy ran races on the sands. Evidently the 
 races v/ere warm work, for Alison liad dropped 
 her pelisse, and left it on the grassy ledge where 
 the links break into the shore. Herries sat down 
 beside it, in the sun. He slipped a half-frozen 
 hand beneath its folds ; it was still warm from her 
 wearing, and a curious emotion thrilled him at 
 the contact, as though his blood ran warmer. 
 Presently Alison came herself to where he sat, 
 glowing from her run — panting, rosy, happy. 
 Heavens ! what a breath of life — young life — the
 
 i6o THE RHYMER 
 
 creature brought along with her. Her curls were 
 blown about by the wind ; her eyes were bright — 
 they had the wide-open, innocent look of a child's 
 Herries looked at her, and a terrible ache ot 
 longing took hold of him — whether it was for 
 her, or just for what she stood for, of all that was 
 lacking in his own life — he could not tell. It is 
 very difficult to say when, to a nature of Herries's 
 reserve, his critical hesitancy and profound fastidi- 
 ousness — the divine moment comes, and the proud 
 man's approval first melts into the tenderness of 
 passion. But with Herries, I rather think it was 
 then — on that sunny morning on the sandy links 
 — when Alison stood before him, with the sea 
 behind her, and the ribbon falling from her 
 loosened curls. True, all that he said was, point- 
 ing with an instructive arm, — 
 
 ' That is the Berwick road. Miss Graham. And 
 over there, that odd-shaped hill you see — that is 
 North Berwick Law.' But there, again, was the 
 nature of the man ; once a feeling had him, it then 
 became too inward for common recognition, and 
 far too sacred for speech. 
 
 After that, they retraced their steps, and Herries, 
 who felt somehow that he had been erring on the 
 side of sentimentality, instituted a thorough and 
 improving examination of the antiquities of Pres- 
 tonpans. Willy, it is true, showed symptoms 
 of rebellion, but Alison, though rather cold and 
 hungry, followed, ready and smiling, with that 
 infinite patience for the foibles of a man, as for 
 the gambols of a child, which comes as naturally 
 to some women — well, as naturally as love itself 
 
 They had a very pleasant hour in Isabella's 
 cottage, as a subsequent reward. They supped
 
 THE RHYMER i6i 
 
 broth at the fireside, and got warmed through 
 and through. There was a grand platter of 
 potatoes, boiled in their jackets, so hot that 
 nobody could touch them, 
 
 'You'd be astonished how long they keep their 
 heat, too,' Herries said to Alison. ' We'll put one 
 in your mufif, and you'll see how 'twill keep your 
 hands warm all the way home.' And he popped 
 the biggest into Alison's muff, and was very 
 'jokey' with Isabella, and Isabella with him, and 
 so the time went very pleasantly. But, alas ! as the 
 end drew near, and Danny heard the horses' feet 
 upon the street, and knew he was to be left behind, 
 he began to cry, not with the robust roar of healthy 
 childhood, but with silent tears, that overflowed his 
 piteous dark eyes, and wet his small pale face. 
 Alison gathered him in her arms, and cuddled him 
 against her shoulder. She spoke to him of the 
 coming summer — of the time when he would be 
 well again and able to run about, and Willy should 
 come down and play with him on the sands. And 
 Danny — who would never see another summer, or 
 run about again, or play with his little brother 
 more — looked up in her kind face, and was com- 
 forted. 
 
 The afternoon had settled to a piercing cold, as 
 they drove home. For a mile, the horses, mad- 
 dened with the frost, and fresh from their long 
 rest, ran away, and the coach swayed from side 
 to side, Willy shrieking with delight. Alison felt 
 a strange excitement in the air ; the evening was so 
 lovely — earth and sky and sea wore those strange, 
 gem-like tints which are part of the magic accom- 
 paniment of a great frost. There rose, to their left, 
 out of the ruddy haze — the craggy mass of Arthur's 
 
 L
 
 i62 THE RHYMER 
 
 Seat ; and tower and crown, and citadel and spire 
 rose, one by one, and the great rock-built city wore 
 all its classic air — a smoky fane, spread to the cold 
 gods of the north. Herries was very silent ; in the 
 dark of the coach, silhouetted against the window, 
 Alison could see the fine, cold profile, the severe, 
 set mouth. She was very silent too, and presently 
 Willy fell asleep, and lay against her knee in a 
 tired heap. 
 
 When they got out at the Grassmarket it was in 
 the gloaming, and Herries said he would see his 
 charges to their door. A slip of the new moon 
 swam in the limpid sky; every now and then 
 she looked down at them between the high 
 houses. Alison was turning over in her mind the 
 pretty speech that she must make to Mr Herries 
 for this pleasant day. Ah, how to say enough, 
 and not too much ! The very thought of it made 
 her heart beat — with sheer nervousness, was it? 
 Or was it that Herries's extreme silence was 
 burdened with a meaning which made itself felt, 
 in the strange way of such things ? 
 
 When they got to the General's Entry, Willy 
 clattered up the stair. The lamp flared, and in its 
 doubtful light Herries stood waiting. And then, 
 because, perhaps, being of a masterful mind, he 
 meant to wait no longer for what he wanted ; or 
 just because what he wanted was so near, so sweet, 
 so terribly desirable, — his arm crept to Alison's 
 waist, and he kissed her, and the ice of his life 
 seemed broken, all the sweet springs of summer to 
 gush in his heart. 
 
 ■ Ally, Ally,' he whispered — and why his first 
 words were jealous ones he could not have told you 
 — ' Ally, tell me, did a man ever kiss you before ? '
 
 THE RHYMER 163 
 
 * Never in all my life ! ' said Alison, staring 
 straight out before her into the dark, with wonder- 
 struck eyes. And lo ! that which had been a 
 reproach at The Mains became the crowning glory 
 of her life, and at that Pygmalion-like touch of a 
 lover's lips, the soul of Alison awoke to passion, as 
 the marble awoke to life. 
 
 But — such is the relentlessness of the prose of 
 life — Jean must choose this interesting moment in 
 which to open the door above them and let a light 
 down the shaft of the stair. The pair started 
 asunder, Herries stammered good-night, and Alison 
 walked up the dirty steps of that Edinburgh com- 
 mon stair as though they were the rungs of a 
 golden ladder leading straight to heaven.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 It might generally be supposed that one great 
 emotion of the mastering kind possesses the soul 
 to the temporary exclusion of all others. But this 
 is not the case ; for it is, rather, when the soul is 
 awake — quivering to the touch of some novel 
 experience — that its sensitiveness to new impres- 
 sions is the greatest, and its capacity for seeing all 
 things and understanding all things is at the 
 fullest stretch. Thus, when Alison walked into 
 Nancy's room that night, full of her own bliss, her 
 heart gave only one bounding throb the more when 
 she found a stranger there, and realised that at 
 last she beheld the longed-for visitor, stood in the 
 presence of genius, and touched the hand of Robert 
 Burns, 
 
 The familiar room wore its cosiest and most 
 seductive aspect — the curtains drawn, and fire- 
 and candle-light shining on the wall. The figure, 
 which, at Nancy's motion, rose to meet Alison, 
 seemed to her almost colossal ; but only so, be- 
 cause her mind's-eye was filled with the slenderer 
 proportions of a very different figure. The man 
 was indeed of peasant build, of a goodly height, 
 but heavy and thick-set, dressed decently and 
 yeoman-wise, * like a farmer to dine with the laird.' 
 As he bent towards her the full-blooded, warm- 
 hued, powerful face, she became conscious of his 
 eyes, black as night, with their fringe of shadow- 
 
 164
 
 THE RHYMER 165 
 
 casting lashes — commanding and compelling eyes, 
 almost surcharged with brilliance. Nancy was 
 speaking, lightly, gracefully. 
 
 ' I told you of my song-bird,' said she to the 
 poet; 'here she is. She'll warble your lays with 
 the very " wood-note wild " you are always asking 
 for. Ally, love, welcome home ! We were waiting 
 for you. Run, child, and take off your things, and 
 come and sing. Must she not, Sylvander ? ' 
 
 The poet bowed. It could not be said that his 
 gestures were clumsy, for the man had ever a 
 natural dignity ; but they had the air of indifferently 
 controlled strength, which spoke the peasant strug- 
 gling with the conventions of the parlour. His 
 great, black glance covered Alison ; half-wondering 
 and half-shrinking, she felt it search her. 
 
 ' If Miss Graham,' he said, with a low bow, 'will 
 honour rae with a song, she will make a poor poet 
 the richer. I find no inspiration in the world like 
 the lilt of a bonny voice in a bonny tune.' 
 
 Alison smiled to herself as she went to put off 
 her hood and pelisse and smooth her curls. The 
 deep, flattering voice rang oddly in her ears, for 
 they were full of the curt speech and clear, incisive 
 utterance of her lover — who was certainly no poet. 
 
 In her absence, the Bard leaned against the 
 mantelpiece and glowered down with his dark 
 look upon his hostess. She — flushed, radiant, 
 passionate, fluttered like a bird in the big hand 
 of the fowler, but a willing bird. 
 
 ' Are all our interviews, madam,' began the Bard 
 rather moodily, ' to be held in the presence of a 
 third person ? Are Clarinda and Sylvander never 
 to be alone ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, but our third person — such a sweet.
 
 i66 THE RHYMER 
 
 interesting girl,' said Nancy, persuasively. ' The 
 companion of my dreary solitude — think of it ! 
 'Twill not be always possible to dispense with her 
 society,' she added, pensively, ' nor — nor desirable, 
 perhaps.' 
 
 A warm look shot from the poet's eye. 
 
 ' Has she no kindred soul compelling her society 
 when we wish mutually to enjoy each other's?' 
 demanded he, harping on the unexpected intruder. 
 
 ' Nay, never a one ! ' said Nancy, laughing archly. 
 ' And 'tis a girl I promised to find a swain for, too. 
 Can Sylvander's romantic ingenuity not help me 
 here ? ' 
 
 * Sy vander has the kettle on the other hob, I'm 
 thinking ! ' said the poet with a short, meaning 
 laugh. His manner varied from the rather stilted 
 politeness into which he had schooled it, sometimes 
 to a racy reversion to his native ways of speech 
 and gesture, sometimes, when an opening offered, 
 to an uncontrollable and not always inoffensive 
 familiarity. Sundry mistakes in such matters had 
 cost him more than one friendship in the feminine 
 great world — a cruel but perfectly inevitable in- 
 justice. Here, however, and with his present 
 hostess, he was but too little likely to offend. 
 Nancy was constitutionally lenient to the stronger 
 sex in its warm moments. She had that curious 
 insensitiveness to encroachment — that lack of re- 
 sentment to the taking of small liberties — which 
 may be sometimes seen in perfectly-refined and 
 gently-nurtured women. It did not offend her 
 now, for instance, that the poet — seen only for the 
 second time in her life — should bend so closely over 
 her, covering her with ardent, covetous eyes . . . and 
 then abruptly straighten himself as Alison came in.
 
 THE RHYMER 167 
 
 ' Come along, child/ she cried, * and sing ! No, 
 not with the harp — alone.' She blew out two 
 candles that were guttering low, so that the room 
 was in firelight only. Alison sat down, and with 
 her hands folded in her lap and her grave eyes 
 fixed upon the fire, sang — sang, I think, as she 
 had never sung before, because, at last, there had 
 come to her a full understanding of the song. She 
 chose one or two of the simpler and older ballads, 
 love-songs of a peasant people long ago. 
 
 Then might one who watched have seen a 
 singular transfiguration come over the poet's face. 
 The heavy sensuality of its lines seemed to melt 
 away, and leave in its place a sort of splendid, 
 weighty thoughtfulness. Leaning his elbow on 
 his knee, his chin upon his clenched hand, the 
 whole soul of the man seemed once more con- 
 centrated in his eyes, but they were no longer the 
 eyes of the satyr, but of the poet ; and they were 
 looking at Alison, not as at the woman, but as at 
 the singer, whose sweet singing roused inspiration 
 at its source. Even now his lips moved, for the 
 lyrical impulse stirred within him, and the 
 thronging words and the tingling lines leapt into 
 unison in his throbbing brain. You could see the 
 massive features quiver, the passionate veins upon 
 the temples swell, the eye blaze beneath the 
 furrowed brow. Nancy watched and worshipped 
 him as a fanatic before a shrine, and even literal 
 Alison, as she felt herself wrapt in that consuming 
 presence, knew herself, with a singular uplifting 
 of the spirit, to be, for the moment, the privileged 
 hand-maid of genius. When the last sounds died 
 away, the man would move, would slap his giant 
 thigh, with something like a shout of pure delight.
 
 1 68 THE RHYMER 
 
 and call for more, broad as the peasant that he 
 was, and with the passion and insistence of a boy. 
 In these fine, natural moments, Alison liked him 
 well, and when he fell to discussing the ballad or 
 the air — thoughtful, intelligent, shrewd — she would 
 like him even better, and feel that even Herries 
 might approve her liking. Ah ! had this been all, 
 and these little symposia that were to take place so 
 often in the cosy little room, been all as innocent as 
 they seemed, what a fitting, what a grand impression 
 of Scotland's poet would Alison have carried away 
 with her ! But, alas ! ' Sylvander ' all too soon 
 would don the cap and bells, and then Alison 
 would wonder, with a shudder, how Nancy could 
 bear to have him sit so close, and bend so near to 
 hers that changed face, with the bold eyes and 
 sensual lips. Intellectual attraction — fascination 
 even — the man had for the girl, must have had, 
 indeed, for all who came under the sway of his 
 tremendous personality and his genius, but it 
 warred in her, sometimes, with a physical repulsion, 
 so strong that she could scarcely conceal it. 
 
 This first evening, Willy called to her from his 
 bed, for the story she was in the habit of telling 
 him before he went to sleep. So ' Sylvander ' and 
 ' Clarinda ' snatched a iQ.yN precious moments of 
 communion alone. 
 
 'Well,' Nancy said, 'was not that a fit song for 
 a poet's ear? Has not the child the sweetest 
 voice ? ' 
 
 ' Ay,' said the poet, stretching great arms above 
 his head, his dark eyes glowing, and his bronzed 
 cheek flushed. ' Ay, a sweet voice ! My heart 
 leaps, and my blood sallies at its sweetness. I 
 am a slave to such sounds. But miss will not sing
 
 THE RHYMER 169 
 
 often for the poor bard. I can see,' he added in a 
 different tone, ' 'tis a fine lady — not a congenial, 
 not a sympathetic soul. . . .' 
 
 ' What ? Poor Ally ? ' said Nancy, in unfeigned 
 surprise. ' Why, 'tis the simplest, the most un- 
 questioning child ! Sure, there's no thought of 
 criticism in her heart towards anyone.' The poet 
 shrugged his shoulders incredulously. He had the 
 quick, morbid sensitiv^eness of the poet tribe, and 
 already he had noted the almost intangible shrink- 
 ing of Alison from his person — the hardly per- 
 ceptible drawing of herself up when he pressed too 
 near, or spoke gallantly. He put it down to the 
 feeling of class, which he was always so suspiciously 
 ready to detect and to resent — the shrinking of a 
 proud miss from the peasant. 
 
 ' You see, Sylvander,' Nancy went on, ' the child 
 may be of such great service in our friendship. 
 Her very presence is a pretext for the visits of a 
 certain bard. Young, fair, a songstress, might not 
 she — rather than poor Clarinda's fading charms — 
 be thought to constitute his attraction ? ' 
 
 ' Provided the deception hurts no one,' said the 
 Bard rather uneasily. He had that sense of fair- 
 ness which is too exclusively, it is to be feared, a 
 masculine quality. An untethered rover in the 
 fields of love, he never yet willingly poached, or 
 spoiled another's sport. ' I would not hurt miss 
 with the world,' he added. 
 
 * Take care you do not the rather hurt Clarinda 
 with the world ! ' cried Nancy, shaking an admonitory 
 finger. Passion and prudence alternately swayed 
 the little woman at this time ; her warm tempera- 
 ment and growing passion drove her within the 
 sphere of danger ; her love of the world and its
 
 I70 THE RHYMER 
 
 countenance, a terror of losing caste, as a young 
 and pretty woman in a delicate situation, held her 
 back. 
 
 Now, as the poet rose to depart, she loaded him 
 with cautions as to his future coming and going. 
 She begged of him not to employ the town's 
 messengers : they were so shifty, and getting to 
 know her house too well ; not to come, if he could 
 avoid it, in a chair — chairs were so unusual in that 
 poor part of the town that they caused remark ; 
 not to trouble Jean too often at the door: 'twere 
 better he should have the key. 
 
 ' See how I honour, how I trust, my Sylvander ! ' 
 she said, softly. The poet pocketed the key, with, 
 it must be admitted, a rollicking eye for so 
 romantic a personage. He did his best, however, 
 to look only impassioned, and not also entertained. 
 And such apt deceivers are men, that he perfectly 
 succeeded. 
 
 When he was gone, Alison and Nancy sat a 
 while together by the fire, but they had singularly 
 little to say to each other. Nancy asked a few 
 evidently forced questions about her boy, and the 
 expedition to Prestonpans ; but her thoughts were 
 elsewhere, and she was silent and restless. 
 
 ' Thank Heaven ! ' she exclaimed suddenly, ' now 
 Danny's away, Herries will not be poking his 
 solemn face in so often as of late. 'Twould be 
 most consumedly awkward if he did.' 
 
 And then Alison realised, with a very strange 
 feeling of aloofness from her friend, and a peculiar 
 sense of the unnaturalness of the situation, that 
 she could never — no, not imaginably ever, she 
 thought — speak to Nancy of her love, and of 
 her lover, Herries ! '
 
 THE RHYMER 171 
 
 So that wondrous day ended for Alison, and she 
 was alone at last, with no tangible memento of it, 
 saving, indeed, a large cold potato in her muff. A 
 certain intangible memento, it is true, burned upon 
 her cheek, so that she was glad to bury it in the 
 cool sheets. One never knows how long it may be 
 since a reader was in love, and so it were better, 
 perhaps, not to tell how a silly girl, that night, 
 went to bed with a cold potato under her pillow. 
 It might be so very long ago — that silly season 
 with reader — that he may well have forgotten that, 
 though the sense of humour is a mighty great 
 thing, there is a time with us all when it is nought.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 Ordinary mortals, from the schoolboy upward, 
 are familiar with the disagreeableness of what may 
 be called the Monday mornings of life — those after- 
 holiday mornings which come as a cold douche after 
 a pleasant outing. Herries tasted the full amenities 
 of this experience on first buckling to his work 
 after the excursion to Prestonpans. On Sunday 
 — a dies non in the Edinburgh of those days, when 
 most decent persons went to church and stayed 
 there — nothing could be done. On Monday 
 morning he descended to his office in his grimmest 
 business mood, very unlike a young man who had 
 kissed a girl under the lantern in the General's 
 Entry, late on Saturday evening. Indeed, anyone 
 less like kissing, or being kissed, never was seen. 
 
 He found a disagreeable accumulation of busi- 
 ness ; and a certain fact that had lately, from time 
 to time, been hinting its existence — the fact, 
 namely, that his partner's working capacities were 
 on the wane — was this morning, for the first time, 
 fully borne in upon his mind. In regard to the 
 rather important affairs of a client, there was con- 
 fusion, and, in respect to the preparation of certain 
 deeds and papers, delay ; neither, a few weeks ago, 
 would have been possible, under Creighton's in- 
 exorable regime. Herries felt that probably he 
 must shortly face — of all things the most worrying 
 to a business-man, whose affairs have long run in a 
 
 172
 
 THE RHYMER 173 
 
 smooth, appointed groove — a change of partner- 
 ship. It was the more difficult as Creighton gave 
 no hint of his retirement, and the idea that such 
 a hint might have to originate with his partner, 
 was exceedingly repugnant to the younger man. 
 Herries was aware that his associate's health was 
 very delicate, but like all those in daily contact 
 with a failing man, he had no idea how great and 
 how rapid was the decline. It certainly never 
 struck him that Creighton omitted to speak of his 
 retirement from business, simply because he be- 
 lieved the last retirement of all to be imminent, 
 and death about to set his partner free. 
 
 When Herries had made some headway with his 
 morning's work, lost his temper with his clerk, and 
 otherwise expressed his consciousness of the un- 
 towardness of things in general, he made the 
 pleasing discovery, that a moral earthquake was 
 heaving in the domestic department of his house. 
 His room was ill-swept, his fire ill-tended ; he 
 summoned Lizzie, who appeared in even more than 
 her usual condition of dishevelment, and telling her 
 to send Mysie with some wood, was met with the 
 baffling information : ' There's nae Mysie here ! ' 
 delivered with a war-like snort. 
 
 'No Mysie !' exclaimed Herries. ' Why, what's 
 come to the girl ? ' 
 
 ' There's that come to her,' said Lizzie, succinctly, 
 ' that it ill becomes a decent body to hae the 
 tellin' o'. . . . ' 
 
 ' What ! ' said Herries, repressing a strong inclina- 
 tion to laugh. ' Has the poor wench gone wrong ? ' 
 The ferocity of Lizzie's expression was answer 
 enough. 
 
 ' So homely looks are no safeguard after all,
 
 174 THE RHYMER 
 
 Lizzie ? ' said Herries, when he had been en- 
 lightened. ' And all your trouble in choosing a 
 discreet helpmate was thrown away ! ' He could 
 not help tormenting his dependant, whose temper 
 afforded him amusement at times, as well as incon- 
 venience. ' How and when did you get rid of the 
 girl ? ' he enquired. 
 
 ' Rid o' her — the dirty besom ! ' said Lizzie, 
 reverting to the idiom of the fray, ' I put her to 
 the door, and to the street — and her skirling like 
 a scraggit hen ! I'se warrant ye, I got rid o' her ! ' 
 
 ' Well, I hope you gave her her wages up to date,' 
 said Herries, turning away, ' and did not put the 
 poor wretch penniless on the pavement, in her con- 
 dition, and in this weather.' 
 
 ' Oo, she had siller, I'm thinking,' said the old 
 woman, with a sly look ; ' there was a croon i' the 
 pocket o' her — and ane no' honestly come by, 
 neither.' 
 
 ' Bless me ! ' said Herries, ' you paint your rela- 
 tive very black, Lizzie ! Did she steal the crown ?' 
 
 ' Na,' said Lizzie, with unpleasant meaning in her 
 tone ; she had a tongue that would always hurt 
 someone, if it could, — 'she got given the croon 
 right enough ! 'Twas frae that braw leddy i' the 
 red coat ye had to her tea here ; she wad hae 
 Mysie haud her tongue aboot some cantrip o' her 
 ane, up the toon there, leaving a letter, or sic-like 
 trash ; but Mysie, ye ken, was simple, and aye 
 blabbed everything she saw. O, they're a' the 
 same, gentle and simple,' added Lizzie, who hated 
 her own sex with inexplicable malice. 
 
 ' You may go,' said Herries, curtly. He felt as 
 though he had got a slap across the face — and 
 from a dirty hand.
 
 THE RHYMER 
 
 175 
 
 Pressure of work at first allowed him no time 
 for unprofitable musing. He had to go down to 
 his partner's room on business. The office, as 
 usual, was heated to suffocation, and he found 
 Creighton — a most singular state of things — half 
 asleep, or rather in a condition of a sort of semi- 
 torpor, crouching over the fire. He, however, 
 roused himself, and attended to the business in 
 hand with almost his usual perspicacity. But 
 Herries perceived that his energy was but a spurt ; 
 it flagged almost instantly. 
 
 ' You don't look well, sir,' he said to the elder 
 man. 
 
 ' I am not well, Herries,' Creighton answered 
 heavily, but he said no more, for his breath seemed 
 to catch. 
 
 ' I must beg of you to excuse my further attend- 
 ance to-day,' he gasped out. ' I must — I must go 
 out into the air. I burn — my chest seems weighted. 
 The fresh air would relieve me.' 
 
 ' It is very cold, sir,' said Herries, alarmed by his 
 partner's symptoms. ' Let me come with you.' 
 
 ' Will you ? ' said Creighton, wistfully. Herries 
 helped the old man — he seemed suddenly to have 
 become a very old man — into his great-coat. He 
 hardly believed him fit to walk, but the going out 
 seemed to relieve him, as he expected. He drew 
 one or two deep breaths of the icy air, and then 
 walked on, though with a feeble step. 
 
 'Take my arm,' said Herries, kindly. 'We'll 
 have a turn in the sun, below the castle.' 
 
 They proceeded for some way in silence. One 
 subject tormented Herries's thoughts; he was 
 impelled — unlike himself, somehow — to give it 
 utterance.
 
 176 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' I was right, and you wrong, about a trifle, the 
 other night, Creighton,' he said. ' A young lady of 
 our acquaintance, who refused my escort up the 
 town, did so because she had something to hide,' 
 
 * Who told you ? ' asked Creighton, sharply. 
 
 ' Lizzie,' said Herries, ' The lass Mysie told 
 tales when she got home. She was heavily fee'd to 
 hold her tongue about some letter secretly left' 
 
 ' And you tell me,' exclaimed Creighton, with 
 unexpected energy, ' that you listen to the gossip 
 of servants on such a subject ! Fie, for shame, sir ! 
 Besides, are you the Grand Turk, or a Catholic 
 Inquisitor, that a girl may not leave a letter on a 
 friend ? Just as likely it was not her own letter, 
 but your cousin's ; and as to the feeing, why, 'twas 
 the New Year time, and she would have to fee the 
 lass for her trouble.' 
 
 ' A crown is a heavy fee from a girl's slender purse 
 to a scullion,' said Herries, moodily. ' I have an 
 inkling,' he went on, frowning, ' where the letter 
 was left — St James's Square, I dare be sworn ! We 
 know who lodges there, and the women can no 
 more keep off him than flies from honey.' 
 
 * Bless me ! ' said Creighton. * Are you blaming 
 our poor Rob ? Nay, sir, but what a strange, far- 
 fetched idea. I had hardly realised the Bard was 
 known to your cousin, though I think you told 
 me they met some weeks ago.' 
 
 ' By this time, I daresay, he frequents my cousin's 
 house,' said Herries, quietly, ' for that's his way in 
 such matters. A scoundrel in manners,' went on the 
 young lawyer, angrily; 'the seducer of women — 
 I know him ! I'd sooner trust the lamb with the 
 wolf, than a young, inexperienced girl with such a 
 man. The glamour of his genius hides the corrup-
 
 THE RHYMER 177 
 
 tion of his mind. The thought of that danger is 
 sickening.' 
 
