Lochinvar: A Novel, Page 3

  LOCHINVAR

  FOREWORD TO THE TALE, TELLING WHAT BEFELL AT THE HOUSE OF BALMAGHIE IN THE YEAR OF GRACE 1685, AND HOW MY LADY WELLWOOD PARTED TWO YOUNG LOVERS

  "Aye," said Mistress Crombie, house-keeper to Roger McGhie,Laird of Balmaghie, a considerable house in the south-lying andbetter-cultivated part of the wild lands of Galloway--"aye, indeed, yemay well say it, Alisoun Begbie. It is a wondrous and most ungentlething when the doe seeks the hart--panting and brayin' for a man, asthe Guid Buik says. And saw ye ever sic feathers?--I declare theynearly soopit the floor. My Lady Wellwood, or no my Lady Wellwood, Itrow she didna come ridin' by the hoose o' Balmaghie only to ask thetime o' day, upsetting besom that she is!"

  During this harangue Alisoun Begbie was clattering about among herbottles and dishes in the stone-flagged, slate-shelved still-roomwhich constituted her pantry. A few minutes before she had criedmischievously out of the window to Lang Wat, the new under-gardener ofBalmaghie, to the effect that "siccan a guid-lookin' chiel should beseen oftener about the house--but that she, Alisoun Begbie, was notwanting anything to do with the likes of him. She could get plentyof lads, and it was weel-kenned that the Glenkens' folk aye took upwi' their ain folk at ony rate." But as soon as the "bauchles"[A]of Mistress Crombie, the shrill-tempered house-keeper, were heardscuffling up the stairs, Alisoun made a pretty warning face ofsilence at Lang Wat, and tossed her head to intimate that some oneapproached from behind; so that, without making any verbal answer,the under-gardener resumed his occupation of the moment, which wasthe pruning and grafting of sundry rose-bushes--the pride and care ofMistress Kate McGhie, the "young leddy" of the great house of Balmaghie.

  [A] Certain heelless and shapeless slippers, characteristic of the district.

  "Na, 'deed, Alisoun Begbie," cried Mistress Crombie once more, fromthe cheek of the door, "believe me when I tell ye that sic a braw citymadam--and a widow forbye--doesna bide about an auld disjaskit rickleo' stanes like the Hoose o' the Grenoch withoot haeing mair in her headthan just sending warnings to Clavers aboot the puir muirland folk,that keep their misguided conventicles up ayont there, and pray a'nicht in the lirks o' the hills and the black hags o' the peat-mosses."

  "Aye, ye may say so, 'deed, mistress," agreed Alisoun, keeping an eyeupon the window of her pantry, through which she could see Lang Watbending his back among the rose-bushes. Spite of his good looks, hehad proved himself a singularly flinty-hearted fellow-servitor, andill to set to the wooing. But Alisoun had still hopes of him. She hadsucceeded with some difficult--indeed, almost hopeless--cases in hertime, and the very unresponsive nature of the young Glenkens' gardenerstirred her ambition to brighter and more inviting glances, as well asto gayer and ever daintier ribbons.

  But in spite of both loving looks and lovers' knots, Lang Wat neithersuccumbed nor yet appeared so much as conscious of her regard. Truly amarvellous young man--such as had never come within the sphere of thecomely handmaiden's influence before.

  "Weel, I'se warrant my lady needna set her cap at our maister," saidAlisoun Begbie, willing to agree with the powerful and cantankeroushouse-keeper: "Na, Roger McGhie o' Balmaghie has his wits aboot him.Surely it is a terrible thing when a woman so far forgets hersel' as toset her cap for a man."

  And pretty Alisoun glanced at the silver salver she was polishing, inorder to be sure that her silken snood was in its proper place, andthat the braids of her hair were drawn back smoothly and daintily fromher brow. Being reassured on these points, she resumed the salver withrenewed complaisance. Lang Wat was now standing meditatively outside,quite near the house, and with his face turned towards her window. Hewas leaning upon his spade; any moment he might look up. Pretty AlisounBegbie breathed upon the silver with a certain seductive pouting of herlips, rubbed the place clear, breathed again upon it, and last of allfrowned alluringly at it--for the very excellent reason that one of herformer admirers had incautiously told her that such frowning became hermightily. But in spite of all, Lang Wat remained rapt in abstractestmeditation. At which Alisoun Begbie tossed her head and frownedagain--not this time for picturesque reasons, but in good earnest.