 ' Wheesht, wheest ! ' said Creighton. ' I don't 
 gainsay that he is warm — too warm, poor Rob ! 
 But beheve me, sir, 'tis not the young and noble 
 and innocent — Hke our fair friend who shall be 
 nameless — that such a man seeks. 'Tis the more 
 experienced women — ripe for dalliance — versed in 
 such ardours — ' 
 
 * Oh, you think of my cousin,' said Herries, 
 coolly. ' But she dare not try these tricks ; she 
 understands too well the delicacy and instability 
 of her present situation, she knows to a hair's- 
 breadth what she can, and what she cannot, risk. 
 I can trust Nancy with herself, but with — with 
 a charge I cannot trust her. She's no fit guide for 
 a young girl.' 
 
 ' Oh, be at rest, sir, be at rest ! ' said Creighton, 
 smiling. ' She that we talk of needs no guidance 
 from your cousin. If there is guiding to be done, 
 her own will be the hand that guides ; and whom- 
 soever she guides she will guide to a blessing. 
 Take my word for that ; I have looked her 
 through and through. . . . And now that we talk 
 of angels, we begin to hear their wings, I 
 perceive.' _ 
 
 Herries looked up, and saw in the distance 
 Alison and the child Willy coming towards 
 them. 
 
 ' They — they sometimes walk here of a morning,' 
 he said. 
 
 ' Ah, you knew that ' ' cried Creighton, well 
 pleased. 
 
 ' It may be that I did,' said Herries. 
 
 His partner's words had poured balm upon his 
 
 M
 
 178 THE RHYMER 
 
 irritation. There was a calmness and a strength 
 about Creighton's common sense, that made it very 
 convincing. He could certainly influence Herries 
 to a degree that was possible with no one else. 
 And now Alison herself was coming, and the 
 young man felt a sudden and uncontrollable 
 tumult in his blood. She passed them at the 
 full distance of the broad walk, and only bowed, 
 but it was near enough for them to see the sudden 
 colour in her half-averted face, to note the quick- 
 ened step and fluttered air. Creighton slipped his 
 arm from that of his friend. 
 
 ' Run, man, run ! ' he said ; ' you are due else- 
 where. Don't you see the signals held out for 
 your welcome ? ' 
 
 ' I — I see them,' stammered Herries, himself red 
 as a boy. ' But you, sir ? Can you get home ? ' 
 
 ' What matters an old man like me ? ' cried 
 Creighton, impatiently. ' My race is run. Be off 
 — be off! She'll give you the slip yet ; she's nearly 
 out of sight' 
 
 Herries hesitated a moment; his cold eyes were 
 alight as they looked after the vanishing figure in 
 the red pelisse. 
 
 ' I'll take your advice, sir,' he said. And then 
 he followed. 
 
 Creighton toiled up the steep ascent to his 
 lodgings alone. 
 
 ' All's well — for this time ! ' he was saying to 
 himself ' But how will it be when I am not at 
 his elbow to allay suspicion, to soothe pride ? 
 They're ingrained in the nature of the lad. Will 
 they lose him his happiness as they did me mine? 
 It's likely — it's likely yet, if I know men.' He 
 had barely breath to get up the long stone stair
 
 THE RHYMER 179 
 
 to his rooms, and cast himself into a chair beside 
 the neglected hearth. He looked round the room 
 with dull apathy of sickness, and wiped the sheer 
 sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand. 
 
 ' She — she shall have all I have to leave in this 
 world,' he muttered. ' For the lad's sake, and for 
 the sake of one of her sex — dead this thirty years. 
 And for her own sake, too — a fine, a fair creature, 
 a bonny lass ! ' He made as though he would 
 reach a desk that stood near upon a table, but 
 fell back weakly in his chair. 
 
 ' Time enough yet for that, I daresay,' he said, 
 closing his eyes. 
 
 There is often 'time enough' for the making 
 of those wills, and yet the future finds them — 
 unmade.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Down in the fields, near where, nowadays, AinsHe 
 and Moray Places rear their respectable family 
 mansions — fields white that morning with the 
 thick, wintry rime — Archibald Herries and 
 Alison Graham walked side by side. He was 
 bareheaded in the cold, for assuredly a man does 
 not talk easily of love with his hat on his head. 
 He held it in a hand behind him ; the other arm 
 had Alison's hand between it and his heart. This 
 girl was his. Had he needed to ask ? There are 
 some things craved and received without question 
 and answer. Suspicion and mistrust seemed to 
 have vanished away ; no man could harbour either 
 while he looked in Alison's eyes. 
 
 ' Whom shall we tell first, Ally ? ' he was asking. 
 
 'Need we tell anyone, sir — just yet?' said 
 Alison, wistfully. ' Isn't it too new and too — too 
 good to be told ? ' 
 
 The words were too strictly an echo from his 
 own nature for him to find fault with them. 
 
 ' But my cousin might have to be told,' he 
 suggested. 
 
 'Nancy? Oh, no, no!' said Alison, impulsively. 
 
 ' Why ? ' said Herries, laughing. ' I thought you 
 were such dear friends, and had no secrets from 
 each other?' 
 
 ' So we are — dear friends, sir,' said Alison, 
 though not quite with the enthusiasm she might 
 
 1 80
 
 THE RHYMER iSi 
 
 have felt a month ago. ' But — I could not tell 
 her of this. 'Tis different to everything else in 
 the world.' 
 
 ' That's true/ Herries answered. ' Ally,' he said, 
 suddenly, ' are you prepared to find me but a poor 
 lover? For 'tis that I'm likely to prove, I fear. 
 I am but a dry stick. Pretty speeches come so 
 shyly to my lips, and as to love-letters, I never 
 put pen to paper but in the way of business. 
 Weeks might pass and I might never say, " I love 
 you." ' 
 
 ' Sure,' said Alison slowly, as though she were 
 thinking out some abstruse and difficult problem, 
 * sure, 'tis the people that love each other most 
 that never do say " I love you." All my life long 
 I've loved my father and my sisters and little 
 Jacky when he came, but I never thought to say 
 " I love you" to one of them. If you know a 
 thing in your heart, the less need to have it on 
 your lips. Don't you think so, sir?' 
 
 ' True, very true, Ally,' said Herries, thinking 
 to himself what a pearl of sweet sense he had 
 found, and how she suited him; 'only — only — ' 
 
 ' Only what?' asked Alison, innocently. 
 
 ' Only I would it were the General's Entry, dear,' 
 whispered Herries, at her ear, ' with walls and 
 nothing but a dim old lamp. . . .' 
 
 ' Ah, but it's not, sir ! ' cried Alison, pulling away 
 from him, scarlet with blushes ; "tis the open field, 
 and there comes Willy ! ' 
 
 ' Plague take the child — so he does ! ' said 
 Herries. 
 
 He had given the boy a shilling to spend at a 
 booth in the suburb, and it seemed to him hardly 
 a shilling's-worth of absence that had been granted.
 
 1 82 THE RHYMER 
 
 Willy came racing towards them, vociferous, flying 
 a newly-purchased kite above his head. 
 
 'So we must go, I suppose, sir?' said Alison, 
 wistfully. 
 
 ' 'Tis getting mighty cold, though we haven't 
 noticed it/ Herries observed, as they walked town- 
 wards across the fields. ' I think I smell the snow.' 
 
 A thin, yellowish film had gathered over the 
 bright sun, which, day after day, had made the 
 long, strong frost endurable. The cold, indeed, 
 became perceptibly greater, and a slight, shivering 
 wind set in from the north. 
 
 'Haste you home, child,' said Herries, 'and be 
 in before the storm. You may guess whether I 
 come soon to the Potterrow or not.' 
 
 ' N — not too often, sir,' whispered Alison. The 
 whisper might have stood for the mere coyness of 
 a girl, and so Herries translated it. But in Alison's 
 mind was the troubled knowledge of how little 
 welcome her lover was just now, in the little room 
 which his own liberality helped to make so cosy 
 and so home-like. It was very hard, she thought, 
 but time would doubtless show a way out of the 
 difficulty, if one were only patient. 
 
 Alison, indeed, was very grave as she walked 
 home that day, after parting from her lover. She 
 was very happy. Her feeling for Herries had be- 
 come — as such feelings will with such natures — a 
 part and parcel of herself — the very heart of her. 
 It was a wondrous thing, a miracle, that the one 
 man she had ever known should also be the one 
 man in the world most worthy of love and honour. 
 But then, to reverent and simple minds, the miracle 
 brings awe as well as joy, and Alison was a little 
 afraid of her own happiness, as though it could
 
 THE RHYMER 183 
 
 hardly be meant for such as she. Not for nothing 
 was she the daughter of those bucolic, hard-lived 
 ancestors of hers, who, generation after generation, 
 in the dull obscurity of The Mains, had dragged 
 through joyless and prosaic lives, ignorant of the 
 world beyond the boundaries of their home. Some- 
 thing of a want of buoyancy was Alison's, and it 
 came from that old home source. But she loved, — 
 and the tingle of the new sensation ran through 
 her veins like wine, though it left her sober. 
 
 Herries, in the meantime, reached his house in a 
 mood of elation so very singular for him that, had 
 he been like many of his countrymen of that day, 
 superstitious, he would have called it ' fey ' — 
 uncanny. Everything seemed to be working to- 
 gether for his good ; the stars in their courses 
 fought his battles. Through the least likely source 
 in the world — his cousin — he had found what pro- 
 mised to be the happiness of his life. Approval 
 and passion — how seldom they combine ! — met in 
 his tenderness for Alison Graham. There might 
 be other girls more beautiful and more accom- 
 plished, but surely there was no other in the world 
 so formed to please him. How sensible she was ! 
 Would any other girl have condoned, nay, actually 
 have proposed, a courtship so shorn of the nonsense 
 which by long custom must needs beset all con- 
 ventional affairs of the kind ? Herries reflected, 
 with easy complacency, how exceedingly well it 
 suited him, at this juncture, that his bethrothal 
 should be kept a secret. Creighton, he was certain, 
 was either ill, or about to be ill, and during his 
 illness the affair of a new partnership would natur- 
 ally be in a decent abeyance. The strain of double 
 work and double anxiety mu^t f^ill upon him,
 
 i84 THE RHYMER 
 
 Herries, very severely in the immediate future, and 
 how inexpressibly inconvenient, at such a time, 
 would have been the fuss and the worry of a de- 
 clared engagement. But there was to be no such 
 foolish demand upon his time and energy, no 
 nonsense of a daily correspondence, or lover-like 
 dancing of attendance on his charmer. He was 
 even bidden not to go too often to the Potterrow ! 
 How infinitely to his taste, how admirably suitable, 
 it all was ! 
 
 Yet, for a young man so perfectly pleased with 
 a wise and sober arrangement of things, that even- 
 ing in his rooms seemed to pass with extraordinary 
 slowness, — in very truth, with the most appalling 
 tedium. He was restless ; he could neither write 
 nor read. He spent the lonely hours lolling now 
 in one chair, now in another, his handsome head 
 thrown back, his eyes beset with dreams. What 
 he dreamed of was a room, so much meaner than 
 his own, a little room, ruddy with fire and candle- 
 light and cosy curtains, where there was a grey- 
 eyed girl, the tinkle of a harp, the notes of a song. 
 He went furtively to a window and looked out, 
 with a certain thought in the back of his mind. 
 But the night was one of whirling snow, dark and 
 wild, for the storm had come. 
 
 "Twould be madness to go; they'd think me 
 crazy,' was the thought in his mind. A clock 
 struck, and he laughed. ' Why, they'll be away 
 to their beds ! ' he said. Certain strings, which 
 appeared to be attached in the neighbourhood of 
 his heart, were pulling him, pulling him to the 
 Potterrow. But this time he withstood their 
 wrenching, and taking a law book from the shelf, 
 set himself to read like a really sensible man.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 The lion and the jackal are figures coupled by the 
 natural historian as a matter of course, so that one 
 may presume that every lion has his jackal, to howl 
 before him and to polish the bones which his lion- 
 ship leaves behind. In human life the same pheno- 
 menon appears, and every lion, who is a lion worth 
 mentioning, may have his satellite in a meaner 
 kind of creature, to prepare the way before him 
 and do his dirty work. 
 
 The poet Burns was well furnished with one of 
 these necessary adjuncts to a lion's suite, in his 
 friend Nicol, a personage who, after sundry vicissi- 
 tudes in life, had managed to secure for himself the 
 outwardly respectable post of a teacher in the High 
 School. The chances of tavern life had brought 
 the two together, and flattery, no doubt sincere if 
 fulsome, on the one side, and on the other that 
 necessity to be admired and followed which is the 
 curse of the poetic temperament, sealed their friend- 
 ship. Yet it is difficult to imagine how Burns, 
 with whom men of a far higher stamp than Nicol, 
 would still gladly have associated, could content 
 him.self with the society of one so palpably inferior 
 to himself in all ways. Nicol was a coarse, bluster- 
 ing, unwashen brute, with a violent and jealous 
 temper that the partial poet chose cuphuistically 
 to dub ' a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a 
 soul.' He had, on more than one occasion, ruined 
 
 185
 
 i86 THE RHYMER 
 
 the Bard's chances of favour in high quarters, by 
 his ill-bred intrusions and unmannered insolence. 
 He was not a comfortable kind of jackal at all, 
 and yet Burns stuck to him, actuated, no doubt, 
 partly by the kind of sturdy loyalty of which he 
 was capable towards the humble friends of his own 
 sex, and partly by obstinacy. The man hindered 
 him at every turn, but there was no doubting his 
 devotion. And then, he was that kind of coarse 
 instrument which a man is not afraid to use to the 
 most doubtful ends. And the poet, it is likely, had 
 uses only too many for such a tool. 
 
 Nicol, during these weeks of which we write, 
 had been having a hard time of it. To be jackal 
 to a lion-poet, with an injured knee-pan and 
 inflamed passions, is no sinecure. Not for weeks 
 had the unfortunate man had a moment to be 
 called his own. When he was not carrying 
 messages or delivering letters — waiting for an- 
 swers, or receiving them at the door — he was 
 listening to the anathemas of the afflicted poet, 
 who, maddened by confinement, spent his time in 
 cursing fate, and in the writing of those letters 
 which he pestered his adherent, in season and out 
 of season, to carry for him. The inclement 
 weather which had now set in, added very much 
 to Nicol's hardships. On a certain morning, with 
 the snowdrifts piled high against the doors, he 
 struggled forth to see his friend, but armed with 
 a grim resolution that, on such a day, he would do 
 no more. 
 
 He found the poet, with his injured leg upon a 
 stool, scribbling for dear life. The dingy, ill-kept 
 room was close, with a closeness strongly flavoured 
 with last night's potations. The Bard, as he wrote
 
 THE RHYMER 187 
 
 to his Clarinda, was ' pretty hearty, after a bowl 
 busily plyed last night from dinner-time to bed- 
 time.' He folded and fastened this precious mis- 
 sive as Nicol entered. 
 
 ' Eh, Nicol, man/ he began, cheerfully, ' you 
 are just in good time to be Cupid's messenger once 
 more. Here's the note ready.' 
 
 ' I carry notes this day,' said Nicol, loudly and 
 assertively, ' to no sluts whatsoever ! 'Tis no day 
 for a dog to be out, not to say a human being.' 
 
 ' Hoots, man,' said the poet, fleechingly. ' What's 
 a bit blaw o' snow ? The storm's by wi'. Were it 
 
 not for this d d leg, which I did over exercise 
 
 in the walking yesterday, I would be out and 
 away mysel'.' 
 
 ' Well, you can be out and away, leg and all,' 
 said Nicol, unmoved, ' for ye'll no get me to do 
 none o' your deil's trokes this day.' 
 
 ' Man, Willie,' said the poet, with a seriously 
 alarmed air, ' but the letter must go, ye ken that ! 
 She, my present charmer (sure you know it to 
 your own cost as well as mine), has an epistolary 
 aptitude that surpasses all. 'Tis the devil and all 
 with these high-flown little dears. . . . Now, a 
 simple lass will be content with words and kisses, 
 and so a man whiles gets a moment's peace. But 
 pen and ink must serve her betters. God wot, it is no 
 easy job to fill a daily sheet ! But gin she doesna 
 get it, she'll have six here, and then you'll have to 
 carry six answers instead of one. . . . You'll 
 never fail me at this gait, surely ? ' 
 
 ' Is it to that thrice-accursed stair up the town 
 you'd have me go?' demanded Nicol, savagely. 
 He hated, with some reason, every step of the steep 
 way to the Potterrow. ' But I needna ask,' he
 
 1 88 THE RHYMER 
 
 continued. ' You're none so anxious wi' messages 
 in the other quarter now. . . .' The words con- 
 veyed a sting, and the poet flushed, with the 
 sheepish air of a boy caught in some peccadillo. 
 
 * Wheesht ! wheesht ! ' he said, uneasily, Nicol 
 shrugged his shoulders ; the countless and com- 
 plicated amours of his friend wearied him exces- 
 sively, for he heard of little else. Those of the 
 lower kind he would condone ; they served for 
 a coarse jest now and again, and he would rally 
 the poet — as others had often done — on the extra- 
 ordinary unattractiveness of some of his humbler 
 Dulcineas. But for the more ambitious intrigues, 
 he had scant patience, and the vulgarian's restless 
 jealousy of the class above him made him, on this 
 score, especially intractable and suspicious. 
 
 ' I would ye had the giving and taking yersel' 
 o' your precious letters to your fine, flummery 
 madams,' he said, ill-temperedly. ' Och, there's 
 ane o' them I would I had a baud o' ! The jad', 
 she thinks an honest man the dirt beneath her 
 feet, and rubs her fingers on her hanky — curse her 
 airs ! — if they chance to touch her hand.' The 
 poet looked puzzled. 
 
 ' Sure, you can't mean my Clarinda ? ' he said. 
 ' She has a soft eye for all men, and there's no 
 d d airs whatsoever about her.' 
 
 ' 'Tis a strappin', great, wallopin' hizzy, the one 
 I'm meaning,' said Nicol, carelessly. He cherished 
 a spite against the tall, grey-eyed girl, with her 
 unmistakable, fastidious air of ladyhood, who so 
 often gave letters into his hands, and he was glad 
 to vent it in words. 
 
 ' Ah — I take you now ! ' said Burns, nodding his 
 head, ' and I am rather with you there, I think.
 
 THE RHYMER 189 
 
 A cold, haughty miss ! A feather in Society's cap, 
 no doubt ; while the likes of us are but hob-nails 
 in its shoes. . . . But she has a voice — a voice 
 that—' 
 
 ' Here — gie's the letter ! ' said Nicol, rudely 
 interrupting what promised to become a rhap- 
 sody. ' When is it that you leave the town for 
 the south country?' he suddenly asked, turning 
 at the door. 
 
 ' Never speir at me, lad,' answered the poet, 
 whimsically. ' Ask the star of love that governs 
 my destiny ! ' 
 
 ' Tuts — havers ! ' retorted Nicol, irritably ; he 
 was in no mood for trifling, and the poet's most 
 persuasive airs (he could coax like a child) were 
 lost upon him. ' I tell you this, once for all,' he 
 went on, ' you must sort your private matters for 
 yourself before ye go. There must be none of 
 your baggages, gentle or simple, skirling round 
 this door when you're away. For I'll not have it ! ' 
 
 ' Sure, Willie, man, there's something up with 
 you the day,' murmured the poet, wheedlingly. 
 ' Was it last night's bowl ? 'Od, we kept it up 
 late, and 'twas a winking brew. My own head- 
 piece dirls yet ! ' But his friend did not deign a 
 reply. He had gone off to find a shovel and 
 broom, proceeding therewith to sourly sweep the 
 snow from the doorstep of genius ; which humble 
 task performed, he set off to the Potterrow with 
 the very worst grace in the world. 
 
 The Bard, left to himself, twirled absently in his 
 fingers Clarinda's last effusion, while he lost him- 
 self in meditation. To the ingenious reader it will 
 be clear that ' Sylvander ' wearied of the corre- 
 spondence. It may be doubted whether a man
 
 190 THE RHYMER 
 
 can keep the Platonic ball a-roUing beyond a cer- 
 tain number of weeks with any satisfaction. A 
 woman wearies of this specious form of humbug 
 less easily, perhaps, — she has more to lose by its 
 abandonment. ' Clarinda's ' letters grew longer day 
 by day, while ' Sylvander's ' dwindled, and became 
 irregular. Frequent interviews, indeed, now took 
 the place of letters, and of these the poet was by 
 no means tired. They had a special flavour — 
 exquisite even to the blunted palate of Don Juan. 
 Here was an intrigue, and yet not an intrigue, 
 with a little woman who combined a thousand 
 fascinations in her dainty person : the intellectual 
 bias, the ardent temperament, quick passions, and 
 yet a tantalising prudence which armed her with 
 tormenting scruples exquisitely provocative to this 
 tempter, who, with the full force of his genius and 
 his overpowering personality, lured her from safety. 
 Poor Nancy! she had thought to dally with a 
 giant, and hold him in the delicate chains of her 
 influence ; but the giant had her in his tremendous 
 hands, and they were Ixke to brush the bloom from 
 her butterfly-like being. Nevertheless did the 
 giant curse himself, because he could not leave 
 her, and could not, though business, honour, and 
 duty pressed him on all sides, forego the delicacies 
 of this stolen love-feast. Day after day he post- 
 poned his departure, already so long delayed by 
 his accident. He was long overdue in Dumfries- 
 shire, where he was in treaty for certain farm 
 lands, which were to be the making of his future 
 (or so he hoped). The affair of his appointment 
 in the Excise hung in the balance, and required 
 the pushing of his interest at every turn. His 
 genteel and powerful acquaintance, Mrs Dunlop
 
 THE RHYMER 191 
 
 of Dunlop, pressed for his attendance at her house 
 of Dunlop in Ayrshire, in letters quite as long and 
 almost as oppressively affectionate as Clarinda's. 
 And then, at Mauchline, his partial and all-too- 
 prolific Jean had just presented him, and for the 
 second time, with twins. True, in timely and most 
 considerate fashion, these had died ; but still, the 
 matter seemed to press for a little personal super- 
 intendence. Was ever poet so beset ? And yet, 
 he lingered, and the Devil led him to the Potter- 
 row.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 For some two or three weeks Herrles adhered 
 with wonderful strictness to the sober and sensible 
 terms of courtship laid down between him and 
 Alison. They never wrote to each other, and they 
 very rarely met. The latter contingency, however, 
 arose rather from the sheer pressure of circum- 
 stances than from inclination. Mr Creighton con- 
 tinued to be confined to his rooms by severe 
 illness, and Herries found himself in consequence 
 overwhelmed with business. Not only was the 
 office work doubly heavy in the absence of his 
 partner, but it was constantly interrupted by the 
 necessity of reference to the absent man, as long 
 as he was able in any measure to give his mind to 
 the affairs of his profession. Latterly, this had 
 almost ceased to be the case, for the invalid grew 
 worse rather than better, and Herries's visits 
 quickly changed from those of business to those 
 merely of inquiry. Mr Creighton lay day after 
 day in that dreary room of his, uncomplaining, 
 somewhat ill-attended, and always lonely, facing, 
 with grim stoicism, the approaching end. His 
 dog, Dick, lay on the bed at his feet, with melting 
 eyes fixed ever on his master's face — uncompre- 
 hending, but full of a wise beast's yearning 
 sympathy. 
 
 But all this time, at his heart — that newly- 
 discovered organ — Herries longed for Alison. 
 
 192
 
 THE RHYMER 193 
 
 Sometimes he could snatch a brief hour to go to 
 the Potterrow, but, naturally, he hardly ever found 
 Alison alone. These visits of his drove Nancy 
 nearly wild with impatience and with fear — the 
 fear being, of course, that they would clash with 
 those of the poet 
 
 ' What in the universe brings the man now ? ' she 
 would petulantly exclaim. ' Can he not let us be ? ' 
 
 Her naive conviction that a man who had 
 always been adamant to her own charms must 
 necessarily remain so to those of everyone else 
 continued perfectly unshaken. Whether, under 
 any circumstances, she could have believed 
 Herries capable of being in love is very doubtful. 
 But at present the distorting veil of her own half- 
 guilty passion was drawn across her eyes, and she 
 saw nothing. 
 
 ' Are you never alone ? ' Herries said fretfully to 
 Alison once, after a singularly irksome visit shared 
 with Nancy and Willy. 
 
 ' Not very often, sir,' said Alison ; and then she 
 added, with a little hesitation, shyly, * There are 
 Tuesday and Thursday evenings, now, when 
 Nancy goes to hear Mr Kemp lecture on a mis- 
 sionary project, and I — I do not go, because 'tis 
 Willy's history nights, and I help him with his 
 lessons.' 
 
 ' Then I'll come those nights, of course ! ' cried 
 Herries. ' But then, drat him, there will always 
 be the boy ! ' 
 
 ' I can sometimes put him to Jean in the kitchen 
 with his book,' said Alison, demurely, and a dimple 
 suddenly showed in one cheek, which Herries had 
 never noticed before. 
 
 Jean, in these days, was a great ally of Alison's, 
 
 N
 
 194 THE RHYMER 
 
 and if she saw more than she was meant to see in 
 Herries's visits, she kept her honest counsel. 
 
 So Herries came always on these evenings when 
 the exemplary Nancy, who was in her own peculiar 
 fashion extremely pious, attended the lucubrations 
 of her favourite divine. Those were sweet hours 
 to the harassed man, and I do not say they were 
 the less sweet for being stolen. He could lay 
 aside for a brief space the stern responsibilities of 
 the life he took so hardly — let his brain rest, and 
 his heart speak. The little parlour would be, in 
 the twilight of the lengthening evenings, lit only 
 by the firelight and the dying day. If Herries 
 called himself a cold or backward lover, not so, in 
 those dear hours, did Alison find him. 
 
 ' Ally,' he said one night, ' this secrecy cannot 
 go on for ever, though just now it is conformable 
 enough to my affairs. When shall it end ? ' 
 
 ' When I go home, sir, perhaps,' said Alison, 
 timidly. 
 
 'Then, when you go home, I come too,' said 
 Herries, softly, ' and make formal propositions to 
 the laird of The Mains for the hand of his eldest 
 daughter ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said Alison, with shining eyes. They 
 shone because they saw so fair a vision — her 
 happy self returning to her old home, and with 
 her, this true, this gallant lover. She saw the low, 
 old house — the dear, humble rooms of her child- 
 hood — her father's face — her sisters crowding round 
 her. Oh ! proud the moment when she should 
 show this ' braw wooer ' of her own to the mother 
 who would have had her tie herself to Mr Cheape ! 
 Our good Alison was all a woman here, and sweet 
 was the foretaste of a woman's triumph.
 
 THE RHYMER 195 
 
 * Let it be very soon,' Hemes whispered, his 
 h'ps among the curls at her ear ; ' whenever this 
 accursed press of business is over, the sooner the 
 better for me.' 
 
 ' Whenever Nancy can spare me, sir,' said Alison. 
 
 ' Why, what can bind you to my cousin, child ? ' 
 asked Herries; ' — I mean as to a particular period 
 of time ? ' 
 
 * I — I am bound, sir,' said Alison, a little un- 
 happily. ' As long as Nancy wants me, I must 
 stay.' The shadow of a hidden thing seemed to 
 fall across her joy. She moved away from her 
 lover. 
 
 * Well, I can see no " must " about it,' said 
 Herries. ' You are a strange pair of friends, I 
 often think, you and Nancy ! Two creatures more 
 unlike never lived, I believe.' 
 
 ' I would — I would you could think differently 
 of Nancy,' said Alison, impulsively. 
 
 ' I do what I can for her in the best way that I 
 am able,' Herries answered, a little curtly, perhaps. 
 
 * You do everything in the world for her, sir,' 
 cried Alison, eagerly, ' except — except understand 
 her, I think.' 
 
 ' What should there be to understand about the 
 little jade ? ' said Herries, lightly. ' But, nay, I 
 daresay there is too much, and I don't like women 
 who need such a vast deal of understanding. She 
 that I love must be clear as the day to my eyes — 
 no obscurities, no subterfuges, no explanations — 
 and she is ! ' 
 
 ' But, sir,' said Alison, very much in earnest on 
 this point, ' I would have you understand all that 
 Nancy is to me now — all that she must ever be 
 whatever happens. I — we both — owe her our
 
 196 THE RHYMER 
 
 happiness, do we not, Archie ? But for Nancy, I'd 
 never have come to Edinburgh, nor have seen you.' 
 
 ' But for Nancy,' cried Herries, gaily, ' you'd be 
 Mrs Cheape of Kincarley, in the cosy county of 
 Fife ! Here's to Nancy, who stole a wife from the 
 laird, and brought one to Archibald Herries, the 
 poor writer of George Street ! ' And he lifted high 
 a little cup from the mantel, and pretended to 
 drink to the absent mistress of the house. So 
 light-hearted on these happy evenings was Alison's 
 lover. 
 
 Then there came the evening — but memorable, 
 alas ! for more than this — when Herries brought 
 her his mother's ring. He had found time, and it 
 had taken him many hours after his busy days, to 
 hunt for it in the recesses of his house among the 
 piles of boxes, desks and cases crammed with the 
 relics of the parents he had never known. At last 
 he had got it — a beautiful, clear-set emerald, 
 slipped thirty years ago from a dead woman's 
 hand by the despairing man who had loved her. 
 
 The lovers bent over it at the little window, and 
 it gleamed at them in the fading evening light. 
 
 ' How beautiful,' whispered awestruck Alison, 
 who had never owned a ring in her life. ' 'Tis 
 much too grand for me, sir, and I — I can give 
 you nothing back.' 
 
 ' Give me a curl,' said Herries, half in jest. ' The 
 true lover's gift' 
 
 ' Would you really like one ? ' cried Alison, and 
 with characteristic absence of vanity she seized 
 upon one of her finest, and caught up a pair of 
 scissors for the sacrifice. 
 
 * Nay, now, not that one,' Herries laughed, 
 forcibly intervening. 'You'd spoil the bonny
 
 THE RHYMER 197 
 
 bunch ! She here, a baby one that hides behind 
 your ear — you'd never miss it.' Alison snipped 
 off the ' baby one,' tied it up with a thread of silk 
 from Nancy's basket, and twisted it in a piece 
 of paper, all with her own matter-of-fact and literal 
 air, that made Herries laugh again, and love her 
 more. 
 
 ' There, sir,' she said. ' I would 'twere a hand- 
 somer gift. You know,' she added, ' they say 'tis 
 unlucky to give hair — it means "farewell."' 
 
 ' Ah, but we're so prosaic a pair, love,' said 
 Herries, half-mocking. ' There's no romantic ill- 
 luck in store for us, be sure. We leave that to 
 the high-flyers.' 
 
 Then they went to the window again and bent 
 their heads over the ring. It is hardly fair to 
 spy upon a rising and respectable young lawyer 
 in his softer moments. But if, in the old days at 
 The Mains, Kirsty, the dairy-maid, had had a 
 lover who put an arm around her waist, Alison, 
 as her own good mother might have put it, was 
 'upsides with her' now. 
 
 She and Herries, indeed, were so absorbed in 
 the ring and in each other's company that they 
 heard no sounds outside the little room. Their 
 backs were towards the door, which had an awk- 
 ward trick of sometimes swinging open unnoticed, 
 when not securely latched. It had swung open now 
 to some movement of the crazy old tenement, and 
 all unknown to the lovers, a figure stood motion- 
 less on the threshold. It was a towering figure, 
 but it had a canny step, to which additional 
 stealthiness had been imparted by the simple 
 expedient of removing the stout shoes from the 
 heavy feet. Too often had Robbie Burns crept
 
 198 THE RHYMER 
 
 to clandestine meetings not to know that 'tis pity- 
 on such occasions to disturb the neighbours with 
 unseemly clatter on the stairs. 
 
 He could see well into the room, for the fire 
 had blazed up brightly, and he perceived perfectly 
 the two figures and their attitude — recognising one. 
 
 ' Eh, ma lassie,' he ejaculated to himself, ' kissin' 
 and kitlin' like the rest o' us, for all your prudish 
 airs ! ' And he executed, behind the unconscious 
 pair, a short and silent war-dance on his stocking- 
 soles, brandishing his shoes above his head in the 
 mischievous glee of a schoolboy. But he made 
 no sign. Diving behind the door, he deftly re- 
 assumed his foot-gear, and then, with a due and 
 decent rattling of the latch, he made known his 
 presence, and entered the little room. 
 
 Alison turned, with a great and visible start, 
 when she heard and saw him. She felt herself 
 grow pale, for she knew that an awkward, and 
 even terrible, moment had come, and that the 
 meeting, which Nancy had schemed for weeks to 
 avoid, must now, by some unforeseen coincidence, 
 take place. But she took her courage in both her 
 hands, and with it there came to her a certain de- 
 finite sense of relief. At last, she felt, there would 
 be an end to deception. 
 
 ' This is Mr Burns, the poet, sir,' she said, in her 
 quiet voice, and turned to Herries.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Herries, whose eyes had narrowed and whose 
 lips were set, held his hands behind him and made 
 an inclination so haughty and so slight that it was 
 barely perceptible. Jean brought in the lights. 
 
 ' We have met ere this, sir, I think,' said Burns, not 
 unpleasantly. He knew Herries perfectly by sight, 
 and had no reason to suppose he would resent the 
 imputation of being seen at some of the first houses 
 in Edinburgh. 
 
 ' I was hitherto unaware of the honour,' said 
 Herries, with appalling frigidity, and it would have 
 needed no very acute observer to have seen the 
 hot and sensitive blood rush to the poet's face. 
 He, however, contained himself with dignity enough. 
 Alison's fingers, cold with fright, were twisted to- 
 gether with nervousness. She certainly did not 
 improve matters by saying to the poet, — 
 
 ' Mrs Maclehose was not expecting you just now, 
 I think, sir?' 
 
 ' Why, no, madam,' said the Bard ; * but I could 
 not come at a later hour, and I swear the strings 
 of your harp so drew me that I could not forego 
 coming now rather than not at all. We must 
 finish " Lassie wi' the Lint White Locks," and to that 
 grand tune " The Rothiemurchus Rant," or I will 
 go clean wud,* I think. It rings i' the head o' me 
 half right, and yet not right. Tantalus himself 
 
 * Mad. 
 199
 
 200 THE RHYMER 
 
 could not endure it' The poet had set back his 
 shoulders and spoke out freely and boldly, as 
 though by the divine right of his genius the little 
 room and all it held, including Alison, were his. 
 He ifrnored Herries. As to Herries, Alison could 
 see him without looking at him, could tell the very 
 tilt his fine and scornful brows were set at, could 
 feel, through her very back, the coldness of his 
 stare. And yet her courage rose. Oh, he would be 
 angry — sore displeased ! But better by far he should 
 be angry for a little while than any longer deceived. 
 
 It was fortunate for all concerned that Nancy 
 returned at this critical juncture. She took in the 
 state of matters in an instant, and with ready wit 
 and supple tact did all that one little woman could 
 do to save the situation. She bustled about, she 
 chattered, she rallied the poet on the rareness of his 
 visits (he had been there the previous night), she 
 pulled a chair up to the hearth for Herries, and 
 almost pushed him into it. 
 
 ' Now, cousin,' she said coolly, ' you'll witness one 
 of our own little symposiums, and hear how marvel- 
 lously Ally is improving on the harp.' She ardently 
 hoped — though she did not expect — that Herries 
 would go. But this he had no intention of doing. 
 Alison had left the room, and the boy Willy was 
 shoutinsT for Herries from an inner chamber, where 
 he slept, and Herries went to him. Nancy's whole 
 aspect, voice, and manner, changed in his absence. 
 
 ' For God's sake, Sylvander,' she said, clasping 
 the poet's arm, 'behave yourself this night ! Yonder 
 is my most revered, particular, Puritanical cousin 
 and guardian, the lawyer Archibald Herries. A 
 pragmatical creature — no soul, no sympathy — but if 
 he's offended, poor Clarinda is undone ! He is all
 
 THE RHYMER 201 
 
 her shield against the cruel world — all the worldly 
 hope of her poor, deserted babes, I implore you 
 have a care not to offend him by your manners 
 to your poor friend.' 
 
 ' My bare existence offends him,' said the poet, 
 shrewdly enough. 'What right,' he continued 
 bitterly, ' has the poor ploughman to breathe the 
 same air with so fine a gentleman as Mr Herries? ' 
 
 ' Oh, heavens ! ' cried Nancy, half beside herself. 
 ' Never heed him. Are you not worth a hundred 
 of such poor dried sticks as he? Only think of 
 your poor Clarinda and be careful ! 'Twould in- 
 deed be almost better could you go.' 
 
 ' I thank you, madam,' said the Bard, grimly ; 
 ' but I think I'll stand my ground, unless you put 
 me to the door.' 
 
 ' Then, for God's sake, give all your heed to Ally,' 
 cried Nancy ; ' not a look, not a word, but of merest 
 civility to Clarinda ! ' 
 
 The poet cocked his eye. He was about to tell 
 what he had seen that evening on first entering 
 the room, but he checked himself: telling tales was 
 not his weakness. And then the idea of a little 
 dalliance with Alison, under the supercilious nose 
 of her lover, by no means came amiss. Here was 
 a little diverting vengeance ready to his hand ; he 
 would never carry it too far, he reflected, for, with 
 all his faults, he was generous and good-natured. 
 So he chuckled, and nodded knowingly to Nancy. 
 
 In the dark little outer lobby, Alison and Herries 
 had met for a brief moment. 
 
 'Archie!' whispered Alison, with an outstretched 
 hand. But he turned upon her a look of offence 
 so cold, that she was silenced, and her arm fell to 
 her side.
 
 202 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' I did not know,' he said icily, ' of Miss Graham's 
 intimate acquaintance with the poet Burns ! ' And 
 he brushed past her into the parlour. Alison, 
 feeling as though she had been struck, followed 
 him. It had been easy to bear his anger in 
 advance ; but oh ! she had not known how hard 
 it would be — how hard to meet that changed look 
 in his face, that coldness in his voice. The wave 
 of courage that had risen so high within her, re- 
 ceded ; but she forced it back. Better he should 
 be angry than deceived. She did not realise as yet 
 the intricate, net-like nature of deception, so loth 
 to set one free. 
 
 The evening passed. To all outward appear- 
 ances it was a musical evening of undeniable 
 edification to all concerned, when a great poet 
 might have been seen unbending himself, and 
 honouring, with much gallant attention, the accom- 
 plished young lady who helped him with her harp 
 and song. Nancy sat in her accustomed place, 
 wreathed in smiles, and dispensing sugared words 
 and glances. Herries, indeed, was totally silent, 
 but it might have been the silence of appreciation. 
 Alison and her harp, the poet seated near her, 
 made a central and striking group in the little 
 room. How fair — how singularly fair— she looked 
 that night ! So, at least, it seemed to her lover, 
 watching her from under lowered lids, with anger 
 — the anger of love and longing — at his heart. 
 The poet, too, looked well: strong, manly, massive. 
 Herries, as he watched him bend over Alison that 
 fine frame and splendid head, hated him at that 
 moment, not, I fear, for his vices, but for his thews 
 and sinews, his sun-browned comeliness and daring 
 eye. Like many men, slenderly moulded, and of
 
 THE RHYMER 203 
 
 delicate constitution, Herries had a passionate 
 and jealous admiration of manly beauty hardened 
 and developed by all out-door and vigorous pur- 
 suits. Necessity had doomed him to a sedentary 
 life, but it was against every taste and inclination, 
 every instinct of his being. He felt now, angrily, 
 that this creature — this ploughman — belittled 
 him. Certainly the contrast between them was 
 sufficiently striking ; it was the contrast between 
 porcelain and bronze. Yet never had the peculiar 
 grace of Herries, the marked refinement, the purity 
 of his chiselled face, shone more by contrast. So, 
 at least, it seemed to one who saw him, whenever 
 she dared steal a glance upon her angry Jove. 
 
 They could not make much headway with the 
 song that night, probably because Alison's wits 
 were wandering. Burns was working up, after his 
 usual methods, the ' Lassie wi' the Lint White 
 Locks,' some fag-end of an old, forgotten country 
 catch, which he set in the jewels of his own death- 
 less words, and sought to match to some old tune, 
 Alison had found the air ; over and over again she 
 played it, and sang the words as the poet said them 
 at her ear. The little room seemed full of the air, 
 of the words, of the spirit of song : — 
 
 ' Lassie wV the lint white locks, 
 Bonnie lassie, artless lassie ! 
 Wilt thoti wP vie tend the flocks? 
 Wilt thou be viy dearie, O ? ' 
 
 Over and over and over again — the little fleering, 
 jeering, heartless tune, with yet its sub-note of 
 pathos and of pain, the tinkle of the harp, the 
 girlish voice singing, the poet's deeper tones in 
 speech. Herries had no ear for music or for verse.
 
 204 THE RHYMER 
 
 yet that air and those words stayed with him all 
 his life. He could never hear a boy whistle the 
 one, or a lass lilt the other at her work, without 
 an unbearable stab of pain. 
 
 When the singing was over, it became apparent 
 to the astute hostess of the Potterrow that each 
 of her guests meant to outstay the other. Herries 
 made no move. The poet, glowering somewhat, 
 now that the mood of inspiration had left him, 
 chafed visibly under the other's sneering silence 
 and marked aloofness. In spite of his natural 
 manliness and independence, he was agonis- 
 ingly sensitive to a social slight, and helpless 
 under it. Yet neither would he give in. It grew 
 late. The poet, it transpired, contemplated an 
 early start the following morning, when he was 
 to ride to Ayrshire, returning in a fortnight or so 
 to town. This forced him, at last, to make a move, 
 for he had affairs to attend to. With a formal 
 adieu to the ladies, and a black look at Herries, 
 which he could not, for the life of him, decide to 
 make into a bow or not, he took his departure. 
 
 He was hardly out of the room, when Herries 
 walked to the window and set it open. 
 
 ' Pah ! ' he said, ' there's too much of your 
 poet in here ! ' Then he fell silent, for words 
 wanted him. In olden days he would have rated 
 his cousin in no measured terms. But now the 
 woman he wanted to rate was not his cousin, but 
 another, and his lips were sealed to her in the 
 presence of a third person. Besides, he was not 
 only angry, when it is easy to speak ; but he was 
 sore, when it is almost impossible for a proud and 
 sensitive man to find words. And, as yet, he did 
 not know what words to use.
 
 THE RHYMER 205 
 
 < T'l 
 
 I'll reserve my criticism on your "symposium" 
 for another occasion, Nancy,' he said. ' 'Twill be 
 so very full and appreciative a one that 'twill 
 require more time than is left us this evening,' he 
 added significantly. He said good-night to his 
 cousin. To Alison he bowed coldly as he left 
 the room.. 
 
 ' My lord is fine and angry,' said Nancy, as she 
 shut the door on him, ' but that's of course. On 
 the whole, the matter has passed off better than 
 I could have expected, though Lord only knows 
 what is to come. 'Twas atj/otij- feet the poet sat, 
 Ally, no doubt about that ! ' And she tittered, 
 well pleased. 
 
 ' Oh, Nancy, Nancy ! ' — cried Alison ; she knew 
 not what she was about to say, but the impulse 
 seemed to be on her to be out with it all. 
 
 ' Hush, child ! ' said Nancy, sharply. ' Listen ! ' 
 There was a bounding step upon the stair, and she 
 ran to the door, laughing, and flung it wide. The 
 poet had tricked the lawyer prettily. He had 
 simply hidden himself in a dark niche of the stair 
 until he saw his enemy depart, and here he was 
 again, bursting with successful mischief. 
 
 ' Did Clarinda fancy her Sylvandcr would leave 
 her with a formal, cold farewell ? ' he asked, with 
 a fine rolling eye. 
 
 Alison ran to her room, and shut herself up in 
 it in a passion of just anger — just, but helpless. 
 
 So Clarinda and her Sylvander had a long and 
 tender parting, and felt that they took a well- 
 deserved, as well as most enjoyable, revenge upon 
 her disagreeable relative.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI I 
 
 Alison's struggles that night were like those of 
 a bird that is caught in a net. The bird cannot 
 free itself, not altogether for want of strength, but 
 because it does not understand the nature of nets. 
 And thus it was with Alison. The meshes, not of 
 her own will or seeking, were all round and 
 about her ; so slight, so thread-like they seemed, 
 yet they had entangled her, and the more she 
 strove to cast them off the more they clung. 
 
 Her lover was offended — ^justly offended. 
 Alison's straight inward eye saw that at once. 
 She had deceived him, though bitterly against 
 her will. She had connived, and still connived, at 
 his deception by another. That other was her 
 friend and benefactress whose bread she ate, who 
 had loaded her with kindness. She could not 
 unravel the deception. She could not seek for- 
 giveness from her lover by confession without 
 betraying Nancy. 
 
 * I see that it is wrong ever to hide anything,' 
 was one of her thoughts that night. ' 'Twould 
 have been far better to have told Nancy at once 
 that we loved each other.' And yet that decep- 
 tion, if, indeed, it could be called one, had seemed 
 so innocent. It had arisen, not from ideas of 
 expediency, but from sheer strength of feeling — the 
 feeling of reserved and silent natures that longed 
 for privacy in a sacred moment. Had they not 
 
 206
 
 THE RHYMER 207 
 
 a perfect right to keep their happiness to them- 
 selves — a happiness that injured or robbed no 
 one — that concerned no one but their two selves ? 
 That night it had been in her to tell Nancy, but 
 what would she have gained by such a telling? 
 Was it conceivable that Nancy, even though 
 knowing all, would put matters straight by a 
 full confession to Herries, exposing herself, her 
 passion, her duplicity, and then, renouncing all her 
 misdeeds, sit calmly down to a benignant contem- 
 plation of Herries's happiness ? Alison almost 
 laughed as she thought of it. No, that was not 
 conceivable. It seemed to her — and Alison was 
 very clear-headed — that a full knowledge of the 
 facts — of the facts that bound her and Herries 
 together — would merely drive Nancy into further 
 and fiercer deceit. She would simply regard them 
 both as enemies leagued together against her, and 
 deceive both, whereas, as yet, she deceived only 
 the one. Not only was there no help, but there 
 might be danger in telling Nancy now. 
 
 And then the thought — the temptation — came 
 to Alison : she might go home ! She might cut 
 the strings that bound her — never heeding that 
 they bound another, too — and be free and fly away 
 to that dear, that safe old home, where there were 
 no deceptions, where everybody spoke the truth 
 with disagreeable plainness, if need be, but always 
 the unvarnished truth. Herries would have her 
 do this. He might bid her do it yet. But, ah ! 
 Alison knew she could not — might not — dared 
 not do it, for heart and conscience both said no. 
 What — and she hardly dared ask herself the 
 question — what would come to Nancy if she were 
 left alone ? Alison had learned many things of
 
 2o8 THE RHYMER 
 
 late, and her girlish eyes had been opened to much 
 — to so much that was not fit for them to see, but 
 that they saw because they were clear-sighted eyes 
 that always read the truth. What would become of 
 Nancy now if the one barrier — the restraining pre- 
 sence of a companion of her own sex — were taken 
 away, and she were left an absolutely unprotected 
 prey to that overpowering influence that shadowed 
 all she did and all she thought ? The face of the 
 man rose before Alison — the masterful, sensual 
 face, the riveting eyes — and she heard the stealing 
 steps that now too often and too late — far, far 
 too late into the night — would come creeping up 
 the stair. Jean would be long since safely bedded 
 in her attic — but, at least until now, Alison had 
 always been at hand, with the certain safety of 
 her presence, though fully conscious how angrily 
 that presence was resented by one of the pair, if 
 not indeed by both. Alison was innocent, as the 
 pure are innocent, but she was not stupid, and she 
 was not blind. She knew enough to know that 
 even if Nancy were yet guiltless, her good 
 name was fearfully at stake ; it hung by a thread, 
 and one end of that thread was in Alison's hands. 
 And it was Nancy — the dear, dainty, sweet Nancy 
 — that had so twined herself round the simple affec- 
 tions of the country girl ! It was the Nancy that 
 had saved Alison from Mr Cheape, and that had 
 brought her to Archibald Merries. No, Nancy 
 should never be deserted in her peril. Even if 
 Alison's early love for her were gone, there was yet 
 loyalty, and Alison would be unswervingly loyal. 
 She must bide her time and wait. She trusted 
 Herries with a passion of trust. Whatever he did, 
 that must be right, and she would abide by it.
 
 THE RHYMER 209 
 
 In the meantime, Alison's lover had gone home, 
 far more deeply perturbed than she, because totally in 
 the dark, and because he had not, as had the woman 
 he loved, the solid ground beneath his feet of a 
 nature that could trust. Suspicion and mistrust 
 had dogged the beginning of his love for Alison, 
 but then Creighton had been at his elbow to fight 
 each doubt as it arose ; and after that his own love 
 had grown strong, so strong that it grappled with 
 the enemies of his nature, and overthrew them for 
 a time. But now they sprang upon him from their 
 old ambush, and how alive, how terribly alive, they 
 were ! The angry blood rushed to his brow as he 
 thought himself deceived. Had she really tricked 
 him ? He recalled the ugly little circumstances of 
 the early winter — the meeting in St James's Square 
 — the fee to Mysie ; and then — and then, could it 
 be that Alison had begged for secrecy in their 
 engagement, had deprecated the frequency of his 
 visits to the Potterrow, bidden him come on cer- 
 tain evenings and at certain hours only, because 
 she played a double game, and fooled him in it ? 
 But no, this was monstrous, and he did not believe 
 it in his soul — not yet at least. Only, in his bitter- 
 ness, he said to himself that all women were the 
 same ; they all deceived, prevaricated, lied and hid, 
 and this seeming-true, fair creature that he had 
 taken to his heart was only a woman after all. 
 Ah, but he loved her ! Not till now had he known 
 the strength of his love, not till his heart pained 
 him as it did this night, with its abominable 
 aching. There was nothing for it but that he must 
 write to her before he slept, and he did so. 
 
 He made his accusation in plain terms. ' You 
 have deceived me,' he wrote, ' in regard to an in- 
 
 O
 
 2IO THE RHYMER 
 
 timacy, which you have hidden, with a man whom 
 you knew well that I abhorred. I did suspect at 
 one time that Burns might possibly frequent my 
 cousin's house, because of her foolish craze for 
 literary lions and the like. But the suspicion left 
 me utterly, because I did not believe that such a 
 matter would be kept from my knowledge by you. 
 But now I suddenly find you intimate with this 
 man, singing to him, and having in common with 
 him, apparently, the memory of countless meet- 
 ings. What am I to think ? To this intimacy — 
 at anyrate in my cousin's household — it is my 
 resolution and my duty to put an instant termina- 
 tion, and I shall know what measures to take to 
 that end. If I have any claim on yoti — and you 
 yourself only can decide whether I have or not 
 — I forbid you to see or have speech with this 
 man again. He is a profligate. I have reasons, 
 believe me, that make me urge your obedience in 
 this matter. I am harsh with you — I was harsh 
 to-night — but I would not be too harsh, Alison. 
 I know not yet how far you may have acted under 
 influence, — perhaps my cousin's. I have often felt 
 she was no safe guardian for a young girl. Have 
 you found out yet that you left my mother's ring — 
 the ring of our betrothal — in my hands ? You 
 started so, when that accursed poet came into the 
 room, and were so visibly taken aback that you 
 forgot my gift ! I desire and hope to God you 
 may yet wear it — and wear it worthily. But I will 
 keep it for a little while. You will not see me for 
 some days. I learn that Mr Creighton's illness is 
 become dangerous, and every hour that I can 
 spare must be spent at his bedside.' 
 
 When Alison got this letter, a strange feeling of
 
 THE RHYMER 211 
 
 exaltation moved her. Severe? But then, how- 
 just! Plain? But how she loved his plainness! 
 Dear — dearer than his very kisses — to this girl, with 
 her own straight, undeviating nature, was the man's 
 unerring, if narrow, rectitude, his clean, cold up- 
 rightness, his hatred of all false ways. He would 
 not give her the ring ? She almost laughed ; he 
 might slay her — but she would love the slaying 
 from his hands ; it would be a noble pain ! 
 
 Unluckily for himself and all concerned, Herries 
 did not stay his hand that night, after he had 
 written to Alison. He wrote another letter, and 
 this time he wrote neither so wisely nor so well. 
 It ran : — 
 
 ' Mr Herries presents his compliments to Mr 
 Robert Burns, and begs to inform him that he is 
 under the necessity of preventing and forbidding 
 the visits of Mr Burns to the house of Mrs Macle- 
 hose in the Potterrow. The unhappy circumstances 
 which have deprived Mrs Maclehose of the protec- 
 tion of a husband, make it indispensable that her 
 relatives and friends should exercise a supervision 
 over her acquaintance, and should guard her from 
 the intimacy of persons not of her own station, or 
 known to her immediate circle.' 
 
 This was all — but it was all wrong, and Herries, 
 as a lawyer, if not as a sensible and prudent man, 
 should certainly have known that it was so. That 
 he should forbid Alison the intimacy of such-and- 
 such a man was possibly within his province. 
 That he should advise, cajole or influence his 
 cousin to close her doors against an objectionable 
 visitor might certainly be his duty. But that he 
 should forbid, or, with a high hand, prevent Mr 
 Burns the poet — a free agent in a free country —
 
 212 THE RHYMER 
 
 from visiting any house where he was welcomed by 
 the inmates (except it were his — Herries's own) 
 was an absurdity so glaring, that the only marvel 
 was it did not strike his vision from the paper as 
 he wrote. It can only be said for him that he was 
 at the moment a sorely harassed man — over-worked, 
 in the first instance, and now set upon by jealousy 
 and suspicion. Hot under these influences, it is 
 perhaps no wonder that he sat down to commit 
 the one thoroughly ill-judged action of his life. 
 