  "He micht at least have kissed his hand, the silly cuif!" she said,half to herself, looking resentfully at the impervious under-gardenerof Balmaghie.

  "What!" cried Mistress Crombie, "kissed his hand, indeed, yedaft-speaking, licht-headed hizzie! I hope that my maister hassomething else to do than to gang kissin' his hand to a' thehigh-flyin' madams that likes to come aboot the hoose--wi' their auldguidmen hardly cauld in their coffins, and as much paint on theirimpudent faces as wad serve for the body o' a trail cart. Kiss hishand to her, indeed! Na, na, set her up; a deal less than that willserve her."

  A stir was heard at the top of the stairs which led up from thestill-room, among the cool recesses of which this conversation had beenproceeding between Mistress Crombie and her favorite assistant.

  "Dear sirs, that's the maister himsel', I declare," said thehouse-keeper, looking cautiously up, "and dressed in his Sundaybreeks--mercy on us!--and his best coat wi' the new lace on thecollar, and the cuffs that I laid aside for the next burial or siclikefestivity. But--Lord preserve us!--here on a Wednesday he maun gang andput them on! The man's surely gane clean mad. He shall sup sorrow likesowens for this yet, and that will be seen."

  "Maybe he has been kissin' mair than his ain hand," said AlisounBegbie, slyly. She was still smarting from her rebuke by thehouse-keeper; besides which, Lang Wat would not look up.

  Mistress Crombie started as if she had been stung.

  "Save us!" she cried, "do ye think so? Then a' our good days abootthe hoose o' the Balmaghie are numbered! Oh, the bonny place, whereI thocht to end my days wi' a guid maister and a kindly! Oh, women,women--what hae ye no to answer for, upsettin' a' plans, stirrin' up a'ill, pu'in' doon a' guid! Eh, Alisoun, but what a paradise the worldwad be wi' only men in it, and no a woman frae end to end o't--_forbyemysel'_--whatna Gairden o' Eden wad that no make!"

  But the eyes of Alisoun Begbie were fastened on a certain shadednook among the rose-bushes, wherein a pretty enough comedy was beingenacted; though, be it said, one little to the taste of the still-roommaid. Mistress Crombie, had she been observant, might have discoveredabundant cause to find fault with her maid's diligence and attentionto the details of her duty during the next half-hour. But luckily forAlisoun Begbie, that good though suspicious lady had betaken herselfindignantly up-stairs. There, with haughty head tossing in the air anda certain ominously aggrieved silence, she proceeded to meditate uponthe other details of her master's attire--his Sunday shoes with silverbuckles, his ribbons of pale blue at the knee, and especially the grandnew wig of the latest court fashion, which Colonel John Graham ofClaverhouse had brought all the way in his saddle-bag from Robin Rae's,the periwig-maker in the Lawnmarket, the last time he rode to Edinburghto consult with the Lords of the Privy Council.

  Now, what Alisoun Begbie watched behind the rosebushes was this:

  She saw the under-gardener, "Lang Wat o' the Glenkens," as he wascalled about the house, in close and kindly converse with Mistress KateMcGhie, the only daughter of the house and heiress of her father'swide estates. She had come, a tall and graceful maid attired in white,lightfoot down a shady garden-path, the sunshine and the leavestogether flecking her white dress with wavering shadows, her dark,shapely head thrown a little back, her chin tilted somewhat defiantlyin the air, and her broad summer hat a-swing in her left hand. Fitfullyshe hummed a tune, but whenever she forgot the words (which was veryoften) the song dropped, and, without the least break of continuity,proceeded on its way as a whistle. And in either case the soundsproceeded, so thought the under-gardener, from the prettiest and mostappetizing mouth in the world.