 He was aware that the poet left town next day 
 for a fortnight, but he directed the letter to his 
 lodgings in St James's Square, believing that it 
 would be forwarded by the next mail. As a matter 
 of fact, the letter lay in town until the poet's return.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 The fortnight which now began to pass — the 
 period of the poet's absence from town — was 
 a very unhappy one in the Potterrow. Alison 
 had, indeed, her lover's letter, but she would not, 
 or could not, answer it. The truth she could not 
 write, therefore it seemed to her better not to write 
 at all. Hard as it was, it seemed she must be 
 silent under his reproach. Some way out of the 
 mystery might show itself, but it appeared to 
 Alison that she was bound hand and foot, and 
 could not move to clear herself And in these 
 days, though she had a brave heart, she began to 
 be afraid. 
 
 But now the sight of Nancy's wretchedness 
 — no longer to be concealed or disguised — began, 
 even more than her own uneasiness, to affect her. 
 The recklessness, the headstrong wilfulness of the 
 little woman when the object of her passion had 
 been near her, and she could either see him or 
 hear from him day by day, had been hard enough 
 to cope with, but now that he was absent, and the 
 constant excitement of the letters and the meet- 
 ings was suspended, her state was piteous. She 
 would neither eat nor sleep, neither rest nor yet 
 employ herself; the irritation of her temper — 
 sweet turned to bitter under the alchemy of 
 passion — was almost insupportable. She would 
 still write, by the hour, by day and night, her 
 
 2i;5
 
 214 THE RHYMER 
 
 feverish, passionate letters, which followed the poet 
 by mail and post-gig, and must prettily have 
 punctuated his progress as he went. He, from 
 Glasgow, had scratched her a line as he waited 
 for the Paisley carrier, promising future and full 
 epistles. But these did not follow with absolute 
 regularity, and the unreasoning little creature 
 maddened under his silence. She finally fretted 
 herself into a fever, real enough, and Alison had 
 the doctor in ; and a febrifuge and also a sleep- 
 ing-draught prescribed, gave the household a little 
 peace at night at anyrate. 
 
 At last a merciful morning brought a sub- 
 stantial packet from the errant Bard, handsomely 
 franked by some important personage, for he 
 wrote from a fine country house in Ayrshire, where 
 he rested on his way from Mauchline to Dumfries- 
 shire. For hours did Nancy pore over these 
 precious sheets, reading out now and again laugh- 
 ing extracts to Alison. This had always been her 
 wont, and not by any means always edifying had 
 been the nature of these extracts, for Sylvander 
 was a correspondent of amazing frankness, and 
 hid from his Clarinda none of his peccadilloes, past 
 or present. Nancy, in these matters, had grown 
 curiously hardened, and probably hardly realised 
 the essence of her revelations to the shocked ears 
 of a girl. 
 
 ' Why,' she cried, on this occasion, ' here will be 
 a little excursion for you, love ! My Sylvander 
 begs a favour of me ; 'tis to take five shillings, as 
 from him, to a poor necessitous creature in the 
 Wabster's Close. Will you do it, dear? You 
 know how miserably unfit your poor Nancy is to 
 face the streets ! ' Now, the poet's message ran :
 
 THE RHYMER 215 
 
 — ' There is a poor lass in the Wabster's Close 
 of whom I get a tale of distress that makes my 
 very heart weep blood. For some part of her 
 trouble I am (with contrition, I own it) respon- 
 sible. I will trust that your goodness will apolo- 
 gise to your delicacy for me, when I beg you, for 
 heaven's sake, to send the poor woman five shill- 
 ings in my name, and let the wench leave a line 
 for me — you know where — and I shall see her, and 
 try what is to be done for her relief.' Nancy, even, 
 had felt the necessity of editing this passage, but 
 she dwelt upon the poet's kindliness of nature with 
 unction. 
 
 ' He's said to me often and often. Ally,' she took 
 this occasion to remark, * " I would have all men 
 and women happy ! I'd wipe the tears from all 
 eyes if I could ! " He has the tenderest, the most 
 sensitive heart ! ' So, would Alison go upon this 
 charitable quest ? Of course she would — thankful 
 to be sent on any quest that did not lead in the 
 direction of St James's Square. 
 
 Now, it will be said that, in these pages, our poor 
 Alison has run too many messages, and, indeed, 
 she has. But the reader, of his own experience, 
 probably knows that there is in this world 
 a certain class of little, dainty, clinging, tender 
 women whose messages are all run for them as 
 a matter of course. To this class did Nancy 
 Maclehose belong. There was a kind of under- 
 standing that rough walks in dirty streets, and in 
 all kinds of weather, were not her portion. Nor 
 did she exact this consideration from her friends ; 
 it came to her as a sort of right, a kind of tacit 
 acknowledgment of her power — that power to 
 which all bowed down who came in contact with
 
 2i6 THE RHYMER 
 
 her — the willing Alison, the sturdy Jean, her own 
 devoted little boys — even Herries himself, though 
 he, indeed, was a rebellious slave. So Alison set 
 out, quite willingly, in all good faith that she went 
 upon a charitable mission. 
 
 It was mid-February now, and there was an 
 extraordinary mildness in the air. The frost and 
 snow, the bitter north winds were gone. A tender 
 sky, sweet with the very tints of spring, swam 
 above the stern old town, and a westerly wind, soft 
 as a kiss, touched Alison's cheek as she walked. 
 She was acquainted with her destination, the 
 Wabster's Close — a most malodorous and unpleas- 
 ing quarter ; but Alison was not afraid of such 
 places now, and merely picked her way with 
 added caution over the foul causeway and slip- 
 pery cobbles. She had nothing but a name. Clow, 
 as uncommon as it was hideous to go by, and by 
 inquiry she discovered the tenement or ' land,' 
 where a family thus named was said to live. It 
 was up a stair of an agglomerated and indescrib- 
 able filth — the worst that Alison had yet seen. 
 No wonder, she thought, that a person living in 
 such a place needed a charitable dole. 
 
 She paused at a door, behind which there seemed 
 to rise a perfect Babel of sound — a Babel, yet 
 curiously subdued, as though many people spoke, 
 and spoke at once, yet in hushed voices. She 
 knocked, and a woman opened, who, with a 
 curious, indescribable air of excitement, plucked 
 her by the sleeve, whispering hoarsely, — 
 
 ' Come in by — come ben ! ' 
 
 Alison felt impelled to enter, but shrank in- 
 voluntarily, as the close air of the darksome and 
 overcrowded chamber, with some nameless horror
 
 THE RHYMER 217 
 
 in it, assailed her senses. The woman, however, 
 who had admitted her, now closed the door 
 behind her. Alison noticed that her hands were 
 shaking, piteously, uncontrollably, and that she 
 was very pale. The room seemed full — full to 
 overflowing — of women who whispered with bent 
 heads, gesticulating, raising hands to heaven, and 
 who now turned curious eyes on Alison. 
 
 She stood still in the middle of the wretched 
 place, awed and terrified, she knew not why, yet 
 instinctively conscious of the nearness of some 
 tragedy. 
 
 ' I was sent here,' she whispered to the woman 
 near her, ' with five shillings for a girl. Clow, said 
 to be in want or sickness.' 
 
 A murmur ran round the room. At her words, 
 as if by common consent, the crowd of women 
 drew aside, and through the clearance thus made 
 Alison perceived a bed ; and on the bed, its 
 dismal occupant, the newly-dead, as yet untended, 
 the staring eyes unclosed, the pallid hand clenched 
 on the disordered covering. A woman, standing 
 at the bed's head, still held to the parted lips the 
 undimmed mirror. 
 
 Alison's vision swam ; she sickened, but she 
 saw — saw, upturned among the blankets, the 
 gaunt, grey, sightless face ; saw it — and knew it. 
 
 ' Mysie ! ' she cried, shrinking back in utmost 
 horror. 
 
 ' Eh ? ' ejaculated several astonished voices ; ' ye 
 kent poor Mysie?' 
 
 But Alison felt the clammy sweat of faintness 
 break out upon her flesh. 
 
 ' Oh, let me go — let me out ! ' she gasped. ' I 
 will speak to you upon the stair.'
 
 2i8 THE RHYMER 
 
 The women crowded round her, questioning, 
 muttering, explaining she knew not what. She 
 got forth from the room at last, and found herself 
 standing with the one woman upon the outer land- 
 ing. The poor creature seemed decent enough. 
 By some trick of likeness, she might have been, 
 probably was, the dead woman's sister. She eyed 
 Alison, not resentfully, but curiously. 
 
 ' Are ye — are ye from him ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' From whom ? ' said Alison, yet trembling, 
 because she knew. 
 
 ' Mysie was in trouble, ye ken,' the woman said, 
 with a kind of weary dispassionateness. ' I thought 
 that mebbe — ' She paused, lifting her lustreless 
 eyes to the fresh, unworn face of the girl before 
 her, as though wondering how far she would be 
 understood. 
 
 But ah ! Alison understood. She remembered 
 the walk with Mysie only too well — the scene 
 before the house in St James's Square — the poor 
 creature's then mysterious words. What had, even 
 so short a while ago, been hidden to Alison's 
 innocence, was plain to her now. Knowledge of 
 the wrong, and the passion, and the sin of the 
 world was breaking over her heart like the dawn 
 of a grey day. But it was a true woman's heart — 
 full of pity and of strength to meet the sorrowful 
 enlightenment. 
 
 ' He — he has sent money,' she said, crimsoning 
 with shame, and she slipped the coins into the 
 other's hand. 
 
 The woman weighed them in her palm an 
 instant, with a bitter smile. 
 
 ' He's sent it, has he ? ' she said. ' Mebbe a wee 
 thing late! Weel, he didna grudge it, likely.
 
 THE RHYMER 219 
 
 They're tellin' me he was never the lad to grudge, 
 and Mysie had but tae speir and he wad help her. 
 But na, she wudna ! She was a queer body, 
 Mysie. She had a place, and she lost it (anent 
 her trouble, ye see) ; and then she got the cauld 
 trailin' the streets to get a sicht o' her jo, and she 
 dwined and dwined. . . . Ay, it's a queer warld : 
 and as you cam' chappin' at the door yonder, wi' 
 his money in yer hand, the last breath had just 
 but newly left her mooth.' 
 
 Alison, as she listened, was pale ; her pulses 
 fluttered to her deeply - moved, indignant sym- 
 pathy. Inexperienced in sorrow, she knew not 
 what to say, but her eyes filled, and the woman 
 saw them, and drew her hand across her own eyes, 
 dim with long watching. 
 
 ' Ye will excuse us,' she said, with unconscious 
 dignity. ' It wasna decent that ye sud see what 
 ye saw. But I wasna mysel', and I thocht it was 
 a neebor that chappit — a skilly woman we were 
 waitin' on. I wudna have ye think,' she went 
 on, wistfully, ' that we didna do the best we could 
 for poor Mysie.' 
 
 * I know, I know,' whispered Alison, eagerly. 
 ' And, oh ! will you take this from me ? ' She 
 pressed into the woman's hand her own little 
 hoard. 
 
 ' I thank ye, mem ; I canna refuse it,' the poor 
 creature said simply. * For we'll be sair put to it 
 for a decent burial.' 
 
 Alison turned to go, her eyes burning, her heart 
 hot within her.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 One mastering thought gave Alison's feet wings 
 as she neared the Potterrow on her return from 
 the Wabster's Close. She would tell Nancy of 
 this heart-moving, this pitiful, sad scene she had 
 witnessed, and make it plain to her at whose door 
 the greater guilt of it all lay. Then Nancy must 
 see reason, must lift the veil from her eyes, 
 acknowledge the wrong-doing of the man who 
 could cause suffering so infinite, and see her own 
 danger in submitting to his influence. Alison, in 
 spite of much recently-acquired experience, was still, 
 as the perspicacious reader will perceive, very simple. 
 
 Nancy was sitting writing when her messenger 
 returned. 
 
 ' Well, child,' she said, ' and did you find the 
 wench and deliver our friend's bounty?' 
 
 * Bounty ! ' cried Alison, throwing out her hands. 
 ' She — she needs no bounty, Nancy. She's dead ! ' 
 
 Nancy started, then tapped her foot upon the 
 floor impatiently. 
 
 ' La, child,' she exclaimed, pettishly, * how you 
 frighten one ! ' 
 
 But Alison was in no mood to be put off with 
 petulance or callousness In quick words, falter- 
 ing and broken — for her eyes were wet, and her 
 quiet, reticent nature stirred to the rare point of 
 passionate utterance — she told what she had seen 
 of Mysie's end. 
 
 220
 
 THE RHYMER 221 
 
 ' And, oh, Nancy,' she whispered at last, on her 
 knees at her friend's side, * it was his doing. She 
 was in trouble ; it was his fault. She's dead — 
 dead ! and but for him she might have been alive 
 and happy — honest at the least' 
 
 But Nancy looked down at her face unmoved, 
 with a little, hard smile. 
 
 ' Accidents will happen,' she said coolly. ' We 
 must all die, surely. Men will be men. To talk 
 as you do is sheer hysterics. You are a child.' 
 
 ' I am a woman ! ' cried Alison, ' and I see with 
 a woman's eyes.' 
 
 'You ought to concede,' Nancy continued, un- 
 moved, 'that our friend has acted by the lass 
 as handsomely as anyone could expect. He sent 
 money. I've reason to know he would have 
 acknowledged her child had the silly wench but 
 given him the chance. He's all generosity, kind- 
 ness, warmth. Didn't I give you his very words 
 this morning — " I'd wipe the tears from all eyes if 
 I could"?' 
 
 ' 'Twould be far better, I think,' cried Alison, 
 ' that he should try first to cause no tears to flow. 
 I see no beauty, Nancy, in beautiful words when 
 cruel, heedless acts go with them.' 
 
 Nancy shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 'You've no understanding of a poet, Ally,' she 
 said, with a superior and pitying air. But Alison 
 rose to her feet, feeling a sudden courage to say 
 that which had long burned upon her tongue. 
 
 ' Oh ! Nancy, Nancy,' she cried, ' is it for tJiis 
 man that you — ' 
 
 'That I what?'' said Nancy, turning fiercely 
 upon her friend. 
 
 ' That you forget,' whispered Alison, stammer-
 
 222 THE RHYMER 
 
 ingly, 'forget that you are Willy and Danny's 
 mother, and — and — a wife, Nancy ! ' From cheek 
 to brow, from her neck to her very ears, Nancy 
 turned scarlet at the words, and her eyes blazed 
 with anger. 
 
 ' How dare you, Alison Graham,' she said, ' how 
 dare you say such words to me ? / forget myself 
 — I, who remember hourly that I am bound — 
 bound by an iron chain to an odious fate? Ah, 
 were I free ! ' — she clenched her little hands, and 
 her whole tiny frame was shaken with the vehe- 
 mence of her passion, 'were I free, should I be 
 here ? — and he — he, as he is— left to the machina- 
 tions of the vulgar, and driven to demean himself 
 with filthy peasants ? ' She had risen, and stood 
 over Alison, blazing with jealousy as well as rage — 
 not jealousy of the luckless dead victim of the 
 poet's passions, but, as it happened, of Jean 
 Armour, of whose ascendency over the Bard she 
 was mortally suspicious. But now she turned all 
 the vials of her wrath on Alison. 
 
 ' You, to misunderstand me ! ' she cried. ' You, 
 whom I have trusted, to turn again and rend me ! 
 But you are like the rest of the world — evil-minded ! 
 You read wickedness when there is only the 
 innocence and true nobility of great minds. You 
 are incapable of understanding friendship. I 
 despise and rise above your mean suspicions — they 
 are unworthy of my thoughts. But if the viper I 
 had cherished and nursed to warmth in my bosom 
 had turned and stung me, I could not have been 
 more pained ! ' Saying which, with a toss of her 
 head and a fine rustle of petticoats, Nancy flounced 
 out of the room, slamming the door behind her. 
 
 Poor Alison remained alone to chew the cud of
 
 THE RHYMER 223 
 
 this new development in her friend's mood as best 
 she might. That Nancy should thus mount the 
 virtuous high-horse took her inexperience totally 
 by surprise. She conceived the figment of the 
 ' friendship ' to have long since been cast aside ; 
 but she was evidently wrong, it died a lingering 
 death. The girl was hopelessly at sea ; she began 
 to doubt herself. Was she really evil-minded ? Did 
 she actually suspect evil where no evil was ? 
 Presently Nancy came back, her fit of anger gone, 
 replaced by one of virtuous resignation. She 
 kissed Alison sweetly on the cheek. 
 
 ' I forgive you, Ally ! ' she said, with the most 
 perfect air of injured innocence. ' You are young, 
 you do not understand ! You are influenced by 
 the cruel world ! I declare I think you've been 
 too much with Herries lately in all these tiresome 
 visits of his, and are become infected with his 
 horrid narrow manner of thought. Ah ! be my 
 own sweet Ally again, and we shall not quarrel.* 
 Alison submitted to the kiss and to the recon- 
 ciliation in meek bewilderment, hardly now capable 
 of aught else. 
 
 These were very sad days for Alison, for evi- 
 dently Herries held himself aloof. What else, 
 under her incriminating silence, could he do? She 
 asked herself this, and found no answer. Yet she 
 would listen for his footsteps on the stair, and scan 
 the empty streets for his familiar figure — empty to 
 her because she never met or saw him all these 
 dreary days. One afternoon she sat alone in the 
 little parlour — for Nancy, after a bad night,was lying 
 down in her room. She was so deep in thought, 
 sitting away by the little window, her hands idle 
 over the work in her lap, that she heard nothing.
 
 224 THE RHYMER 
 
 and it was only when she suddenly turned round 
 that she found her thoughts had taken visible 
 form. Herries himself stood in the doorway. 
 
 For him, too, it was a supreme moment, because 
 he put out his whole strength against his love, and 
 for once love conquered. He had told himself he 
 had not come to seek Alison, and had given himself 
 the shallow pretext of bringing his cousin's monthly 
 money allowance. But now ... he closed the door, 
 and in a minute his arms held Alison, and with a 
 touch, half rough, half tender, he was pushing the 
 darling curls from her white temples and kissing 
 them. Yet even now they heard Nancy moving 
 in her room, and knew they had not a mom.ent. 
 
 ' Alison,' whispered Herries, hoarsely, ' I wish to 
 God you would go home. Go home, and I will say 
 not another word, but come and ask you from your 
 parents.' . . . But Alison pushed him from her 
 with her arms — him, and the terrible temptation 
 of his words. 
 
 ' I can't go home ! ' she said, and ran from the 
 room, meeting Nancy, who entered. 
 
 ' Well, cousin,' the latter exclaimed, with her 
 own undaunted sprightliness, 'here's an unex- 
 pected honour ! 'Tis some time since you visited 
 this humble roof.' But Herries turned a moody 
 look upon his relative. 
 
 ' We have not come to an understanding yet on 
 the subjects of my last visit,' he said grimly. ' But 
 I daresay you know me too well to believe that I 
 have been inactive in the matter. I have taken 
 measures to prevent the visits of a certain unsuit- 
 able person to your house.' 
 
 ' Indeed 1 ' said Nancy, meekly, gathering up her 
 forces for the fray, and rapidly coming to the con-
 
 THE RHYMER 225 
 
 elusion that meekness would suit her best; if 
 feeble as a weapon, it would at least be baffling 
 to her adversary. Herries continued — 
 
 ' If you have no sense of what is fitting or 
 unfitting for a young woman in your peculiarly 
 delicate circumstances, others must exercise it for 
 you. That such a man as Burns should visit your 
 house as an intimate is worse than unfitting — it is 
 a slur upon your reputation. He is openly a 
 profligate, and his bonnes futunes with women 
 everywhere are become a bye- word. If you cannot 
 protect yourself against the danger of his society 
 you must be protected.' Nancy had cast down her 
 eyes and looked the image of innocence. 
 
 'You are too much the master here, Archie/ 
 she meekly said, * and I and my poor infants are 
 too directly dependent on your bounty for your 
 word to be questioned. No doubt you are wise. 
 If you have forbidden Mr Burns my house, of 
 course he will be forbidden.' Herries looked 
 suspiciously at the smooth, downcast face of his 
 cousin. He did not believe a word she said — he 
 never did. But she baffled him. 
 
 ' Have you no conscience,' he said angrily, ' that 
 you have subjected to the influence of Mr Burns 
 a girl like that one yonder — your guest — an 
 inexperienced young creature committed to your 
 charge, and for whom you are responsible ? Has 
 no thought of her ever troubled you?' Nancy 
 assumed a little troubled air of guilt, fidgeting with 
 the fringes of her apron. 
 
 * La, Archie,' she said, ' poor Alison ! Well, 'tis 
 her sweet voice that has attracted the poet here, I 
 may tell you that. And if she is — may be, for 
 I've no certain knowledge of it, mind you — a 
 
 P
 
 226 THE RHYMER 
 
 little smit, what harm ? Girls love these soft 
 sensations — 'tis their life. But lud, Archie ! fancy 
 talking of such things to you,' and she gave a little 
 amused laugh. Herries looked at her with a 
 helpless dislike. His eyes were full of a dumb 
 and angry pain that could not get itself spoken. 
 He had always despised this little woman — an error 
 of judgment, for such little women are full of 
 power, and have swayed kingdoms in their day. 
 Now, with callous little hands, she turned the 
 dagger in his heart. Heavens ! how she made him 
 suffer — unconsciously, it was true, but he had a 
 bitter feeling that the will was there. 
 
 ' Is Miss Graham gone out ? ' he asked uneasily. 
 
 ' La ! cousin, I can't tell you,' said Nancy, care- 
 lessly. * I daresay — she's often out. I can't keep a 
 constant dragon's eye on a great girl like that. 
 I'm no tyrant, and she has her liberties.' Herries 
 turned away impatiently ; there was nothing to be 
 gained in remaining with his cousin but added 
 uneasiness. He left her house a bitterly dissatis- 
 fied and anxious man.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 Herries's homeward way led him past the house 
 where his partner, Creighton, lay, now in the last 
 stages of consumptive illness. He had been there 
 very often of late, and, more than one night, had 
 watched beside the sick-bed until morning. Dur- 
 ing the early stages of his illness, Mr Creighton had 
 always asked each day for Alison, and been well 
 satisfied with the answers which Herries gave him. 
 But latterly these kind and eager questionings had 
 ceased, and in increasing fever and weakness the man 
 was gradually losing touch with the things of this 
 life. Yet there had been a rally only that morning 
 and the day before. A forlorn hope sprang up in 
 Herries's heart that his partner's sagacity might 
 help him once again. He would tell him his trouble 
 — he would unburden himself. Creighton was a 
 long-headed, a shrewd man, and as secret as the 
 grave towards which he was hastening. 
 
 Herries quickened his steps, and when he came 
 to the stair he mounted it with a renewed energy 
 in his gait. Before he reached the sick man's door he 
 heard his voice — speaking out much more strongly 
 than of late — and his hopes arose. Mr Creighton 
 was sitting up in bed, unimaginably gaunt and 
 pale ; a thin red colour made a patch on either 
 sunk and waxen cheek, and his eyes were very 
 bright. But, alas ! when they were turned on 
 Herries there was no recognition in them, and his 
 
 227
 
 228 THE RHYMER 
 
 loud, eager talk was the mere babble of delirium. 
 The names upon his lips were names that Herries 
 had never heard ; they were doubtless those of the 
 man's home and youth so resolutely put behind 
 him, so hopelessly divided from him by the yawn- 
 ing gulf of some bitter, early quarrel. A woman's 
 name he uttered so often, and with such poignant 
 meaning, that Herries, bending over him, asked 
 again and yet again if she were not one who could 
 be sent for. He could not know that the earth had 
 covered her for thirty years in that parish grave- 
 yard, away among the Pcntlands, where Creighton, 
 one evening not long since, had craved his partner 
 to see him buried. Now his unmeaning voice 
 went on and on, monotonous, painful, terribly sad. 
 Herries turned away at last in bitterest silence. 
 Creighton's dog, that crouched upon the bed, half 
 starved, growled at his footsteps as he crossed the 
 floor. 
 
 Herries went out into the exquisite spring even- 
 ing, but it brought him neither peace nor comfort. 
 What to him were the crocus tints behind the 
 looming castle masses? what to him the evening 
 star that swam and shone there ? In his heart were 
 love, bitterness, and battle. Battle — for presently 
 his enemy must return, might even now be return- 
 ing, and then the tussle must begin. Herries was 
 perfectly conscious that his letter to Robert Burns 
 was a sheer challenge. How was he to enforce the 
 order he had given ? With what weapons could 
 he fight a peasant? The duel would have been his 
 remedy — easy and obvious — with an equal, but 
 in those days men did not fight with churls. What 
 combat of the kind was possible with a man who 
 had never touched a sword or lifted a firearm in
 
 THE RHYMER 229 
 
 his life ? Hemes was full of fight — sharp-set, de- 
 termined, coldly eager for the fray. You could 
 see it in the steel-blue glitter of his eye, the scorn- 
 ful lift of eyebrow and dilation of the fine carved 
 nostril. A game terrier, wiry with pluck, and 
 bristling with defiance, matched against a mastiff. 
 Such might have seemed to a sporting onlooker the 
 chances of the fight. Alison, meanwhile, woman- 
 like, had no excitement of a coming battle to make 
 her forget her pain. She, too, thought of the 
 enemy's return, but with a cold terror, feeble and 
 helpless. In her little closet, all alone, she would 
 lie and think, forcing the tears back into her heart. 
 
 And even then he was coming — he had come — 
 that common enemy, riding up the crowded streets 
 upon his borrowed nag in the broad light of the 
 lengthening day. He had ridden all the way from 
 Dumfries by easy stages, jolly stages, most rollick- 
 ingly punctuated by the flowing bowl and much 
 good company. Thus he came in by the town 
 gate, riding boldly for all men to see, loose rein 
 and roving eye, king of all hearts, commander of 
 the blood of men. The people turned to look at 
 him, and laughed for pleasure ; some called aloud, 
 ' Guid e'en t'ye, Robbie ! ' while others walked at 
 his pony's shaggy shoulder and stretched eager 
 hands upward for his grip. So, with half the town 
 to welcome him, came Robert Burns back to the 
 Auld Reekie of his songs and sins. 
 