  Indeed, as soon as Mistress Kate came within hearing distance of him,Lang Wat promptly swept his broad bonnet from his head in salute, andtold her so. Which, when one thinks of it, was a considerable libertyfor an under-gardener to take.

  But the lady re
ceived the compliment not amiss, being to allappearance neither elated nor astonished. Was she not Kate McGhie ofBalmaghie, and had she not been accustomed to be told that she wasbeautiful as long as she could remember? Consistent and continuousadmiration had become familiar to her as the air she breathed, and haddone her as little harm. It seemed to Kate as natural that she shouldbe assured that she was winsome as to be told that she had a goodappetite. And the information affected her equally in either case.Since her very tenderest years there had been but one dissentient voicein this chorus of universal love and admiration--a certain small boyfrom the Glenkens, a laird's son, one Walter Gordon of Lochinvar, whohad come to the house of Balmaghie on a visit with his father, and hadenshrined his dissent in a somewhat memorable form.

  For, by the common bruit of the country-side, the girl had beendenominated--while yet but a child with great hazel eyes that promiseddangerous things, and a tossing fleece of curls--the Pride ofBalmaghie. And the maid herself, when asked her name, was accustomed toreply frankly:

  "I is little Kate McGhie-- What everybody loves."

  But this same Gordon lad from the Glenkens, scornful in the pride ofhalf a dozen years of superior age, never heard the phrase withoutadding his own contemptuous disclaimer, "Little brute, _I_ don't loveher."

  Nevertheless, the time came when the scorner recanted his renunciation.And that time was now, under the garden trees of the house of Balmaghieand the jealous eyes of Alisoun Begbie. For "Lang Wat o' the Glenkens,"under-gardener to Roger McGhie of Balmaghie, was none other than WalterGordon, the young laird of Lochinvar, fallen into ill-odor with theKing's government--both in the matter of the wounding of my Lord ofWellwood, and as being suspected of companying and intercommuning withthe wild Whigs of the hills. For the times bore hard on all such aswere of doubtful loyalty, and fines and confiscations were the leastthose had to expect who refused to side openly with the blusterousriders and galloping compellers of the King's forces. The blaze ofmuskets in face of a stone wall, the ever-busy rope in the Grassmarketof Edinburgh (where during two brisk years of the "Killing Time" thehangman needed a new "tow" every month from the Town Council, andthe pay of an additional assistant whenever "he was overthrong withthe hanging of so many Westland men")--these and other symptoms oftroublous times sent many well-disposed and innocent folk into hiding.

  But it was not alone the superior advantages of Balmaghie as ahiding-place which had brought Wat Gordon of Lochinvar thitherin search of shelter. It might rather be the sweeping, darksomeunder-curve of Kate McGhie's eyelashes, and the little specks of lightwhich swam and sparkled in the depths of her hazel eyes, like theshredded gold in that rare liqueur which John Scarlett, the famousmaster-at-arms, had brought back with him last year from Dantzig.

  Not that Wat Gordon was very deeply or seriously in love. He dalliedand daintied with it rather. True--he thought about love and the makingof it night and day, and (for the time being) his ideal and liege ladywas the young mistress of the house of Balmaghie.

  And Kate McGhie, knowing him for what he was, and being (unlike herfather, but like most of the women-folk of Scotland) a sympathizerwith the oppressed of the Covenant, showed no small kindness to theunder-gardener.

  She was a maiden left much alone. She was at the age when love is stillan insubstantial, rosy dream, yet few youths of her own quality wereever encouraged to come about her father's house. So that her pity andher admiration were the more easily engaged on behalf of the handsomeand unfortunate young laird who told her at least ten times a day (whenhe had the chance) that he was as willing as any Jacob to serve sevenyears, and seven to the back of that, in the hope of such a Rachel. Foreven before he began to do more than play with true love, Wat Gordonhad a gift of love-making which might have wiled a bird off a tree.