 Certainly Alison's lucky star was on the wane, 
 for Mr Creighton died that night, and died intes- 
 tate. And so she had missed a fortune and lost a 
 friend.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 Burns, on this occasion, had returned to Edin- 
 burgh in what was, for him, really rather a chastened 
 mood. His absence had been on important busi- 
 ness, and that business had progressed to such a 
 degree that he felt himself on the verge of a great 
 crisis in his life, and was well minded that it 
 should be a crisis for good and not for evil. He 
 had surveyed the farmlands in the exquisite valley 
 of the Nith, and had made ' a poet's, not a farmer's 
 choice' of Elliesland, where he intended to settle 
 forthwith and turn farmer in serious earnest. 
 Furthermore, an appointment in the Excise had 
 been insured to him by the interest of powerful 
 friends, and that was another practical, sensible, 
 wage-earning feather in his cap. Of certain interest- 
 ing domestic complications at Mauchline it hardly 
 does to speak with any degree of knowledge or 
 understanding, but there can be little question 
 that, at this time, there loomed large in the poet's 
 mind some idea of an arrangement with the patient, 
 twin-bearing Jean, which should do some tardy 
 justice to that long-suffering female. 
 
 It is fairly plain, in any case, that during his 
 absence in the south, Sylvander had cooled con- 
 siderably to his Clarinda. Not that he did not 
 adore her still, in a proper poet's way, but he had 
 begun to adore someone else, with practical ends 
 in view. So matters with his fascinating little 
 
 230
 
 THE RHYMER 231 
 
 friend in the Potterrow must be brought to a 
 pleasant conclusion. It would cause him more 
 than a pang, but still, there must be an end to all 
 things — the best of friends must part. He meant 
 to remain in Edinburgh for a few days only, merely 
 to wind up business matters with his publisher and 
 pay a few visits of farewell. Then he would turn 
 his back upon the capital of his triumphs and his 
 disappointments, and turn over a new leaf in life 
 and love. 
 
 This might have happened without further hind- 
 rance, and things have settled themselves comfort- 
 ably to everybody's satisfaction (except, perhaps, 
 Clarinda's), had it not been for Herries's most 
 unlucky and misguided letter. This awaited the 
 poet at his lodging, under a pile of correspond- 
 ence accumulated for him by his henchman Nicol. 
 This admiring attendant of genius also awaited the 
 arrival of Burns in his rooms, and the two spent 
 a convivial evening of reunion. The Bard was 
 already elevated enough in his spirits, owing to the 
 festive nature of his journey, but it was with that 
 kind of elevation which turns to querulousness at 
 very slight provocation. 
 
 ' Here's letters enough to last a body a lifetime,' 
 he grumbled, turning over a pile of papers, where 
 several missives of Clarinda's lay, still unopened, it 
 is sad to state. ' Here's a packet from some 
 unknown,' he added ; ' thick paper, and a fine crest 
 upon the seal.' He broke it open. As he read 
 the few lines in Herries's upright, clear-cut writing, 
 the blood rushed in purple to his face, and he 
 started to his feet. 
 
 ' Now, by all that's damnable, this is too much ! ' 
 he shouted, his very eyes becoming bloodshot.
 
 232 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' Canny, lad, canny,' said Nicol, soothingly, 
 accustomed to the poet in his cups. ' What's up 
 now ?' 
 
 But it was no mere vinous rage that held the 
 Bard. He was touched in his tenderest and sorest 
 points — his independence and his sense of social 
 inferiority. 
 
 ' Up ? ' he cried, ' up ? Why, here's a miserable 
 hound of a pettifogging lawyer — a wretched, thin- 
 blooded, whey-faced whipper-snapper that I could 
 crush to the wall wi' the one hand o' me — has the 
 damned impudence to infringe upon my liberties 
 and tell me that he forbids me Mrs Maclehose's 
 house ! ' He tossed the letter to his friend, who 
 read it with a kindling eye. Unluckily, it was 
 couched in terms precisely those to enrage Nicol 
 also, not merely as a partisan, but because he 
 acridly resented the tone and attitude of a 
 superior. 
 
 ' " Persons not of her station, or known to her 
 immediate circle," ' he quoted with a sneer. ' And 
 who is Master Herries that he writes so fine ? ' 
 
 ' Am I not telling you ? ' cried Burns, irritably. 
 * A damned, pettifogging George Street writer, some 
 cousin or guardian of my Clarinda, who, because 
 he contributes a few paltry pence to the mainten- 
 ance of her bairns, satisfies the miserable, half-inch 
 soul of an unfeeling, cold-blooded, pitiful bigot by 
 standing censor to everything she does that is above 
 his dungeon bosom and foggy head ! I've seen 
 him but the once, but / know him ! Ay, and I'll 
 know him to some purpose now, be damned to 
 him ! Here, out of my light, man ! Let me go — ' 
 He had seized a cudgel from a corner of the room, 
 and apparently meditated an instant adjournment
 
 THE RHYMER 233 
 
 to the lawyer's premises, so armed. But Nicol 
 interceded. 
 
 ' Wheesht, lad ! ' he urged. ' Steady a wee thing, 
 now ! Wait a bittie and see if we cannot forge 
 some prettier mischief to Master Herries than a mere 
 thrashing. That's like to be more of a scandal to 
 you than to him. Trust him to have half-a-dozen 
 lacqueys at his beck and call that would put you 
 to the door or ever you could win by to the man. 
 They know better, these lily-livered, dirty, skunk- 
 ing lawyer-bodies, than not to guard themselves 
 well against honest men's anger.' 
 
 Burns paused. Nicol's counsels had generally 
 some weight with him, more especially when, as 
 at the present moment, after a merry afternoon, he 
 was not perfectly certain of his actions. 
 
 ' How'll I win at him ? How will I touch him ? ' 
 he said, flinging down the stick and frowning 
 heavily. 
 
 ' You've a full right to a pretty revenge,' said his 
 friend ; ' and surely you can't want of opportunity. 
 The gate's open to you that gives you entry to the 
 man's very hearth.' 
 
 ' Ay, that's true,' said Burns, with a grin, as he 
 thought of the cosy fireside in the Potterrow. 
 
 ' Can't you make the fellow jealous ? ' said Nicol. 
 
 ' If he had the passions of a buck-rabbit, weel 
 could I ! ' said Burns, vindictively. ' For there's 
 his lass — I caught him with her in the dark 
 — and then, under his very nose, I had to pay her 
 some particularity of attention in order to put 
 him off the scent with my Clarinda, 'Tis that 
 muckle lass you have some grudge against your- 
 self 
 
 ' Why, then,' cried Nicol, warming to congenial
 
 234 THE RHYMER 
 
 mischief, ' if we cannot brew a fine broth out of 
 this bonny concatenation, the devil take us for 
 silly, shiftless bodies ! I'm none so loth, I can 
 tell you, to have a fling at miss for all her haughty 
 airs. You shall pretend to love her. Write to 
 Master Lawyer ; tell him you never dreamed to 
 lift presumptuous eyes to his worship's exquisite 
 relative, but are contented with her governante — 
 or whatsoever the lass is. I'm thinking that will 
 do our trick.' 
 
 ' Eh ? ' said the poet, doubtfully. He was dazed 
 with wine, and hardly understood the nature of 
 that which was proposed to him. Nicol got the 
 ink-pot, a sheet of paper, and a pen, which he 
 thrust into his friend's somewhat unsteady hand. 
 
 ' Write, now,' he began eagerly — ' something in 
 this style: "Honoured sir" — (letters in the third 
 person are so damnably difficult to pur, I can't 
 away with them !) — " Honoured sir : I am in due 
 receipt of your late favour, which hath awaited me 
 at my lodging this long time in my absence on a 
 journey. I crave your pardon for this delay in 
 answering the same. I also crave your patience 
 for offence given in the matter of my visits to the 
 house of your honourable cousin, Mistress Macle- 
 hose. But sure, sir, you were not so mistaken, on 
 the one occasion that we met there, as to confuse 
 the object of my attention with any other. It was 
 most assuredly not — as, sir, you might have seen — 
 your honour's relative, who, in truth, is far above 
 my sphere, but the young female abiding with her 
 at this time. And I would humbly beg of your 
 kindness not to interrupt this little affair of an 
 honourable affection, which is like to be in a fair 
 way to become reciprocal. . . ." '
 
 THE RHYMER 235 
 
 ' " Reciprocal " ! ' said Burns, pausing, with a con- 
 fused laugh. ' Man, but that's a muckle lee ! The 
 lass hates me, sure's death — I knov not why.' 
 
 ' Then serve her right the more,' said Nicol, now 
 bent upon mischief. He had a peculiar leaning to 
 the coarse, practical joke, and was entirely callous 
 to the sufferings of his victims in such cases, even had 
 they done nothing to provoke his spite. The Bard 
 looked yet a little doubtful, and bungled over the 
 letter. Had he been perfectly sober, it is unlikely 
 that he would have lent himself to a device so mean 
 and cowardly. Actions of this kind were not natural 
 to him by any means, for, at anyrate, where men 
 were concerned, he was honest and straightforward 
 in his dealings. But Nicol poured a stream of 
 specious arguments into his buzzing ears : all was 
 fair in love and war — and this was both — and all 
 that his letter, at the worst, would lead to was a 
 lover's quarrel, which would doubtless be patched 
 up far sooner than the delinquents at all deserved. 
 Thus cajoled, the poet finished and folded up the 
 letter, and consented to its dispatch. 
 
 Then he fell to brooding over Herries's note 
 again, and over that clearness came to him on 
 one point at anyrate. For to this hot-blooded 
 son of Adam the high-handed prohibition it con- 
 tained was fuel added to his flame. He had all 
 but virtuously resolved to cut matters short with 
 his Clarinda ; but now that resolution went to the 
 four winds, and a very different one sprang into 
 determination in its place. He scrawled a letter to 
 the Fotterrow, to which both wine and passion lent 
 a warmth he had hardly yet dared to express. And 
 Nicol sallied forth with both epistles— this time, in 
 spite of the lateness of the hour, with no complaints.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 Mrs Maclehose, on the following evening, stood 
 in the window of her little room, lost in agitating 
 thought. The poet's impassioned letter was in 
 the bosom of her dress, and seemed to burn her, 
 but with a delicious pain. At almost any other 
 juncture of her commerce with the man it would 
 have frightened her ; for the little woman, in spite 
 of her impetuosity, had some obscure element of 
 the national caution in her nature. <But now she 
 was in a state when caution must give way to the 
 fiercer and more primitive passions. For nearly 
 three weeks now she had suffered a frenzy of 
 jealous love, and during the absence of her friend, 
 as she called him, was not only tortured with a long- 
 ing for the sight of him, but also with horrible fears 
 of his infidelity. She had pictured him as returned 
 within the sphere of the influence of Jean Armour 
 — a person she insisted upon regarding as a low- 
 minded, artful hussy with designs upon the Bard. 
 License to almost any degree she would allow the 
 man, whose nature she made allowances for with an 
 amazing liberality ; it was the idea of matrimony 
 she dreaded with an anguish of jealous dread. 
 But the poet's letter had brought ample reassur- 
 ance : he was returned to his Clarinda, more in 
 love with her — more impassioned, than when he 
 went away. He implored for an interview that 
 night, but it must be private. He had matters to 
 
 236
 
 THE RHYMER 237 
 
 discuss of the utmost importance, but they were 
 for her ear alone. He conjured her, by all that 
 was most sacred in love and friendship, to let no 
 third person intrude upon the happiness of their 
 first reunion. Well . . , she would not tell Alison 
 that he came, and Alison would go to bed : that 
 was all. But then, the girl slept so light, and had 
 an ear so sensitive . . . she must, in that confined 
 space, hear voices . . . ? Nancy knit her soft 
 brows, and behind them, her busy, tortuous little 
 brain made plans. 
 
 Alison had been out of doors with Willy that 
 afternoon, and returned somewhat late. It was a 
 blustering spring evening, with a shrewd edge to 
 the wind, and when the girl came into the parlour 
 at the late tea-time there was an unquestionable 
 redness about her eyelids. Alas ! it was not the 
 wind that smirched her fair good looks, but tears. 
 For poor Alison, in these days, would cry a little, 
 uncomforted, in her closet, choking back the tears. 
 ' Why, Ally, you have got the cold ! ' said Nancy. 
 ' I can see it in your eyes.' Alison turned quickly 
 from the light. 
 
 ' I never get the cold,' she said. But Nancy 
 insisted, and harped upon the ailment — she was 
 convinced that Alison had an influenza coming. 
 'When you go to bed, which I'd have you do 
 early, love,' she said purringly, ' I'll give you 
 something that will check the horrid thing. A 
 few drops of aqua vita; in water are infallible at 
 an early stage.' Healthy Alison, who took no 
 medicine stuff, would stoutly have rebelled at any 
 other time, but now she was anxious to divert 
 attention from her red eyes, and promised to take 
 the remedy. When bedtime came, Nancy bade
 
 238 THE RHYMER 
 
 her undress and get into her bed and she would 
 bring her the dose with her own hands. 
 
 She was away some Httle time in her own room, 
 and Ahson heard the clink of glass against glass 
 as she prepared the decoction. Water had gone 
 into it, and a few drops of the aqua vitce^ which 
 turned the water into an opaque whiteness. And 
 then Nancy had paused and looked round her 
 with a guilty look. She took another bottle from 
 the shelf beside her bed, and measured a portion 
 of its contents into the half-full wine glass. It was 
 her own sleeping draught — a half dose. 
 
 It must not for an instant be supposed that 
 there was anything of the villain in Nancy's com- 
 position, or that she intended to do her friend the 
 smallest injury. She well knew that the sleeping 
 draught was of the mildest order — a perfectly 
 harmless drug, as the physician had positively 
 assured her. And she put in only the half dose. 
 Nevertheless, as she carried it into the girl's room, 
 and gave it to her, it was with an averted look. 
 She could not bear to meet Alison's eyes, and her 
 little hand so shook that a part of the liquid was 
 spilt upon the sheet. Then she hurriedly kissed 
 her friend, put out the light, and left her. 
 
 Alison lay awake some time, for, upon perfectly 
 healthy nerves, a sleeping draught will occasionally 
 have the reverse of its intended effect. She seemed 
 to get a headache and to become restless. She 
 heard Nancy's movements in her room with 
 peculiar distinctness, and supposed that her friend 
 was preparing for bed. In reality, the deluded 
 little woman was changing her dress from a 
 common to a dainty one — adding, in every ribbon 
 and coaxed trick of curl, to the danger that awaited
 
 THE RHYMER 239 
 
 her — moving furtively, with many a pause to 
 listen if Alison stirred, or Jean in the attic above. 
 Then a kind of buzzing drowsiness came over 
 Alison — disagreeable, because she seemed to want 
 to fight against it. But it overcame her ; and then 
 for some hours she did certainly sleep, and much 
 more heavily than was her wont. 
 
 When she awoke, it was with a confused, un- 
 pleasant feeling, and the sound of voices in her 
 ears. The room was dark, but a line of light 
 showed under the door, Alison sat up and lis- 
 tened. A curious, nightmare-like sense of danger 
 was upon her, indefinably oppressive. Her ears 
 were acute. She heard Nancy's voice, and a man's 
 voice, unmistakably. Clearness came to her, 
 though her temples throbbed and the drug she 
 had been given buzzed in her head. She slipped 
 to the floor, searched for, but could not find her 
 shoes, groped for her wrapper, and threw it over 
 her shoulders. She crept to the door and lifted 
 the latch noiselessly. 
 
 The passage lamp was out, but the parlour was 
 in a glow of brightness. The door had swung 
 open with its old trick, and a stream of light 
 came from it. In brilliant relief the little room 
 and all it held stood out. And, in the circle of 
 light, unconscious of all save each other, they stood 
 — the tempter and the tempted. And behind 
 Alison the big wag-at-the-wall clock, with a guilty 
 twang, struck one. 
 
 One of Robert Burns' great labouring hands was 
 clenched, and he leaned heavily on the table with 
 it. Alison could see the veins in it throb and 
 swell with the hot, ungovernable blood. His other 
 arm held Nancy — Nancy, whose little trembling
 
 240 THE RHYMER 
 
 hands covered her face — and who turned, as Alison 
 watched her, to hide it against the man's powerful 
 shoulder. The poet's face was in shadow, for it 
 was bent over the woman. He spoke, but his 
 voice was low and thick ; Alison could not catch 
 the words. 
 
 She only looked at them a moment, just till the 
 clock struck. Then they moved with a start, 
 and she also moved forward, until she too stood 
 in the circle of light. Petrified, the lovers saw her 
 both at once — staring, chapfallen, as though they 
 beheld a spirit : only a girl, indeed, with bare feet, 
 and in her nightgown, sleep still in her wide eyes 
 and curls scattered on her shoulders, but hedged 
 about with the immutable dignity of innocence, 
 and strong with the strength of right. She walked 
 straight up to Nancy, and with a little jerk of 
 effort took her into her own arms from the man's 
 embrace, facing him boldly. 
 
 ' It is too late for visitors here, sir,' she said 
 simply. ' Mrs Maclehose would have you go.' 
 
 The poet's arms dropped to his side and his jaw 
 fell. His sun-browned face had become quite pale, 
 and the words which stammered on his lips would 
 not get themselves spoken. When he moved it 
 was to fumble for his hat. Then he made for the 
 door, without a look or word for those he left ; and 
 it might be said that he slunk, then and there, 
 from the room and from the house, 
 
 Nancy had slipped from Alison's arms and lay 
 on the floor in a little huddled heap, moaning. 
 Alison tried to raise her, but she would not rise. 
 
 ' Come, Nancy, come to bed,' whispered the girl. 
 * You are cold — you are shaking.' She lifted her, 
 and then Nancy stood up, staring round her with
 
 THE RHYMER 241 
 
 miserable, unseeing eyes — deadly pale, and utterly 
 dishevelled. 
 
 ' I — I slipped,' she said, in a curious dazed way 
 ' I — slipped — and nearly fell, Ally.' 
 
 ' Here's my hand,' said Alison. And then, half 
 leading and half carrying her, the girl took the 
 wretched little woman to her bed.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 Alison watched all night long beside her friend. 
 Nancy never let go her hand, but lay holding it, 
 at first in a kind of wretched stupor, staring 
 straight before her, with dry, miserable eyes ; 
 then in a sort of palsy of convulsive shivering, 
 and at last in a fit of hysterical weeping, so 
 violent that it seemed to tear her little frame to 
 pieces. Alison soothed and comforted her as best 
 she could, but at first neither peace nor comfort 
 came. The girl's own thoughts were full of be- 
 wilderment. Here, in truth, was love — a creature 
 shaken by it through all the innermost places of 
 her being. Alison, too, loved — but then, how differ- 
 ently ! Was it the same passion — this, that de- 
 stroyed her friend, and that which raised her own 
 soul to heights never dreamed of before she had 
 known Herries? Presently Nancy fell into the 
 light doze of sheer exhaustion, and Alison was 
 able to go and dress herself. 
 
 But her troubles were by no means over, for 
 Nancy awoke to a plight most piteous — a mental 
 condition almost impossible to cope with. Like 
 one, who, saved from some horrible fate by accident 
 or misadventure, is haunted by phantasmal death 
 in every form, so Nancy, with the tremendous 
 recoil of every natural womanly feeling, beheld 
 herself, again and yet again, on the verge of the 
 great and terrible abyss from which she had been 
 
 242
 
 THE RHYMER 243 
 
 so narrowly and so barely saved. Her mind clung 
 now, with the painful obstinacy and insistence of 
 hysteria, to every symbol and outward sign of 
 safety. Could these stumbling steps of hers be 
 hid ? Could she resume, before the men and 
 women of her world, the steady gait of blameless 
 womanhood ? With words that harrowed Alison's 
 very soul, she protested her actual innocence, 
 while she bemoaned the folly that had made her 
 risk her reputation. Oh, she had been mad — blind 
 — headstrong ! She saw it all now. 
 
 ' All my life. Ally,' she said, her sweet voice 
 roughened with long crying — 'all my life I've 
 been guided by the impulse of the moment. My 
 passion has done what it will with me, and now it 
 has undone me utterly.' Then she fell to harping 
 on the theme of secrecy. Was there anyone who 
 would betray her? How much did Jean know, 
 and did she gossip? And Alison — Alison, who 
 knew all — oh, was she sure of herself? Would she 
 never — never by word, or look, or sign — betray 
 her friend ? 
 
 ' Will you swear to me. Ally, that you'll never 
 tell ? ' cried Nancy, raising herself in bed. ' I'd be 
 easier if you'd swear upon the Bible never to 
 betray me ! ' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Alison, proudly, ' I'll not swear. 
 Have I ever lied to you that you should ask an 
 oath ? But I'll promise you, Nancy, by all you've 
 been to me, and done for mc, that no word of mine 
 shall ever tell your secret to any human being.' 
 Nancy sank back among her pillows with a sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 ' Then I'm safe,' she said, ' for he will never 
 betray me ; to kiss and tell is not his nature. He
 
 244 THE RHYMER 
 
 is all the noblest generosity ! Don't think my love 
 is dead, Ally,' she added in something of her old 
 tones. ' It lives, and it will live, purified ; I'll tear 
 the earthly part of it from my heart, and live in 
 hopes that we may meet in heaven ! ' Soothed by 
 this interesting and sanguine reflection, Nancy 
 grew calmer. She took a little of her sleeping 
 medicine, and Alison was just beginning to look 
 forward to an hour of peace, when she awoke with 
 a scream. ' Oh, God ! ' she cried aloud, ' my key ! ' 
 
 ' Hush, Nancy ; Jean will hear you,' said Alison, 
 patiently. ' What key ? ' 
 
 ' My key,' reiterated Nancy, working herself up 
 into a passion of terror ; ' my house key. Oh ! fool 
 that I was ! I gave it to him in all innocence : it 
 was before your own eyes, Alison, and only to 
 save Jean when she was throng. It has an ivory 
 label to it, with my name and the street's name, 
 and if it is found with him I am undone — undone ! ' 
 She twined her fingers in her hair and would have 
 torn it but that Alison held her hands. Alison 
 herself looked blank enough ; the matter of the 
 key struck her as a bad business, incriminating 
 evidence enough in the hands of such a man as 
 Burns — careless, if he was not malicious, and, like 
 all men, leaving things about. ' Ally, as you love 
 me, you must go and get it from him ! ' said 
 Nancy ; ' I'll not trust the matter upon paper. I 
 must have a messenger, and that messenger must 
 be you.' 
 
 ' Nay, but that's too much ! ' cried Alison, turn 
 ing white. 
 
 ' Too much ? ' said Nancy, piteously. ' Too much 
 to save your friend whom you have promised to 
 save ? Oh, Ally pity me — pity me — and go ! '
 
 THE RHYMER 245 
 
 She put up her trembling arms and caught Ah'son 
 about the neck, cHnging to her. 
 
 ' If I go,' said poor Alison, desperately, ' will you 
 promise me one thing, Nancy — never, never to 
 send me on another message to this man ? ' 
 
 ' Never ! I swear ! ' cried Nancy. ' Oh, Ally, I've 
 been wrong to do it so often, most hideously selfish 
 and wrong so to have used your good-nature. But 
 you'll forgive me, for I knew not what I did ! ' 
 
 Alison met the inevitable with a kind of cold, 
 white calm. Her very flesh shrank from the 
 thought of meeting Burns, of being near him and 
 breathing the same air. Now she must not only 
 go to his house, but in all probability enter it, 
 doing that which, to anyone not acquainted with 
 the intricacies of the affair and her own obscure 
 part in it, was, on the face of it, open to the gravest 
 misconstruction. Should Herries know of it — 
 what then ? But a kind of despair had come to 
 Alison on this point. She must do what she had 
 to do ; it was all a ghastly mistake, a growing and 
 intolerable injustice, but she must blunder on with 
 it now. She was the same Alison, and in the same 
 mood, who had desperately promised in Jacky's 
 twilight nursery, weeks ago, to marry Mr Cheape 
 because duty drove her to it, and she saw no other 
 
 way. 
 
 It was agreed that she should wait till nearly 
 dusk before setting out, and it was, perhaps, five 
 or six o'clock before she left the house. She 
 hurried through the familiar streets, choosing the 
 obscurer ones, and keeping in the shadow — haunted 
 by a sense of the guilt which was not hers. She 
 stood at last before the odiously familiar door in 
 St James's Square, and knocked. It was opened
 
 246 THE RHYMER 
 
 to her by Nicol, and Alison's flesh crept, for she 
 loathed the man, and feared him now— she knew 
 not why. 
 
 * Is Mr Burns within ?' she asked in a low voice. 
 Nicol looked her up and down with an indescrib- 
 able insolence. 
 
 ' No, mistress,' he said, ' he's not' 
 
 ' Will he be in soon ? ' Alison forced herself to 
 ask. 
 
 ' Are you that anxious to see him ? ' said Nicol, 
 with a leer. Alison drew herself up, with a pas- 
 sionate scorn, though she trembled in every 
 limb. 
 
 ' I have important business with Mr Burns,' she 
 faltered, ' and desire an interview.' 
 
 * Ay, oh, ay, I understand ! ' said Nicol. ' Well, 
 mistress, come in and wait. Rob's door is never 
 closed to bonny lasses.' He held the door wide. 
 Behind his uncouth figure opened a vista of dingy 
 passage, ending in a stair. Alison hesitated, half 
 drew back ; to cross that threshold was horrible to 
 her ; it seemed to put her in the power of men — 
 of bad men. She held her hand to her heart — it 
 fluttered so — and cast a longing look down the 
 empty street. Oh, for some help ! But no help 
 came. 
 
 ' If there is some room where I could wait — 
 alone ' . . . she began, with an unlucky inflection 
 on the last word, which Nicol's ear caught, and 
 bitterly resented. 
 
 ' Oh, a.y, there's a room where you can be 
 private,' answered Nicol, with suspicious bland- 
 ness. ' Come up the stair.' He led the way, 
 and Alison followed in the close, malodorous 
 darkness.
 
 THE RHYMER 247 
 
 Burns occupied two rooms on the first floor of 
 the house, a parlour and sleeping-closet communi- 
 cating. It was into the former of these that Nicol 
 ushered Alison — a disorderly and ill-kept room, 
 with a bottle and glasses on the table, and articles 
 of a man's wearing apparel strewn about upon the 
 chairs and floor. 
 
 ' 'Tis no room for a fine miss like you,' said 
 Nicol, with dangerous politeness. ' I'll take it upon 
 myself to usher you into our sanctum sanctorum — 
 'tis more genteel.' 
 
 ' But if this is the parlour,' said Alison, looking 
 round her nervously, and perhaps beginning a little 
 to lose her head, ' if this is the parlour, had I not 
 better remain here ? ' 
 
 ' No, no,' said Nicol, speciously, ' we have the 
 other — much more private. Here anyone may 
 come at any moment, you see, and if your business 
 is private — ' It was a touch of devilish cunning, 
 for terror seized Alison at the thought of an 
 intrusion. 
 
 ' If, then, you think it wiser — ' she said, looking 
 about her with startled eyes. 
 
 'Ay, come away — much wiser' — said Nicol. 
 ' See here ! ' He held open the door of the inner 
 room — its only entrance — and Alison walked in. 
 The moment her feet were over the threshold, 
 Nicol slammed-to the door upon her, and locked 
 it with a loud report. 
 
 ' There, my bonny bird ! ' he called, his grinning 
 mouth to the panel ; ' we've got you safe and sound ! 
 Are ye " alone " enough in there for your taste ? 
 'Od, it's there you'll bide till Rob comes hame and 
 lets ye out ! ' He exploded in a fit of laughter ; 
 here was a piece of hor.se-play after his own heart.
 
 248 THE RHYMER 
 
 Stunned and stupid, Alison had tottered a few 
 steps into the inner room. A bed in the corner, 
 unmade since the morning, showed that it was the 
 poet's sleeping chamber. And she was trapped 
 beyond all possibility of escape.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 The letter which Nicoi had conveyed from Burns 
 to Herries lay unopened at the office of the latter 
 for a matter of about, perhaps, thirty-six hours. 
 Delivered very late in the evening, it was not con- 
 veyed to Herries that night, because he had 
 already retired. In the early morning hours he 
 was summoned to the death-bed of his partner, 
 and he only returned from that melancholy scene 
 in order, after a hurried meal, to set off to a remote 
 village in the Pentlands, where, under an engage- 
 ment with the dead man, he must make arrange- 
 ments for the funeral. Returning at night, dog- 
 tired, after many hours spent in the saddle (for it 
 had been necessary to go on horseback), he had 
 not then attempted to examine his correspondence. 
 But the first letter that he opened in the morning 
 was that from St James's Square. 
 
 He sat still after its perusal — stunned. The 
 morning sun streamed in through the three long 
 windows of his fine room, and found him, perhaps 
 an hour later, still sitting motionless, the letter in 
 his hand. The anguish of surprise was not his, for, 
 after all, the letter contained mere confirmation of 
 long-latent suspicion. But it came as a fearful 
 blow nevertheless. Here was a man who had 
 expected little of men and women, but he had got 
 
 249
 
 250 THE RHYMER 
 
 less than he expected after all. He had believed 
 that he had cherished no illusions, and dreamed no 
 dreams ; but the modest hopes that he had allowed 
 himself to entertain of faith in one human being, 
 whom he loved, were dashed. The cynic's disgust, 
 as well as the man's heart-wrung sorrow, was his 
 portion. 
 
 Yet Herries was a lawyer, keen of vision, and 
 trained in the detection of deceit, and to him that 
 letter actually did smack false at the first reading, 
 and afterwards also. He had heard much, as was 
 inevitable, of the sturdy independence of the 
 peasant poet ; certainly this letter was not the 
 letter of such a man. It was a suspiciously sub- 
 servient, an actually cringing letter, and in every 
 line rang false. Yet Herries knew, and recognised 
 at once, the poet's handwriting ; for Burns's letters 
 at that day were often handed round the town as 
 curiosities, and the young lawyer had seen at least 
 a score. A certain wearied languor had come over 
 Herries, nui^bing his faculties, so that in this 
 matter they had almost ceased to serve him. He 
 told himself that his love was dead — nipped by this 
 long frost of cold suspicion, and ruined forever by 
 this base association with men and ways unclean 
 and devious. Yet he was a just man, and he would 
 not condemn Alison unheard. He had already 
 given her the chance of explanation and defence ; 
 he would give it her again. He would seek her 
 out, and he would confront her with the letter — 
 ask her if it were true or false. He would make 
 her speak ; and those grave lips that he had kissed 
 so often : those candid eyes — that indescribably 
 childlike wide innocence of brow that had been 
 Alison's charm, rather than and (to him) beyond
 
 THE RHYMER 251 
 
 all beauty — well, he should learn once for all if 
 they lied, and were only the fair outer covering of 
 deceit and blackness. It was impossible that he 
 could be absent again during office hours, for the 
 previous day had been a blank one, and the pres- 
 sure of the accumulated work of the past weeks 
 was becoming daily more unendurable. But in 
 the evening he would go to the Potterrow, and 
 put an end to the mysteries that destroyed his 
 peace. 
 
 He set out, accordingly, after he had dined. It 
 was a damp, windy night, with heavy rain-clouds 
 hurrying from the west. Hardly an hour before 
 him Alison had trod those pavements, her face 
 set to the New Town, trying to hide herself 
 as she went. Herries walked with his head held 
 high, conning over the stringent things that he 
 should say in the coming interview, yet striving 
 also that he should be just and calm. Jean 
 opened to him with a glum face. Well did the 
 honest servant know that things were going wrong. 
 Her sympathies were all with Alison. 
 
 ' I have business with Miss Graham,' said 
 Herries. ' Can I see her ? ' 
 
 ' I doot no, sir,' said Jean. ' The young Icddy 
 is from home, and the mistress ill in her bed.' 
 
 ' I will come in and wait,' said Herries ; ' but 
 do not you disturb your mistress — it is not 
 necessary.' He felt a repugnance to seeing his 
 cousin ; more lies, he told himself, and impotent 
 anger on his own part, would be the only result. 
 
 He walked into the parlour. The little room had 
 an ominously neglected and inhospitable air ; the 
 fire was nearly out, and the hard, lingering light of 
 the spring evening showed up all the shabbinesses
 
 252 THE RHYMER 
 
 of the little nest, so kindly hid in the cosy winter 
 hours. Herries threw himself into a chair, prepared 
 to wait. Half-an-hour dragged by and no one came. 
 The demon of restlessness got him, and he began 
 to pace the room. He thought he would see Nancy 
 after all, and called Jean. 
 
 ' Ask my cousin if she can see me,' he said, and 
 at the same moment Nancy's voice called to him 
 faintly from her room. He entered it. 
 
 The invalid lay against a pile of pillows, in her 
 pink wrapper, looking, indeed, merely the ghost 
 of herself Her cheeks were pallid, her dark eyes 
 ringed, the lines upon her face were visibly 
 deepened. 
 
 ' Why, Nancy, I find you an invalid ! ' said 
 Herries, in astonishment. ' I fear I intrude ; but 
 my business is with Miss Graham^ to-night, and if 
 you can tell me where she is gone, or when she is 
 likely to return, I will not disturb you a moment 
 longer.' 
 
 Nancy trembled, for all the terrors of discovery 
 beset her. The courage to answer her cousin 
 coherently was not in her ; her quivering lips would 
 hardly form her words. 
 
 'Ally is — is gone out,' she murmured. 'She 
 did not tell me where. A walk with Willy is her 
 custom at this hour, and — ' 
 
 ' It is past seven o'clock,' said Herries, im- 
 patiently, 'and Willy is in the kitchen with his 
 books.' He frowned, and his eyes, full of freshly- 
 roused suspicion, searched Nancy's face. But a 
 man cannot bully a sick woman in her bed. 
 
 ' I shall wait for Miss Graham,' he said shortly, 
 as he turned on his heel, ' if need be, till mid- 
 night.' He returned to the parlour, where Jean
 
 THE RHYMER 253 
 
 had lit a candle, and continued his watch. Nancy, 
 on her bed, tossed to and fro, a prey to perfect 
 agony of mind. It was more than two hours since 
 Alison had left the house. What had become of 
 her ? Here was Herries on the trail of some 
 discovery. The wretched little woman saw herself 
 upon the brink of ruin. She rolled over on her 
 face, biting the sheet between her chattering teeth, 
 stiff and cold, and in a kind of rigour. 
 
 In a rage of obstinacy, Herries waited on. The 
 wag-at-the-wall clock struck eight — the half-hour 
 — then nine. He started up, and went to the 
 servant in her kitchen. 
 
 'Jean,' he said, and his voice had a curiously 
 unnatural sound, ' I cannot get from your mistress 
 where Miss Graham is gone. Can you tell me ? ' 
 The woman hesitated, and then spoke out, bursting, 
 indeed, with a sense of Alison's wrongs, though 
 about, alas ! only to add to them. 
 
 ' Gone ? ' she said. ' Weel ken I whar she's 
 gone ! Just where she's been too often, sir, though 
 I say it that am but a sairvant — ' 
 
 ' Take care what you do say,' said Herries, 
 sternly. ' I have ears for no idle gossip. Where 
 did she go ? ' 
 
 * To Burns's lodging, sir,' said Jean, setting fire 
 to a long trail, ' and, sir — ' 
 
 * That's enough,' said Herries. His voice was 
 quiet, but his action was like lightning, and, before 
 the slow-moving Scotchwoman could put out a 
 hand to stop him, or utter another word, he was 
 out upon the stair and in the street, making for 
 St James's Square as though the devil were after 
 him. 
 
 His haste undid him. Had he waited but a
 
 254 THE RHYMER 
 
 moment more, the flood-gates of Jean's confidence 
 would have been opened wide, and from the honest 
 creature's lips he would have learnt, if not the 
 whole truth, yet enough to light him to the rest. 
 But that was not to be.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 There is no ground for supposing that during his 
 Edinburgh sojourn, Robert Burns succumbed to 
 those habits of intemperance which afterwards 
 destroyed him. It was an age of drink, and he no 
 doubt drank, as did nearly all his contemporaries, 
 immoderately at times. But there is much to show 
 that in these days he was sober in his habits, for 
 the most part, and no record whatever that he 
 disgraced himself by conspicuous over-indulgence. 
 The end of his visit, however, was inevitably a 
 time of trial in this respect. There were farewell 
 visits to be paid to many a roystering character 
 and tavern companion ; and the nature of such 
 farewells can easily be imagined, along with their 
 result. On the day succeeding his last visit to 
 the Potterrow, Burns drank heavily, impelled 
 thereto by impulses less agreeable than those of 
 mere good-fellowship. When he turned into his 
 lodging, which he did only a few minutes before 
 Herries reached the door, he was very drunk 
 indeed. 
 
 He stumbled upstairs to the parlour. Nicol 
 was there, and made him some excited communi- 
 cation, pointing to the inner door. But the fes- 
 tive condition of the Bard made him hopelessly 
 dense to oral instruction. He had not a notion 
 what his excited friend was talking about. 
 
 ' Man, pull yourself together,' cried Nicol, eagerly, 
 
 255
 
 256 THE RHYMER 
 
 hearing a knock from below, and running to the 
 window. 'As I'm aHve, here's our cock o' the walk 
 seeking his bonny hen.' 
 
 ' Who ? ' said the poet, confusedly. 
 
 ' Herries, man, Herries ! ' shouted Nicol, slapping 
 his thigh. ' The little lawyer body ye were to lick. 
 Wheesht ! here he comes.' 
 
 ' My enemy ! ' said the Bard, grandiloquently, with 
 a dim feeling that a great occasion was upon him. 
 He half-sat, half-propped himself upon the corner 
 of the table, with arms folded across his chest. 
 He was ruddy with wine ; his jet black hair was 
 spread upon his brow ; in the fine blue and buff of 
 his best suit, with his magnificent shoulders, his 
 grand head and lowering eye — it was impossible to 
 deny, drunken though he was, the splendour of his 
 presence. To him, thus, and to Nicol, was ushered 
 Herries, white with anger, and a terrible vital 
 excitement. 
 
 Herries walked straight to the figure on the table. 
 
 ' Where — where is she ? ' he said, but he was 
 hardy audible, for his throat was parched. The 
 poet lurched a little, but steadied himself with an 
 inimitable air of tipsy gravity. 
 
 ' Speak up, ma billy ! ' he said. * I m dull the day.* 
 
 ' I ask you — and you know it — where is Miss 
 Graham ? ' said Herries, with clenching hands. 
 
 The poet cocked an eyebrow. 
 
 ' Nae man speirs at me for glaikit lasses,' he 
 observed virtuously ; ' you are come to the wrong 
 shop.' 
 
 Nicol burst into a coarse guffaw. 
 
 ' Nay, sir,' he said, ' you are come right enough, 
 though Rob, here, is too modest to admit it. We 
 hae your bonny bird safe and sound. . . . Here,
 
 THE RHYMER 257 
 
 mistress, come out now ! there's ain to fetch you — ' 
 He flung open the bedroom door, close to which 
 he had stood, with his hand upon the lock, since 
 Herries's entry. And out of the dark room into 
 the light one walked Alison Graham. 
 
 Her face, her neck, her very hands, were white : 
 they were drenched with whiteness, so that she 
 seemed more dead than alive; and the lines of her 
 face were drawn so deep, that it had suddenly lost 
 the roundness and the air of youth. Her wild 
 eyes went from face to face with a hunted look ; 
 the light hurt them, and she raised her hand, but 
 it fell powerless, while her look riveted itself at 
 last on her lover. 
 
 * Alison ! ' said Herries. ' How . . . how . . .' 
 But he could not speak. Yet justice should be 
 hers — that thought printed itself in fiery letters 
 on his reeling brain. Here — no matter that it 
 was before these men, before them or before the 
 world — he would ask her why she stood there, and 
 let her clear herself if she could. 
 
 ' Alison,' he said, going close up to her, ' whose 
 shame is this — your's or another's ? ' 
 
 Alison's eyes looked round the room in a vain 
 search for help. They fell on Nicol, who, crassly 
 ignorant of the real circumstances of her case, 
 could hardly have helped her, and certainly would 
 not if he could. They fell on Burns, but Burns 
 was drunk, and had he been sober, must sooner 
 have protected the woman he had nearly ruined 
 than helpless Alison. Alison's eyes fell to the 
 ground, and all the long struggle of the past weeks 
 concentrated itself in the anguish of one moment's 
 swift decision. Her happiness, or Nancy's honour 
 — which ? 
 
 R
 
 258 THE RHYMER 
 
 Her chin sank upon her breast : she seemed to 
 shrink — the image of shame. 
 
 ' I ... I have deceived you, sir,' she stammered, 
 with Hps that scarcely moved. 
 
 It was the truth, but so little of it, and so hope- 
 lessly perverted ! Alison raised her eyes to her 
 lover's face, and he should have read the real truth 
 in them, but he was blind. 
 
 ' That's enough,' was all he said. ' I have 
 asked and you have answered. On your own head 
 be it!' 
 
 For a few seconds no one moved in the dead 
 silence. The poet, half asleep, with his chin upon 
 his chest, lurched and swayed, now one way, and 
 now another. Herries's eyes flamed, as they looked 
 at him, with the cold flame of disgust and hate. 
 
 ' Your host is drunk,' he said to Alison, almost 
 cavalierly. He had become icily cool, and the 
 crisp tones of his business manner came to him, as 
 though he stood in his own orderly office with a 
 client in front of him. ' I cannot leave you here, 
 you understand,' he continued, addressing her ; 
 ' you are in my relative's care, and I am her re- 
 presentative. You must leave this house — for the 
 present, at least — and leave it with me.' He went 
 to the door, and opened it, with a gesture that 
 seemed to command rather than to solicit her 
 exit. No one interfered, not even Nicol moved or 
 spoke. With bowed head, Alison walked slowly 
 from the room. And as she did so, the swaying 
 figure of Burns, supine, fell prostrate on the table 
 in a drunken sleep. 
 
 Out of doors it was raining, pouring with rain 
 out of the black night sky. Neither Alison nor 
 her companion could shelter themselves, and the
 
 THE RHYMER 259 
 
 gusty wind blew in their bent faces as they struggled 
 along. A link-bov's torch flashed at the corner of 
 the square, and at the end of Princes Street 
 there was a pack of chairmen sheltering under a 
 wall, for it was an Assembly night. 
 
 ' I will see you under shelter and in safety,' said 
 Herries, speaking for the first time. ' But after 
 that I can never willingly see your face again. 
 Do you understand ? ' He had to raise his voice 
 against the wind and the hiss and patter of the 
 rain. 
 
 ' I understand,' said Alison ; ' I expected nothing 
 else/ she added proudly. Yet the pride was for 
 him, not herself He take that which was smirched 
 and spoiled ? Not a fair one, but the fairest of all, 
 must be his, and how could she ever be fairest 
 again — even though Herries should know all — 
 stained to the soul as she felt, after those destroy- 
 ing, those damning hours in the squalid chamber 
 of a libertine? It would be a relief, she thought, 
 to part. Oh, let him go ! let him go ! 
 
 He called a chair and handed her into it, 
 punctiliously instructing and paying the chairman. 
 How it stabbed Alison that he should do this now. 
 How often, in the happy dealings of a man with 
 a girlish guest, he had paid such little sums on her 
 behalf But all that was over and done with. 
 And in the pelting rain, and in the dark, wordless 
 they parted. 
 
 Alison felt in her pocket for Nancy's key. At 
 least she had that and her friend should be safe. 
 She had seen it among a lot of untidy litter on a 
 table in her prison, and had had the sense and 
 courage to take it. That must be her reward.
 
 26o THE RHYMER 
 
 At midnight, a white figure stood at Nancy's 
 bedside. It was Alison, with a Hght in her hand. 
 After a brief and curiously dry account of her 
 adventure on her return home, she had gone to 
 her room, but it was not to sleep. 
 
 * Nancy,' she now said, * I'm going home ! ' 
 Nancy sat up in her bed. 
 
 ' Home, child ? ' she cried. ' What do you mean ? 
 Oh — no — no ! You'd never leave me in my misery ! 
 You are frightened and upset. 'Twas an odious 
 adventure — some trick of that beast Nicol. But 
 to-morrow you'll be yourself again. Ally — my 
 strength and comfort — my only one ! ' 
 
 ' I got you the key,' said Alison, doggedly. ' I 
 — I have done what I could. But now I'm going 
 home, and you must not prevent me.' 
 
 Nancy burst into tears. 
 
 'Oh — Ally!' she sobbed, 'there's something 
 between us ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Alison, dully, ' there's something 
 between me and all the world from to-day. 
 But I'll go home and hide myself — and forget. 
 You'll not rise, Nancy,' she went on, ' for I've been 
 to Jean and she will help me away. The coach 
 goes at five — to-morrow is the day for it, you 
 know, and I could not wait another week. I'll 
 come in and say good-bye before I go.' Nancy 
 turned her face to the wall, and sobbed and wept. 
 But Alison's eyes were dry. 
 
 A few hours later she stood in Nancy's room 
 again, in the grey dawn, hooded and cloaked for 
 her journey. But her little friend had drugged 
 herself into a deep sleep, and Alison did not wake 
 her. In one of her tiny hands — the hand that had 
 loaded Alison with easy kindness and covered her
 
 THE RHYMER 261 
 
 with a blame and shame not hers — was clasped the 
 unlucky key. She breathed deeply and peacefully 
 with parted lips — those lips made for laughter and 
 for love — the swollen eyelids fringed and closed, 
 the dark hair scattered on the pillow. Alison stood 
 and looked at her long, without resentment, without 
 love, without feeling of any kind, for feeling was 
 numb with her now. Then she turned away, and 
 went and kissed Willy in his sleep. And there 
 were no other farewells. 
 
 * I doubt you are leaving us in trouble, Miss 
 Ally ! ' said kindly Jean. She stood at the coach 
 door — the March wind scattering the scanty locks 
 upon her rough, broad forehead — loth to part from 
 the young lady she had liked and served through 
 all these winter weeks. 
 
 * Yes, Jean,' said Alison, sadly, ' good-bye.' 
 
 ' But, 00 — it'll a' win richt i' the end ? ' said the 
 cheerful woman, tentatively. 
 
 ' No — never ! ' answered Alison, with the tre- 
 mendous finality of youth. 
 
 The horn sounded, the whip cracked, and the 
 lumbering vehicle lurched on its way. And so 
 Alison went back to The Mains.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 It might have been about eight o'clock the next 
 morning when Lizzie, the old housekeeper in 
 George Street, thrust her head in at her master's 
 door. 
 
 ' Maircy me ! ' she exclaimed, and there was some 
 cause for her wonder in the sight, at that hour, 
 of candles burning in the broad day, and Herries 
 at his desk, where, indeed, he had been all night. 
 
 Sleep had left him and thought had become 
 intolerable. With an effort almost superhuman 
 he had determined to lose himself in the techni- 
 calities of his work, and he had done it. But he 
 now looked, with bloodshot eyes, his tumbled 
 linen and disordered hair, the living image of 
 dissipation rather than business. Lizzie eyed 
 him most suspiciously. He never drank, but 
 the censorious old woman believed he had been 
 drinking. 
 
 ' The Lord be gude to us ! ' she ejaculated, 
 'what's wrang? Wastin' waxen candles this 
 gait ! ' And she blew them out, and snuffed 
 them with her fingers. ' You're wanted,' she 
 went on. ' There's a lad frae Creighton's wi' a 
 message express. Ye maun gang there at aince 
 anent the dog.' 
 
 ' What about the dog? ' said Herries. 
 
 ' Weel,' said Lizzie, ' as far as I can get it frae 
 the lad, the tyke is turned upon them all, and aye 
 
 263
 
 THE RHYMER 263 
 
 he sits girning by the corp, and they canna get it 
 coffined. They're for you to gang and fleech him 
 awa', or somethin' that gait.' 
 
 ' I will come,' said Herries. 
 
 Creighton's unfortunate canine companion had 
 given some trouble already, which Herries had 
 not grudged. Within the hour of his master's 
 death, when it was necessary that the last offices 
 should be done, Herries had coaxed the poor 
 starving brute from his post upon the bed, 
 tempting him with a piece of meat. But no 
 sooner was the morsel swallowed than the crea- 
 ture ran back to the room of death, and scratch- 
 ing at the door, pushed in and leapt upon the 
 bed. Nothing had since dislodged him, and 
 Herries had ordered him to be left in peace — a 
 solitary mourner. It had been a mistaken kind- 
 ness, for thirst had probably now turned the 
 beast rabid. Herries took a pistol out of its 
 case, and primed and loaded it. P^or Dick there 
 could only be the kindly ultimatum of a bullet. 
 
 He went straight to Mr Creighton's lodgings. 
 It was the same March morning, windy, but now 
 fair, which was seeing Alison on her sad way 
 home. The wind cut him like a knife, though 
 it was not really cold. He had eaten nothing 
 for many hours, and a wretchedness of spirit was 
 upon him, beyond anything that he had deemed 
 it possible he could know. 
 
 In Creighton's room the coffin stood upon its 
 trestles, and stiff and still, beneath the sheet upon 
 the bed, lay its belated occupant. At the starkly 
 upturned feet crouched the terrier, his red eyes 
 glowing like cinders, at every slightest sound or 
 movement drawing his ]i]is back from his teeth in
 
 264 THE RHYMER 
 
 a rabid snarl. Herries approached him, with a 
 half hope the dog would know him and be 
 pacified, but the brute would have sprung at him 
 in a moment. He drew back sufficiently far to 
 take a deliberate and steady aim. 
 
 The shot rang out with terrific reverberation 
 within the narrow, echoing limits of the empty 
 room, which filled instantly with a blue and pun- 
 gent smoke. When that cleared off, Herries per- 
 ceived the dog had hardly moved, arrested in his 
 crouching attitude by swift death. Presently a 
 single scarlet trickle from behind his ear stained 
 the whiteness of his master's shroud, his fierce eye 
 dimmed and glazed, and his bristling body stiffened 
 as it lay. 
 
 Herries, the smoking pistol in his hand, stood 
 still a moment — in his disordered dress, and with 
 his pale, set face and bloodshot eyes, a singularly 
 haunting image of the suicide. But just as some 
 men, too strong to swoon, must bear a physical 
 agony to its last limit, so to Herries, with the 
 accurately-balanced character of his intellect and 
 his temper, the impulse of self-destruction could 
 never come. He must bear, he would overcome : 
 the iron will survived ; the brain, active and rest- 
 less, keen and clear, worked on — a finely-regulated 
 mechanism. But his heart was empty, and from 
 that moment he closed its portals on the world.
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 Time, who is the great healer, does his work with 
 admirable celerity for some. By the spring of that 
 year, though there came to her in the early weeks 
 of April the astounding news of Burns's marriage 
 to Jean Armour, Mrs Maclehose had resumed the 
 peaceful tenor of her blameless existence as a 
 cruelly deserted wife and anxious mother. This 
 little vessel, so lightly rigged, so fairy-like, with 
 sails and pennants spread for none but summer 
 breezes, had encountered rough weather, but had 
 survived with wonderfully little hurt. Helmsman 
 and pilot, perchance, had suffered, and an honest 
 seaman or so gone by the board ; but the spirit 
 of the little ship, undaunted, rode lightly on the 
 calm. The little Edinburgh world of Mrs Macle- 
 hose's acquaintances observed with edification her 
 devotion to her delicate youngest boy. She, in- 
 deed, moved herself and her small household to 
 Prestonpans for a season, where he lay. In the 
 August of that year little Danny died, and it 
 may be said most truthfully that no child ever 
 winged his way from earth to heaven from 
 tenderer maternal arms. 
 
 For all the rest of Nancy's doings are they not 
 written in more books than one, so that he who. 
 runs may read ? It is to be conjectured that her 
 relations with her cousin became tacitly somewhat 
 
 265
 
 266 THE RHYMER 
 
 strained after the events recorded in this history, 
 although there was no open quarrel. It seems 
 probable that Herries, after Danny's death, and 
 in the hardness of heart which grew upon him at 
 this time, withdrew the superfluities, at anyrate, 
 of the monetary assistance he had been in the 
 habit of conveying to his relative. 
 
 This may have been one of the contributing 
 causes to the curious impulse which, about the 
 autumn of the year '91, moved Nancy to think 
 of rejoining her long-lost husband, and induced 
 her to undertake a voyage to the West Indies 
 with that laudable end in view. The journey 
 was not a success. She, indeed, found Mr Macle- 
 hose with little difficulty, but she found along 
 with him the partner of his exile, a swarthy lady 
 of those climes, with a numerous coffee-coloured 
 progeny. And this discovery so shocked the 
 moral sensibilities of the little lady, who had 
 regarded with a lenient eye the amorous delin- 
 quencies of her Sylvander, that she incontinently 
 fled the marital premises, and returned to Leith 
 in the same vessel that had brought her out. 
 The most remarkable feature of this episode is 
 the fact that Robert Burns, although at this time 
 nearly three years married, did indubitably come 
 to Edinburgh to seek a farewell interview with 
 his Clarinda. How they two met, with what 
 feelings, with what memories, who shall be bold 
 enough to say? The world, at least, became 
 infinitely the richer for this parting and for poor 
 Clarinda's absence. For the poet's soul was 
 stirred, and soon fine Edinburgh ladies at the 
 harp and spinet, and country lasses at their 
 milking, were singing, to its melting air, —
 
 THE RHYMER 267 
 
 '■Now in Iter green mantle blythe Nature arrays, 
 Aftd listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
 While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw, 
 But to me ifs delightless — my Nannie's awa\ 
 
 The snaw-drap and pri?nrose our woodlands adorn, 
 And violets bathe in the weet d the 7norn j 
 They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw. 
 They mind 7ne d Nanttie — a?td Nannie's awa'. 
 
 Thou lav' rock that springs frae the dews o' the lawn. 
 The shepherd to warn o' the grcy-br caking dawfij 
 And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fd 
 Give over for pity — my Nannids awa'' 
 
 And also of this curious farewell were born those 
 lines in which is reached, perhaps, the very topmost 
 summit of the lyrical genius of Burns — those lines 
 which are the epitome of all love-tragedy — of all 
 hopeless passion — of all parting woe. And these 
 shall the painstaking reader, who toils to the end 
 of this history, read on the last page for his reward. 
 
 Sylvander and Clarinda continued to correspond 
 with considerable desultoriness during the few 
 years of life that remained to the Rhymer, and 
 sad to state, in these communications there is to 
 be traced a very decided recriminative tartness, 
 which is a blow to the ingenuous and sentimental 
 reader. So sputtered out, in rather fiery sparks — 
 as, indeed, is the too common wont of such — one 
 of the most curious of the world's classic flirtations, 
 
 Mrs Maclehose lived to a great age, becoming a 
 most espieglc and charming old lady — the centre of 
 a large and admiring acquaintance. Years after 
 the poet's death, when all danger was over, and 
 passion, too, dead, it was her chief boast, her 
 * meed of fame,' to figure as Burns's ' Clarinda.' 
 She kept, and would exhibit, many little souvenirs
 
 268 THE RHYMER 
 
 of the Bard, and on all matters pertaining to the his- 
 tory of his Edinburgh visits, she was for many years 
 the greatest living authority. She publicly and im- 
 partially would maintain till the last that the poet's 
 marriage with a peasant was the greatest mistake 
 of his life, dragging him down to a low level, in- 
 tellectually as well as socially ; whereas with higher 
 companionship he might have risen to heights 
 incalculably nobler, both of prosperity and of fame. 
 To her dying day she expressed a pious wish that 
 she might meet in heaven the Bard whose soul she 
 felt that she alone had understood as it deserved 
 in the imperfect communionship of earth. All 
 things considered, the hope of meeting in quite 
 another quarter might have seemed more justifiable. 
 But so — exit our charming Nancy from these vera- 
 cious pages. 
 
 To Herries, meanwhile, in his house in George 
 Street, these years brought solitary success and 
 lonely gain. He set himself to his work with an 
 iron determination to forget the past, and it seemed 
 that he succeeded. To him Alison Graham was 
 dead, as truly dead as though she lay in yonder 
 graveyard under the shadow of the Castle rock, 
 with a great stone to weight her down until the 
 Judgment Day. He never thought of her at all. 
 He never pictured his room now as a drawing- 
 room, with gracious feminine appurtenances ; it 
 was the office, pure and simple. In Creighton's 
 room below worked his new partner, a young 
 and stirring man. The business extended itself in 
 all directions and flourished like a miracle. Some 
 of the most resounding names in Scotland figured 
 on the green tin boxes, in their yearly increasing 
 phalanx, in Herries's room. He had the name of
 
 THE RHYMER 269 
 
 a hard man, and was, no doubt, rather feared than 
 loved. But so he willed it — for he had had enough 
 of love. Round him, in these busy years, grew 
 wider and yet wider the gallant New Town of 
 Edinburgh — curving into crescents, and widening 
 into squares and handsome residential streets. 
 More and more, the genteel world gravitated to 
 this quarter, and left the Old Town to the squalor 
 of decay. Herries, for one, never visited the old 
 streets and closes — giving in, no doubt, to the new 
 fashion. The High Street was his limit; the 
 devious and narrow ways which led to the Potter- 
 row knew him no more. 
 
 And meanwhile, down in the rich south country, 
 in the little white farmhouse among the broom, on 
 the bonny banks of Nith, Robert Burns pursued 
 the downward tenor of his way. Poet and excise- 
 man, farmer and bard : the kindly husband and 
 father, the incorrigible rake : the eager host, the far 
 too frequent — and far, far too uproariously wel- 
 comed — guest : the copious correspondent, the ill- 
 balanced politician : the reckless, eager, revolu- 
 tionary spirit, the remorse-stricken, disappointed, 
 penitent man ; at once affectionate and quarrel- 
 some — losing friend after friend, and tiring out the 
 patience of men and women who would fain have 
 befriended him to the last ; quixotically generous 
 in money matters, refusing money for his songs, 
 and then forced to accept, in grinding bitterness of 
 spirit, the eleemosynary five-pound note under 
 pressure of inexorable necessity — so he stands 
 out, a tragic figure for all time, the presiding 
 genius, the Rhymer of the North. Too soon the 
 fair page — or that which had promised so fair — of 
 the life at EUiesland had to be turned down, the
 
 270 THE RHYMER 
 
 stock and plenishing of the little farm scattered 
 and sold, and the patient Jean and her little flock 
 of helpless bairns made to flit sadly to Dumfries. 
 Here the temptations of the country town and its 
 taverns soon finished what the too trying and 
 demoralising routine of the Excise had begun ; and 
 in the squalor of excess — in sadness, illness, dis- 
 illusionment and pain — the shining light of genius 
 grew dim, and flickered to extinction.
 
 CHAPTER XL III 
 
 As time went on, and his fortune accumulated, 
 there came to Archibald Herries that impulse 
 which generally visits the laborious and land- 
 loving Scot at some period of his career — the 
 impulse to possess himself of territorial acres — 
 the ancestral ones if possible. The family from 
 which Herries sprang had owned land in the 
 Galloway region, or near about Kirkcudbright. 
 It occurred to him suddenly, in the summer of 
 '96, when town was empty, and the grass growing 
 up between the cobbles of the Edinburgh streets, 
 after its rural wont, that he would take a tour 
 in the South and re-visit the country of his sires. 
 He set out with a couple of good nags — one 
 ridden by his servant, with a pack-saddle. 
 
 It was a successful expedition (all worldly 
 matters prospered with Herries in these days), 
 and in more ways than in mere pleasure. Not 
 only did he see the country to advantage in the 
 fine summer weather, but he discovered that a 
 small property, with its excellent mansion house, 
 which had once been the ancient possession of a 
 younger branch of his family, was for sale. There 
 seemed no reason — certainly not want of funds — 
 why he should not become the purchaser. It 
 might have occurred to him to ask himself why he, 
 unmarried and childless, should burden himself 
 with acres never to become an inheritance. But 
 
 271
 
 272 THE RHYMER 
 
 no such consideration gave him pause. He was 
 inwardly determined that, at the first moment he 
 thought fit to do so, he should marry — ay, and 
 beget sons to carry on his name and fame. True, 
 that moment had never come ; but it was not for 
 love's sake that it tarried — or so he was con- 
 vinced. 
 
 It was on his return journey that he stayed for 
 a few nights at Dumfries. With his pleasure- 
 trip he had combined a certain modicum of 
 business, and the affairs of an important client 
 detained him in the country-town longer than he 
 meant. In the long, summer evenings he would 
 stroll about the streets, losing himself in its little 
 vennels and closes, and stopping every now and 
 then to stare about him, as a man will in a place 
 that is strange to him. That Dumfries was 
 becoming famous as the last home of the man who 
 had practically ruined his life, Herries may have 
 known, but only vaguely. The fashionable world 
 had dropped the poet Burns. The town roared over 
 ' Tam o' Shanter ' when it appeared, but forgot to 
 pension the unlucky bard struggling with his 
 poverty on the banks of Nith. 
 
 It was one morning, as he sat at breakfast in 
 his tavern, that a messenger brought Herries a 
 note. It was written in a sprawling, uncertain 
 hand, and was unsigned, undated and unaddressed. 
 It ran — ' A dying fellow-creature uses the privi- 
 lege of his sad condition to summon Mr Herries 
 to his house. It may be that Mr Herries will 
 there hear that which might be of importance to 
 his affairs.' Herries turned the note over with 
 an incredulous smile. Who in Dumfries could 
 know of anything that was of importance to him ?
 
 THE RHYMER 273 
 
 A little boy waited to guide him to the house of 
 his correspondent. Herries thought that he would 
 go. The mystery would help to pass an idle 
 morning. 
 
 The child led him a little way down the hill, and 
 guided him to a small and humble street called, 
 as Herries observed, the Wee Vennel. They 
 stopped before a decent two-storeyed house, like 
 an artisan's dwelling of the better class. 
 
 * Here, my boy,' said Herries, giving the child 
 a shilling, ' can't you tell me who it is that 
 desires to see me ? ' 
 
 * No, I was not to say, sir,' answered the boy. 
 He was a fine little fellow of about nine or ten, 
 and as he spoke he raised his large black eyes — 
 surely Herries had seen eyes just like these 
 before — to the stranger's face. 
 
 The door was opened by a quiet-looking, young 
 woman with a sweet face, but Herries did not then 
 observe her with any particularity. She asked him 
 gently to walk upstairs. At the door of a room 
 opening to the left, she paused. 
 
 'You will be very quiet, will you not, sir?' 
 she asked. ' You'll not excite him ? He has not 
 long to live.' She had a quiet, controlled, and 
 yet a very sad voice. Herries then noticed her 
 wedding-ring, and also the fact that she seemed 
 very near her time. She opened the door to the 
 sick-room, and left him. 
 
 The room was cross-lighted by two windows set 
 in opposite walls, and by one of these, which was 
 opened to the street and to the summer air and 
 sunshine, was drawn a great chair, where someone 
 sat, propped by a pile of pillows. A very pretty 
 young girl in the rustic style sat near with an 
 
 S
 
 274 THE RHYMER 
 
 open book upon her knee, from which she had 
 been reading aloud. She rose as Herries entered, 
 and quietly left the room. It was Jessie Lewars, 
 a neighbour's pretty daughter, who helped to 
 minister to the dying poet — an innocent type of 
 much that had been the reverse of innocent in 
 his life — a characteristic attendant enough. Not 
 as yet had the faintest warning reached Herries 
 in whose presence it was that, after eight years of 
 silent hatred, he stood. Something of awe, in- 
 deed, held him, for he recognised by instinct the 
 atmosphere of death. But he walked up to the 
 chair in total unsuspicion, mechanically holding 
 out a hand. And then a voice arrested him. 
 
 * Nay, not yet, sir ! ' said Burns. ' Wait ! When 
 once before you met me, you held your hand 
 behind you. It may be you'll put it back again 
 before we've done.' 
 
 Herries started violently, and his hand dropped 
 to his side, for now he saw and knew his enemy. 
 
 But this — this deathlike image — could it 
 indeed be Robert Burns ? The last time that 
 Herries had seen him — that only too memorable 
 time — he had been in the hey-day of his splendid 
 manhood, flushed with wine and bold with license, 
 handsome as Bacchus, careless of mankind — 
 balancing on the corner of a table in unblushing 
 drunkenness. Now, a spectre faced the amazed 
 intruder — hollow-eyed and fever - haunted, the 
 bony frame a skeleton, the traces of death's clayey 
 finger on cheek and temple, lip and brow. Only 
 the eyes glowed with their wonted and sombre 
 fire ; they seemed to look Herries through and 
 through — to read the secrets of his heart. In 
 spite of the old hatred, and battling with the old
 
 THE RHYMER 275 
 
 contempt, there struggled into Herries's sensations 
 an unwilling reverence. All through what seemed 
 to him the fantastic interview which ensued he 
 strove with bitterness to assert himself. But it 
 was with the curious and baffling consciousness 
 that a greater than himself, albeit stained with a 
 thousand sins and follies, strove with him and held 
 him down.
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 ' Will you not be seated, sir ? ' said Burns, point- 
 ing to the chair which Jessie Lewars had vacated. 
 Herries, with a gesture and an inclination, inti- 
 mated his wish to stand ; and throughout the 
 interview he continued to do so at some little dis- 
 tance from the sick man, his head bent, his eyes 
 upon the ground, save when they were raised to 
 meet the poet's dark and penetrating gaze. 
 
 ' Now, sir,' the Bard began, raising himself with 
 difficulty in his chair, ' have patience while you 
 listen to me. You owe me the hearing which the 
 dying may exact from those they leave behind.' 
 
 * I A^ill listen to you,' said Herries, shortly. 
 
 ' Last night,' continued Burns ; ' these two or 
 three nights, indeed, I have seen you pass my 
 door, unwitting ; for here I sit with a sick man's 
 look-out upon the world he must soon leave. I 
 remembered you, and a bit of the Devil's work' I 
 did when the wine was red and ginger hot in the 
 mouth came back to me, for it concerned your 
 house. I have gossips in the town — too many, 
 perhaps — and I soon heard that the great Edin- 
 burgh lawyer, Mr Herries, was abiding at the 
 •' Globe," alone, but for his servant. Now, why 
 alone ? ' The questioner's dark eye rested upon 
 Herries's with a look half quizzical, half sombre. 
 ' Where is man's God-given compa,nion— -where is 
 the wife, sir ? ' 
 
 276
 
 THE RHYMER 277 
 
 ' I have no wife,' said Herries, sternly, most 
 bitterly resentinp^ the allusion to his private 
 matters — yet, somehow, held by the overpowering 
 personality of his interlocutor. 
 
 ' What ? ' cried Burns. ' Then where is the lass 
 that you loved — for you did love her — the big, 
 bonny body wi' the bunch o' curls ? Well I mind 
 her, though she liked me little ! ' 
 
 ' If you speak of Miss Graham,' said Herries, his 
 lips hardly able to form the name, ' I have never 
 seen her or heard of her since the night I took 
 her from your house.' 
 
 ' Man alive ! ' ejaculated the poet, staring at his 
 guest in blank astonishment. ' Is it possible ? 
 That there was a mischief brewing through some 
 trickery of that sour devil, Nicol, I knew — fu' 
 though I was, and roarin' fu' that night. But, as 
 I live, I never thought but that you and the lass 
 would kiss and make it up or ever you got the 
 length of Princes Street ! ' 
 
 ' Was I to take a sweetheart from j/02ir chamber?' 
 said Herries, with a sneer. 
 
 ' But, surely,' cried Burns, ' surel}^ you knew the 
 lass was there against her will ? She had come on 
 some cantrip of my Clarinda — well, I must e'en be 
 plain, your cousin, Mrs Maclehose ; we had some 
 trifle of dalliance in those days, and your girl was 
 Cupid's messenger — just once too often, it would 
 seem.' 
 
 ' But she as good as told me with her own lips,' 
 said Herries, 'that the disgrace of her situation 
 was her own, and that she had deceived me. . . .' 
 
 ' Then she lied ! ' said Burns, energetically, ' and 
 lied to save her friend, who was indeed most par- 
 ticularly in terror that your honour's self should
 
 278 THE RHYMER 
 
 scent her little game. . . . Listen, sir. I was never 
 one to tell when 1 had kissed, but I must e'en out 
 with it now. Here's a grave matter that needs 
 more clearing even than I thought — and your own 
 relative's honour is surely as safe with you as with 
 me. The little lady thrives, I hear, on the fairest 
 pinnacle of good fame, and you would be the last 
 to interrupt her prosperity. But in those merry 
 days she had a kindly eye for a poor Bard — and 
 troth, so had the Bard for her — and we had — well, 
 sundry tender passages and letters, though all 
 within the strictest limits of Platonic friendship. 
 And then there was your bonny lass— may God 
 forgive us for the use we put her innocence to ! — 
 forever the go-between. Yet, sir, before real harm 
 was done, I had compounded with my conscience 
 to break with my Clarinda once and forever. Then 
 came your . . . Do you remember your letter?' 
 
 ' I remember a letter,' said Herries, moodily, ' in 
 which I forbade you my cousin's house. . . .' 
 
 ' Ay ! ' cried Burns, ' and what right had you, 
 or any fellow-creature, to hector, catechise and 
 insult me as did you in that letter ? To a man of 
 my temper, 'twas intolerable, and every drop of 
 black blood in my veins rose at the injury. 1 had 
 the creature Nicol at my elbow, and he made me 
 write some trash — I mind not what — to you. But 
 the real mischief was that your ill-judged and 
 insolent order sent me, by provocation, hot-foot to 
 your cousin's — ay, by night, too — and we were 
 alone. ... I outstayed — indeed, I did most damn- 
 ably outstay, decorum's hour — and I will not say 
 what devil whispered in my ear . . . for opportunity 
 and the fair one both were kind. Then there 
 comes upon us, out of her first sleep, the lassie
 
 THE RHYMER 279 
 
 Graham. Ecod ! I see her yet — the round eyes of 
 her, Hke a bairn's, staring at me; the flounces of 
 her night-rail, her bare bit feet. Up she comes, and 
 takes the woman from my very arms into her own, 
 as had she been an infant, showing me the door the 
 while wi' the gait o' a queen. 'Od, 'tis not often 
 Robbie Burns has played so poor a part in an 
 affair of that kind ! I e'en slunk out o' the house 
 like a whipped tyke wi' his tail atween his legs. 
 And so the lass better'd me — and maybe saved 
 the honour of your house. And for all reward you 
 cast her off ! ' Herries had turned from white to 
 red, and from red to white again, during this re- 
 cital. But now his eyes glittered with a cold anger. 
 
 'You are utterly unjust as to my part in the 
 affair,' he said deliberately. 'Your own letter, 
 which you slur over so easily, was a tissue of false- 
 hood — if what you now tell me be true — and it 
 was written with intent to mislead me. Every 
 word and every act of my cousin's was studied to 
 the same end. I was hedged in with lies. Of 
 those who wronged Miss Graham, I certainly was 
 not the guilty one ; I utterly deny it. I was the 
 catspaw of others infinitely unscrupulous. If I 
 did Miss Graham an injustice, I deeply deplore it ; 
 but 1 was not responsible.' Burns eyed the speaker 
 long and curiously — ironically, indeed. 
 
 'The legal mind, I see, sir, lights on the cold 
 justice of the case at once, and banishes emotion 
 and romance,' he said. ' Let me tell you, here and 
 now, how I repent my part in the unlucky busi- 
 ness. The letter I sent you was Nicol's, in truth, 
 and not mine. In a sober mood I'd not have lent 
 myself to such a trick ; but I was drunk, and there 
 was my disgrace. I ask your pardon, as one erring
 
 28o THE RHYMER 
 
 human being asks pardon of another, who, in his 
 turn, must be a supplicant for grace before the 
 Throne of God. ... Or is Mr Herries, indeed, 
 above his fellows, and in no need of pity and forgive- 
 ness from above ? ' Herries frowned — the annoyed 
 frown of a man to whom heroics are distasteful, 
 
 ' It is a Christian duty to forgive,' he said coldly. 
 'Your injury to me I do forgive, but your injury 
 to another was far deeper, and confession and 
 repentance, sir, have come a little late.' 
 
 ' But not too late for reparation ! ' cried the poet, 
 eagerly. ' Does your heart not warm again to 
 that wronged lassie? 'Od, my own blood, that 
 runs like ice in these congealing veins, leaps at 
 the thought of her ! I cannot get to her — I'll 
 never see her face again — for earth will be upon 
 these eyes, and the great darkness. . . . But I will 
 bless her with the blessing of the dying — ^'tis all I 
 have. . . . But you, sir — you — you have a horse, 
 you've health and strength and time — a heart, I'd 
 hope . . . surely you will go to her — fly to her — 
 losing not a day ! ' 
 
 ' After a few hours' reflection,' said Herries, with 
 a consciously exaggerated coldness, ' I shall be the 
 better judge of how to act. In the meantime, 
 although I do not doubt your statement, I should 
 like proof positive that your memory does not 
 play you false.' 
 
 ' Most noble judge ! ' said Burns, with bitter 
 irony, ' it shall be yours ! The sacred pages of my 
 Clarinda's letters will be proof-positive enough in 
 all conscience, and you shall see them. They are 
 safe with you. I'll have the packet searched for, 
 and to-morrow, if you will trouble to call, it shall 
 be delivered to your hands.'
 
 THE RHYMER 281 
 
 ' To-morrow/ said Herries, ' I shall be absent at 
 
 B on the Duke's business, and perhaps for two 
 
 days ; but on my return I will do myself the honour 
 to call.' 
 
 ' I may not be here/ said Burns, significantly. 
 ' But, no matter, the letters will be ready.' He 
 paused. The two men looked at each other in 
 silence — antipathetic to the last — across a gulf of 
 mutual misunderstanding, that not years of speech 
 or explanation could have bridged over. The ardent 
 and impulsive temperament of Burns might indeed 
 have leapt the chasm, and he longed even now for 
 a reconciliation with the man he had wronged — 
 a reconciliation with warm, heartfelt words, and a 
 clasp of the hand. But to Herries, hedged about 
 with the prejudices of a lifetime — to Herries, just, 
 but cold — even the semblance of reconciliation was 
 impossible. It was Burns who spoke next, in a 
 gentler voice, and with a kindly shrewdness in his 
 eyes. 
 
 ' How well it would be, sir/ he said, * could 
 nature sometimes mix her handiwork! Had I, 
 now, some of your excellent qualities of judgment 
 and coolness, how much more wisely should I have 
 waged the war of life ! And you, methinks, might 
 be a little better for a few drops of the hot blood 
 that has been the plague of me all my days. 
 But we are as God made us, and the Devil spoiled 
 us, and to make or mar is seemingly little in our 
 own power.' The poet's voice had become fainter, 
 and the excitement which had upheld him through- 
 out the interview began to wane. His excessive 
 weakness became apparent, as he leaned back 
 against the pillows, with closing eyes. Herries 
 came nearer to him for the first time.
 
 282 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' You have stretched a great point for me, Mr 
 Burns,' he said, '^in that you have undertaken this 
 interview when you were so Httle able to bear the 
 strain. I admire your fortitude, and I beg to 
 thank you for the unselfish effort. I see how it 
 has worn you out, and I will leave you now, and 
 call your nurse.' The poet opened his eyes, and 
 fixed them on the younger man with an indescrib- 
 ably yearning look. 
 
 ' I would do better now,' he said, ' to pray than 
 to preach ! There is one prayer for us all, Mr 
 Herries — for you — for me : " Forgive us our debts as 
 we forgive our debtors !"' 
 
 ' Amen ! ' said Herries, with the first ring of 
 emotion in his voice. Then, with a deep inclina- 
 tion, he silently left the room.
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 It took Hemes three full days to accomplish the 
 business of which he had spoken to the poet. 
 When he returned to Dumfries, the town was 
 ringing with the death of Burns. A suppressed 
 excitement seemed to pervade the streets ; men 
 spoke in muffled voices, awe-stricken, of the great 
 spirit fled — and women cried to think of the 
 destitute young widow, with her flock of orphans, 
 who must so soon, in double peril, and under the 
 very shadow of death, give to the world the 
 poet's posthumous child. 
 
 Herries felt a great delicacy in presenting him- 
 self at the house of mourning, and yet time 
 pressed, and the possession of the letters was of 
 vital importance to him. He waited one day, and 
 then, on the morning of his departure, directed his 
 steps to the Wee Vennel. This time the door was 
 opened to him by Jessie Lewars, her pretty face 
 swollen and discoloured by tears. 
 
 ' I was directed by — by the late Mr Burns to 
 call here for a packet of letters,' said Herries, with 
 respectful hesitancy. 
 
 ' We were bidden to expect you, sir,' answered 
 the girl, and then she added that invitation which, 
 under the circumstances, among the peasantry of 
 Scotland, is never withheld and never refused : 
 ' Will you be pleased to come up the stair and 
 
 283
 
 284 THE RHYMER 
 
 view the corpse, sir?' Herries followed her up- 
 stairs, but she did not enter the room with him. 
 He was left to do that alone. 
 
 It was the same room in which he had spoken 
 with the poet, but now swept and garnished, and 
 with a Puritan simplicity and dignity in its poor 
 belongings that went strangely to the heart. The 
 widow rose from her seat at the bed's head. 
 Herries had seen her before, but only now realised 
 that this must be Jean Armour. With a singularly 
 unaffected gesture of restrained and decent sorrow, 
 she removed, in silence, the fair white linen kerchief 
 that covered the face of her dead. Herries, with 
 folded arms, and with a singular mixture of 
 emotions, looked long upon the splendid mask. 
 As in life, the dark hair swept the pallid brow, 
 and though the glory of those eyes was quenched 
 under the sealed lids that would lift no more, 
 there was, in the fixed and immutable gravity 
 of the lifeless face, a language beyond all looks, 
 beyond all uttered speech : that air of incommuni- 
 cable knowledge which, in the Dead, baffles the 
 living with its eternal silence. 
 
 After a few minutes the widow, gently and 
 reverently, covered the face once more. 
 
 '// was to be', she said simply, with the quiet 
 fatalism of her class. She turned and took from 
 the table a packet of letters, and handed them to 
 Herries without a word. He noted the quivering 
 of her bloodless lip, but noted, too, the mild 
 placidity of her wise, broad brow. Without some 
 such element of enduring calm, never, surely, could 
 Jean Armour have met the complicated trials of 
 her life. 
 
 Herries took the letters from her with an almost
 
 THE RHYMER 285 
 
 humble reverence, and, strangely subdued in spirit, 
 left the house and journeyed from the town. 
 
 As Herries, thus leaving Dumfries, turned his 
 horse's head to the north, he was still undecided 
 as to the precise direction he must take. North- 
 wards he must go, but whether straight to Edin- 
 burgh, or, with a divergence to the west which 
 would lead him to the home of the woman he had 
 once loved, he could not, deeply though he hated 
 indecision, make up his mind. A singular mood 
 of coldness and hesitancy was upon him, and he 
 could not shake it off. Yet it would be wrong to 
 judge Herries, even now, as a man without feel- 
 ings ; he had feelings, but naturally so deeply hid, 
 and, of late years, so sternly repressed, so purposely 
 held down, that he began to doubt their existence 
 in himself Where was the enthusiasm, the chival- 
 rous ardour that should have urged him on an 
 errand like this : that errand — a privilege, surely, 
 to any generous man — of reparation to a noble 
 and innocent woman for a cruel wrong ? This 
 was his errand now, but it left him cold. No gush 
 of revived passion stirred his heart ; he seemed 
 to himself to have become old and pulseless, and, 
 unconsciously, he pictured Alison the same — old 
 too, past feeling. Was she alive or dead ? He 
 did not know. Married, perhaps ? It might well 
 be, and with another man's children at her knee. 
 She had acted nobly, bravely, in that miserable 
 episode of the past. Well — perhaps — and yet 
 Herries was not even in sympathy with the note 
 of sacrifice in her act. It angered him rather — 
 the injustice, the cruelty of it, and the total 
 un worthiness, in his view, of her for whom the
 
 286 THE RHYMER 
 
 sacrifice had been made. Alison had held Nancy's 
 honour as dearer than his — Herries's — happiness, 
 and had sacrificed him, as well as herself, to her 
 ideas of loyalty to a friend. He doubted whether 
 she had done well : to his present cold mood there 
 seemed a something less noble than quixotism in 
 this — a touch of womanish hysterics. His own 
 part in the affair he felt must be a source of bitter- 
 ness to him that could never die ; yet he would 
 not allow that there could be any element in it 
 whatsoever of remorse. His had been the dupe's 
 part, and, to a man of Herries's proud temper, 
 that was a galling thought, however it might 
 lessen his responsibility. The woman in whom 
 he had believed had been made to appear to him 
 as unworthy of belief — by evidences so strong that 
 to doubt them must have been to doubt the testi- 
 mony of his senses and his sanity. He had cast 
 her off, but it had not been without question. He 
 had been stern, perhaps — but, in his opinion, it 
 behoved men to be stern where honour was con- 
 cerned. He had been tricked, and though it was 
 not Alison who tricked him, yet she had connived, 
 at the trickery, and stood by and seen him made 
 a fool of As he went on his way, riding slowly, 
 and resting often, he would take out and read 
 those letters which had been given up to him — 
 those fevered letters of ' Clarinda ' — which certainly 
 cleared Alison of every kind of blame, save that of 
 a too yielding good-nature to her unscrupulous 
 friend. How they enraged him, as he read — ^just 
 as their writer used to do in days gone by — with 
 what an impotent rage against this trivial feminine 
 thing that he despised, and yet that had had power 
 enough almost to ruin his life ! Yet the letters
 
 THE RHYMER 287 
 
 brought decision, for they shaped his course, which 
 now definitely took the westward route, towards 
 the Perthshire highlands. 
 
 All this time, as he pondered, he had been riding 
 through the classic country — sacred even then, as 
 it is still, to the genius and the name of Burns. 
 He had taken his way along the broad and river- 
 haunted valley of the Nith; he had threaded the 
 wild and hilly country of the Cumnocks ; he had 
 rested at Mauchline, and might have seen, without 
 knowing it, Mossgiel. All around him, rich and 
 fair, yellowing now to its abundant harvests, 
 spread the country that had nursed the peasant 
 poet to his Titanic manhood — noble valley — 
 rolling river — fertile plain. The lowly farms 
 were eloquent of him ; each humble implement of 
 toil — the plough, the harrow and the reaper's hook 
 — spoke of the hardy labours of his strenuous 
 youth. The woods whispered of him ; the 
 summer evening breathed the legend of his first 
 idyllic love — seemed instinct with the young 
 undoing of Jean Armour, with the kiss, the jest, 
 the gaiety of rustic courtship. At inn and toll, 
 at kirk and market — yet rang the echoes of his 
 splendid joviality, and by haunted kirkyard wall, 
 and clattering arch and hoary brig, it seemed as 
 though you yet might hear the thundering hoofs 
 of flying Tam o' Shanter's auld mare Maggie. 
 One name only seemed ever on the lips of men 
 and v/omen — and Herries heard it, as it seemed 
 to him, wherever he rode, wherever he rested, 
 wherever he spoke, or ate or slept upon that 
 ftiemorable journey. Strange irony of fate that 
 should lead him — the instinctive enemy of the 
 dead poet — antipathetic to him in every thought
 
 288 THE RHYMER 
 
 and impulse and idea — to haunt these scenes. 
 Stranger still that he should come to them fresh 
 from the last great scene of all — the closing scene 
 in that tremendous tragedy of a poet's life. Even 
 Herries — unimaginative, unsympathetic, cold — felt 
 the coincidence, and felt with it some singular, 
 reluctant, vague understanding of the spirit that 
 had passed away, even though his own wrongs, 
 and the deeper wrongs of another, from the dead 
 man's very hand, cried out for their too-long- 
 delayed redress. 
 
 In this unwonted and unwelcome mingling of 
 moods, he took his way, riding up the western 
 coasts from Ayr, crossing the Clyde near Glasgow, 
 striking inland to the mountain land up by Loch 
 Lomond, through the exquisite wild Highland 
 country of Glen Falloch ; and so, by pass and 
 glen, and wood and water, fertile strath and 
 harvest fields, down to the lowlands again, and 
 the tamer country of the Ochills. One summer 
 night found him, at length, at the last gate of the 
 
 Highlands, the little town of C , and he knew 
 
 that he rested but two miles from Alison's home, if 
 indeed Alison were still Alison Graham and had 
 a home at The Mains.
 
 CHAPTER XL VI 
 
 Away down at The Mains it was high summer, 
 and the low-lying, wood-encircled old white house 
 lay brooding in the August heat. The bees 
 hummed in the lime tree, and in the spruce 
 woods the pigeons crooned all day, but the 
 rooks in the plane trees kept their cawing till 
 the evening. 
 
 But in these days there were great changes at 
 The Mains ; not only those deliberate changes, due 
 to the slow workings of nature, which are common 
 to the obscure places of the world, but the more 
 violent ones which come of the striving and the 
 energy of man, or rather woman. In the first 
 place, Mrs Graham, that tremendous creature, had 
 married all her daughters, every one, save, indeed, 
 the predestined old maid of the family, who, though 
 she had had (as her mother frequently reminded 
 her) the best chances of them all, in an Edinburgh 
 season, was mateless still. By remorseless energy, 
 by ceaseless harping on the subject, had this 
 stringent mother goaded six daughters into matri- 
 mony against tremendous odds. One, as we 
 know, had ' taken ' Mr Cheape ; two had married 
 ministers — albeit one had been a ' wanter,' ix., a 
 widower, with a numerous infant family. Another 
 
 T
 
 290 THE RHYMER 
 
 had captured a soldier lad, a subaltern in a march- 
 ing regiment, quartered, during some manoeuvres 
 
 of the County Militia, at the town of C . Yet 
 
 another had espoused a surgeon, while one, alas ! 
 the pretty Sally, barely at sixteen, had run away 
 with a handsome shepherd off her father's farm. 
 Hot was the hue and cry after the misguided 
 lassie; her father spurred to overtake the couple 
 and prevent the union, but returned crestfallen — 
 thankful, eventually, to have been shown the 
 marriage lines. This episode was no great feather 
 in the maternal cap, and poor Sally's name was 
 conspicuously absent from the fly-leaf of the 
 family Bible. The mistress of The Mains now 
 rested from her match-making labours, and de- 
 voted, henceforth, all her energies to the insane 
 indulgence of her only son — now a pampered and 
 disagreeable boy often. 
 
 In these times would Mrs Graham publicly 
 announce among her neighbours that she did not 
 intend to marry off her daughter Alison. Dis- 
 graceful though it was to have a girl left on your 
 hands, yet one unmarried daughter was not un- 
 useful. Jacky would need a housekeeper until he 
 married. After that great event, Alison's future 
 might be nebulous, but in no case was it a matter 
 of very great importance. 
 
 In the meantime, useful occupation was not 
 lacking to Miss Graham of The Mains. In these 
 changed days, she had, besides her household work 
 and poultry - keeping, certain grave and tender 
 duties which kept her much confined to the house, 
 even in this lovely summer time. It was to get a 
 few moments' respite from these, and a mouthful 
 of fresh air, that she would steal out, bare-headed,
 
 THE RHYMER 291 
 
 on the drowsy afternoons, and wander In the 
 garden. One day (it was, indeed, the day after 
 Herries's arrival in the country), she did this, 
 having in charge, however, her brother. The 
 mistress of The Mains was absent on a drive to 
 visit a distant neighbour, and in her absence 
 the precious heir was never trusted a moment by 
 himself. 
 
 Jacky wished to go and climb upon a wall which 
 was being built round the old, and hitherto only 
 hedged, garden. So far but a few yards had been 
 completed — the broad parapet offering a tempting 
 promenade for youthful agility. It was a forbidden 
 joy, but such things, to the spoilt child, are ever 
 only nominally forbidden, and Alison, by sage 
 experience, was aware that protest would be only 
 waste of time. Jacky, therefore, pranced upon the 
 wall, deftly cracking a huge carter's whip — his 
 latest acquisition, which he had already made a 
 terror to every man and woman at The Mains. 
 He was now a fat, overgrown and hearty boy, with 
 long, fair, effeminate ringlets, which a fond maternal 
 hand could not bring itself to shear, and which 
 assorted ill enough with the sturdy and thick-set 
 appearance of the youthful heir. 
 
 For a little while he strutted all content, and 
 Alison stepped about the sweet old garden in 
 the sun, and picked herself a little bunch of white 
 clove pinks, and stuck them in her dress. But 
 her moments of respite were soon numbered. 
 
 ' Come now, Jacky,' she called, going to the 
 wall's foot ; ' come down like a good boy ! You 
 know I must go in to father.' 
 
 * I'm no comin',' said Jacky, with the serene 
 finality of the spoilt child.
 
 292 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' Ah — but you must,' pleaded his sister, ' for 
 mother would never have you left upon the dyke 
 your lone, and father wants me.' But Jacky paid 
 no heed. 
 
 ' I'll have to come and pull you down,' said 
 Alison, rashly going nearer. 
 
 ' Ye'll no ! ' said Jacky, with a deft swirl of his 
 whip. It cracked like a pistol shot on the silent 
 summer air, and the tip of the lash caught Alison 
 on the ear, so that she clapped her hand to the 
 place with a little cry of pain. 
 
 ' Ah, Jacky,' she cried, ' you've hurt me now.' 
 But Jacky — a fiendish, little, spoilt wretch — only 
 laughed. 
 
 Nemesis, however, hovered behind him, for there 
 had been an unsuspected witness to the scene. 
 A gentleman on horseback had come down the 
 road which passed close to the new wall, and, 
 attracted by the repeated cracking of a whip, had 
 paused. Finally he had dismounted, tied his 
 horse to a gate-post, and, standing a little way off 
 from the end of the unfinished dyke, could see and 
 hear what happened both above and below. 
 While Alison, the tears of her smart in her eyes, 
 still expostulated vainly with her brother, she was 
 suddenly electrified to perceive his ankles clasped 
 by two hands from the other side of the wall. 
 With a sharp howl of terror, the heir of all the 
 Grahams disappeared abruptly from his perch. 
 Alison ran round the dyke, and lo ! with the roar- 
 ing Jacky struggling in his arms, there was 
 Archibald Herries, or his ghost. 
 
 Alison stopped dead, and the two, with eight 
 years between them of pain, and parting, and 
 estrangement, stood staring at each other — so
 
 THE RHYMER 293 
 
 strange is human life — upon the verge of laughter, 
 Herries released the boy, who ran yelling to the 
 house, and then, flushed and awkward, he stood 
 before Alison. 
 
 ' I — I am come to The Mains, you see,' he 
 stammered, not brilliantly, it must be con- 
 fessed. 
 
 ' I see, sir,' said Alison, a little giddily. (How 
 sweet, how strong — too strong — the pinks smelt 
 in her dress !) ' But you are like to have an 
 odd welcome,' she went on, in a queer, steady 
 voice, and yet with a little uncertain laugh, ' if 
 you begin like this, by beating Jacky. 'Tis a 
 providence has sent my mother from home this 
 day, or you would be like to get into her black 
 books.' 
 
 The summer world, the trees, the sky were 
 reeling round her, but she kept her head, better, 
 indeed, than did the man. He, dumb, stood look- 
 ing at her, while the world, his world, changed 
 round him, like the world of dreams. What had he 
 expected to see ? — a faded woman past her prime ? 
 Alison was twenty-eight now, but at twenty-eight, 
 young women living quiet country lives are neither 
 old nor faded as a common rule. She was a girl 
 yet, the flush of summer on her cheeks, not the 
 tendril of a curl changed ; bewitching womanliness 
 was in the sweet curves of her young body beneath 
 the cotton gown. Her eyes seemed larger than of 
 yore, perhaps because the face had fined away a 
 little from mere girlish chubbiness to slightly 
 hollower lines of cheek and chin. Her soft, broad 
 forehead knit itself a little. Herries felt his heart 
 go fro'n him, and his cool head swam. He tried 
 to keep command of himself, but himself — the
 
 294 THE RHYMER 
 
 self of all these barren years — was slipping from 
 him even now. 
 
 ' Can I — can I have a few words with you alone ? ' 
 he asked humbly. 
 
 ' Surely, sir,' said Alison. ' But I cannot 
 spare you many minutes, for I am wanted.' A 
 look of pain, of harassed anxiety, came into 
 her eyes, which should have been an omen. But 
 Herries did not see it. They began to walk 
 in the garden, on a grass path between yew 
 hedges. 
 
 ' Have you seen Nancy lately, and is she well ? ' 
 asked Alison, breaking the silence. 
 
 ' I never see her,' said Herries, shortly. ' Have 
 you dropped all knowledge of her too ? ' 
 
 ' At first we wrote a little,' said Alison, quietly, 
 ' but I am no great hand at letters, sir, and so — 
 and so we grew apart.' 
 
 ' That's well,' said Herries, abruptly. He chafed 
 at this dull talk, walking at Alison's side, but 
 what to say, where to begin ? He stole a look 
 at her. ' Alison,' he cried suddenly, ' your ear 
 hurts. That little monster cut it with the lash ; 
 it bleeds.' 
 
 'Does it?' said Alison, faintly, putting up her 
 hand. 
 
 ' Wait — here ! ' said Herries, eagerly. * I have a 
 soft silk kerchief.' He noted, with a kind of 
 anguish, the smudge of blood upon a little curl, 
 and yet thought himself cool enough to wipe it away 
 unmoved. But the touch, the contact, the terrible 
 sweetness of approach were all too much. The 
 pent-up tenderness of years would be denied no 
 longer — his empty arms rebelled against their 
 emptiness.
 
 THE RHYMER 295 
 
 * Ally ! ' he cried. ' Oh ! Ally— oh, my soul ! ' 
 For, indeed, it did seem as though, after all these 
 
 years of deathly trance, his soul had come back 
 
 to him.
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 And now Hemes, who had found an advocate, 
 became his own accuser. 
 
 * That you can forgive me this long and cruel 
 silence is impossible,' said the man who had 
 hitherto held himself so proudly blameless. 
 
 ' Nay, there's nothing to forgive in you,' said the 
 fond woman, who held him blameless still. ' Do 
 you think I did not know you?' she went on 
 softly. * I knew that you, being you, must have 
 acted as you did. And I said to myself I would 
 abide by your action, whatever it was, for I knew 
 it would be just ! ' 
 
 * If it was not my action that was sorely wrong,' 
 said Herries, in his new contrition, 'then it was 
 something deeper. 'Twas ray heart and nature 
 that erred ; to doubt you was a cold-hearted, an 
 abominable crime ! ' But Alison only smiled. 
 
 ' If you had erred,' she said, ' it might have been 
 easier for me, for then I might have found some 
 comfort in thinking you unworthy. But no, I 
 would not, for all the world, have had it so ! 
 I'd rather have borne the hardness of our parting 
 than that ! ' 
 
 ' Was it — was it so very hard — to you ? ' 
 whispered Herries. 
 
 ' Is it hard when the nest and the young ones 
 are torn from the bird, do you think?' said Alison. 
 ' If that is hard, my suffering was like it ; for all that 
 
 296
 
 THE RHYMER 297 
 
 I had went from me when I went from you ! ' 
 Herries sighed, and memory tormented him. 
 He heard the plashing rain upon the pavement 
 — the rain of that night of parting ; he saw the 
 white face that Alison turned upon him from the 
 window of the sedan as the chairmen carried her 
 away into the darkness. 
 
 * May God pardon me the hardness of my heart,' 
 he said, raising the hat from his head, ' for I'll 
 never forgive myself as long as I live.' 
 
 They spoke of Robert Burns, and they spoke of 
 Nancy, unravelling that terrible entanglement of 
 the past. Herries spoke with a new gentleness, 
 and Alison, as she heard him, pressed close to 
 his side. 
 
 * You forgive them — you do forgive them — don't 
 you, Archie ? ' she whispered ' For, you know, 
 Nancy never dreamed how deeply she injured 
 us, and he — the man — knew not what he did. 
 We cannot be happy if we leave them un- 
 forgiven ! ' Herries did not answer, for his 
 heart was big within him, and in his ears was 
 the sound of a voice, now stilled for ever, 
 pleading for that forgiveness which the sweet 
 woman at his side now urged upon him. 
 
 ' " Foj'give us our debts as we forgive our 
 debtors!'"'' said he, at last, in the same words, 
 and they fell from him with a sigh. 
 
 ' I must go now,' said Alison, at last, ' for I dare 
 not linger. I have stayed too long.' 
 
 * Nay, but I'll not let you, Alison,' said Herries, 
 * till it is promised me that our parting is at an end, 
 and that I can come and ask you of your parents 
 this very day. Why not ? ' Alison stood still and
 
 298 THE RHYMER 
 
 looked at him, and in her eyes was a something 
 akin to that compassion with which you will see 
 a mother look at her careless and unconscious 
 child. 
 
 * Nay, Archie,' she said faintly. ' I had been 
 thinking that you knew. . . . But that's all gone 
 and done with now. I have no freedom to go 
 with any man. I cannot leave my home.' 
 
 ' But, by the God that is above us, you shall — 
 and with me ! ' said Herries, violently. ' I will 
 permit no second sacrifice of our love and life.' 
 
 ' Come with me — home, Archie,' said Alison, 
 gently, 'and I'll show you what I cannot tell 
 you.' In a brooding silence they went to un- 
 loose Herries's horse, which had pawed the 
 ground beneath him to a pulp. A lad took it 
 from them as they went towards the house. 
 ' I am taking you to my father's room,' said 
 Alison, in a low voice. She led him down the 
 dark narrow passage to the library. 
 
 ' Here are two steps in the dark — take care,' she 
 whispered, and as he stumbled he felt her guiding 
 hand come out to him. She opened the library 
 door, and in the warm light of the summer 
 evening that came in through the little deep- 
 set windows, Herries saw the laird of The 
 Mains. 
 
 Alas ! for the four - bottle man — our jovial 
 ancestor of a drinking age ! His life may have 
 been a merry one, but it was generally short, and 
 often before middle age the gout would get him 
 at his vitals, or deathly paralysis lay him by the 
 heels. It was the latter vengeance that had over- 
 taken the laird of The Mains — pinning him help- 
 less, and almost speechless, to his great lug-chair
 
 THE RHYMER 299 
 
 by the fire for which he shivered even in the 
 hottest day. There he sat, huddled in gown and 
 sh'ppers, the wreck of a man at fifty-six, and 
 behind him, rudely carved upon the green stone 
 mantel, Herries read the doleful legend, which 
 seemed the text of a wordless but expressive 
 sermon : 
 
 * In 1iui7ian life thcris nothing steadfast stands, 
 Youth, Glorie, Riches fades. Death^s sure at hand^ 
 
 Hardly anything of the sick man could move 
 but his eyes, and these turned upon his daughter 
 as she entered with a dog-like look of expectation, 
 while he set up a painful, inarticulate cry for water 
 — for he was tormented by an insatiable and 
 raging thirst. 
 
 ' 'Tis ever so, if I leave him for but half-an-hour,' 
 said Alison, in a low voice. ' No one comes to him ; 
 they let his cup be empty and his fire go out. Oh, 
 I've been cruel to leave him so long,' she cried, 
 with a pang of remorse. She held the cup to his 
 lips, and in her strong young arms raised the supine 
 and helpless form against the pillows. Herries, 
 inexpressibly shocked, with a sense of foreboding 
 against which he vainly strove, watched her. 
 
 'But, Alison!' he whispered, passionately, 'this 
 — this is your mother's duty. She's bound to it 
 by every law of marriage — by every impulse of 
 humanity.' 
 
 ' You do not know my mother, sir,' said Alison, 
 quietly ; ' God forgive me for these unnatural words 
 against her that bore me. But my mother has 
 her health, and is, besides, of an impatient nature, 
 and cannot understand that others should be sick 
 and feeble. . . . I'll say no more.'
 
 300 THE RHYMER 
 
 They went together to the far end of the low, 
 long room, which was now getting dark. 
 
 * But this is monstrous ! ' said Herries, vehe- 
 mently, ' a second sacrifice — I repeat it ! You 
 sacrificed me once to Nancy — and now you would 
 sacrifice me to another. You cannot love me ! ' 
 
 * I love you,' said Alison, intently, ' I love you 
 better than all the world — better than my poor 
 father. But, or ever I saw your face, Archie, 
 I knew his, and he has been a good father to me. 
 God would surely desert me if, knowing what I 
 do of things at home, I were to leave him in his 
 helplessness. Archie, you'll not bring me to tempt 
 God's anger?' It was almost a cry, but Herries 
 would not hear the justice in it. 
 
 ' Then I go,' he said, sore and angry, * I go, 
 uncomforted and alone.' But Alison clung to him 
 with a sob. 
 
 ' Oh, no — no — no ! ' she whispered, ' don't leave 
 me, Archie — oh, not yet ! I've been so long alone 
 — so long — and never a sight of your face, and 
 sometimes I would be nearly mad to think I 
 might forget it. But no — I have remembered 
 every line.' 
 
 Herries held his breath, and in the poignant 
 sacredness of the moment his heart stood still. 
 For never had Alison's arms held him as they did 
 just now, or her eyes read his face ; and he felt that 
 woman's passion, unashamed, had taken the place 
 of a girl's timid love. Her fingers touched his 
 hair, and yet, somehow, with all its passion, it was 
 a touch that might have been his mother's. 
 
 ' You're gotten so grey, Archie,' she said, with 
 a little tender laugh. 'You'll scarcely need the 
 powder now ! '
 
 THE RHYMER 301 
 
 But Hemes put her from him, almost roughly, 
 with an oath. 
 
 ' I can't bear it. Ally,' he said. ' If I must go, 
 let me go now. I must have all or nothing.' 
 
 He took his riding-whip from the table where he 
 had laid it, and turned and went without a word.
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII 
 
 That night did a stranger cause much commotion 
 in the streets of C by rampaging (as the in- 
 habitants expressed it) up and down, demanding 
 at every turn the surgeon who waited upon Mr 
 Graham of The Mains. It was Herries who 
 pursued this curious quest, and the placid citizens 
 judged him demented, as, indeed, but a few hours 
 since, he would have judged himself. He traced 
 the personage whom he sought to his own dwell- 
 ing, where he found him, resting after the labours 
 of the day, over a comfortable and steaming glass 
 of toddy. Herries entered the room, booted and 
 spurred as he was, and rang a guinea on the 
 doctor's table with much the air of holding a 
 pistol to his ear. 
 
 ' I am given to understand,' said he, ' that you 
 attend the laird of The Mains. Oblige me by 
 telling me in confidence how long, in your opinion, 
 it is probable that Mr Graham has to live ? ' The 
 astonished yEsculapius looked up, open-mouthed, 
 shoving his spectacles from his nose to his bald 
 forehead. 
 
 ' God bless me ! ' he exclaimed. ' And who are 
 you that put this most extraordinary question? 
 It is outrageous ! ' 
 
 ' I have paid good money for your opinion, like 
 any other man — and should get it, I presume,' said 
 Herries, sulkily. 
 
 302
 
 THE RHYMER -,o 
 
 o^o 
 
 ' Not at all, not at all, sir ! ' said the doctor, 
 swelling with professional offence. ' I never heard 
 of such bold impudence ! ' He was, in the mean- 
 time, looking Herries up and down, and perceiving 
 a gentlemanly man, well dressed and w^ith a pale, 
 grave face, made up his mind that he was neither 
 a man in liquor nor a madman, but some person 
 of consideration. 
 
 ' If,' he said at last, * you will give me satisfactory 
 reasons for your extraordinary question, I may see 
 whether I can answer it with decorum and with 
 due attention to professional etiquette. I am too 
 old a bird not to know that there are often good 
 reasons for the strangest actions.' Herries was 
 silent. He had intended no confidences ; an 
 impulse, very unlike him, had driven him to this 
 crude method of trying to find out how long a 
 time, Laban-like, he must yet serve for Alison. 
 There was something kindly in the old doctor's 
 weather-worn sagacious countenance. 
 
 ' I have a reason,' Herris said, suddenly deter- 
 mined to be frank. ' I am a suitor for the hand of 
 Miss Graham, and she will not marry in her father's 
 lifetime.' 
 
 ' Oh — ho ! sets the wind in that airt ? ' said the 
 doctor, much more genially. ' Come, sit down, 
 man, and let us talk it over. And so you are a 
 friend of Miss Alison's ? So am I — in troth, her 
 earliest ! And she will not leave her father for 
 you ? Well, I daresay not, I daresay not — a good 
 lass ! But the mother, let me tell you, stands in 
 your gait fully more than the laird. She'll not do 
 wanting Alison, and so she tells the world. A 
 tremendous woman, sir, and set on her own ways. 
 You'll not get Alison from her.'
 
 304 THE RHYMER 
 
 ' I'll take her ! ' said Harries, with a short laugh. 
 
 ' A bold man ! ' said the doctor. ' Well, rather 
 you than me to meddle with the mistress of The 
 Mains ! As to the laird, it goes against the grain 
 with me to give his death-warrant. Many's the 
 bottle I've cracked with him, honest man, sitting 
 in the parlour at The Mains yonder — the mistress 
 brought to bed upstairs — and waiting for they 
 lasses of his to come into the world. But we must 
 all die ! ' He paused, and then went on gravely, 
 ' I cannot tell you how long you may have to wait. 
 It might be a month, it might be a year, it might 
 be ten. Some, in paralysis, die soon. Some linger 
 in a death in life like his for half a lifetime. The 
 Graham stock is tough, uncommonly so; but my 
 old friend is in a bad case — the Lord send him 
 rest ! — and I do not think he'll live the year.' The 
 speaker eyed Herries curiously. ' Does that content 
 you ? ' he asked, with a twinkling eye. 
 
 ' God forgive me for a cold-blooded questioner 
 in this ! ' said Herries, really vexed and sorely 
 ashamed. ' But I am clean distraught, I think ! 
 This young lady and I were contracted eight years 
 since, but mischief came between us and we parted. 
 And now we meet only to part again, this feeble 
 life of a man almost dead between us. Am I ex- 
 cused in your eyes, sir?' 
 
 ' Oh, I think so, I think so ! ' said the good- 
 natured man of medicine with 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
 
 THE RHYMER 305 
 
 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 
 
 U
 
 3o6 THE RHYMER 
 
 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 pas- 
 sion and of pain. But it is the RHYMER, of whatso- 
 ever generation he may be, singing of these things 
 for us so that we all understand, who is the only 
 Immortal. 
 
 THE END
 
 BURNS TO CL A RIND A 
 
 ' Ae fond kiss and then we sever, 
 Ae fareweel and then forever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears F II pledge thee, 
 Warri?ig 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 tzvinkle lights me, 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 ' /'// 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. 
 Aefond kiss and tJien we sever ; 
 Ae fareweel, alas ! forever. 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears Fll pledge thee. 
 Warring sighs and groans Fll wage thee.'
 
 ^<t4t^ 
 
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