  Yet, for all that, when he came to practise on Kate McGhie, he wiledin vain. For the girl was buttressed and defended by a lifetime ofadmiration from all who came about her--by her father's adoration, thedevotion of every man, woman, and child about the house of Balmaghie,and, above all, by the repute of reigning beauty athwart all thecountry-side. So, though she might think well enough of Wat Gordon,that handsome exile from his heritages and lordships now in picturesquehiding as her father's under-gardener, she was (so at least she toldherself) in no danger of permitting that liking to develop into anyfeeling more dangerous or more exacting.

  So these two fenced, each of them in their own way, right gallantlywith lightsome love; while the love that is not lightsome, but strongas death, smiled out upon them from behind the rose-bushes, and lay inwait for one and the other.

  Presently, while they were yet talking and Alisoun Begbie stillcarefully observant of them, the front door of the house of Balmaghieopened wide, and the laird himself came down the steps looking a littledashed and shamefaced, for Mistress Crombie had ushered him to the doorwith ironic state and ceremony.

  "Dootless your honor is on his way to pay duty to the King'sCommissioner at Kirkcudbright," she said, with pointed sarcasm whichthe shy laird did not know well how to parry. "But ye hae forgottenyour pearl studs in your sark, and the wee hangie-swordie o' the courtthat will no draw oot o' its scabbard, nor so muckle as hurt a flea."

  "I thank you, mistress," said Roger, not daring to look at his toofaithful domestic, "but I go not so far afield as to see His Majesty'sCommissioner. 'Tis but the matter of a visitor whom we must expect thisforenoon. See that some collation is prepared for her."

  "_Her!_" ejaculated Mistress Crombie, with an indescribable accent ofsurprise, not unmingled with scorn. "_Her_--we are to hae the companyo' a great lady, nae doot. And this the first that your humble servantand house-keeper has heard o' the matter! 'Collation,' quo' he? Whatnadinner do ye think can be got ready between eleven and twa o' the clockon a Wednesday, wi' a' the lasses at the washin' except Alisoun Begbie,and nocht in the larder forbye twa pookit chuckie-hens, that came fraethe Boat Craft less than half an hour since?"

  "But, surely, these will do very well," said Roger McGhie, withincreasing nervousness. "'Tis only my Lady of Wellwood, who rides overfrom the Grenoch."

  For in truth he had been afraid to mention the matter to MistressCrombie, and so had put off till it was too late--as the manner of menis.

  "I forgot to acquaint you with the fact before; it--ah--it altogetherescaped my memory," said he, beginning to pull his gloves on as hedescended the steps.

  "But ye didna forget to put on your Sunday claes, Laird Balmaghie,"cried the privileged domestic after him, sarcastically; "nor did yourbest silken hose nor your silver buckles escape your memory! And yeminded brawly to scent your ruffles wi' cinnamon and rosemary. Ye dinnaforget ony o' thae things--that were important, and maitters o' lifeand death, as one might say. It only escaped your memory to tell yourpuir feckless auld house-keeper to mak' ony provision for your daintydames and court leddies. Ou aye, it maitters little for the like o'her--Marion Crombie, that has only served ye for forty year, and neverwranged ye o' a fardin's-worth. Dinna waste a thought on her, puir auldwoman, though she should die in a hedge-root, so long as ye can hae agreat repair o' powdered weemen and galloping frisk-me-denties to comeridin' aboot your hoose."

  But whatever else Mistress Crombie might have had to say to her masterwas lost in the clatter of hoofs and the stir and bustle of a newarrival.

  Up the avenue came a bold horsewoman riding a spirited bay, reiningit like a man as she stayed her course on the river gravel before thefront door and sent the stones spraying from its fore-feet at the halt.The new-comer wore a plumed hat and the riding-dress of red, which,together with her warm sympathies with the "persecutors," caused myLady Wellwood to be known in the country-side as "The Scarlet Woman."She was a handsome dame of forty, or mayhap a little more; but, savefor the more pronounced arching of her haughty nose and the roundingcurves of her figure, she might well have passed for ten or twelveyears younger.

  The Laird of Balmaghie went eagerly forward to meet his visitor. Hetook gratefully enough the
hand which she reached to him a littleindulgently, as one might give a sweetmeat to a child to occupy itsattention. For even as he murmured his welcomes the lady's eyeswere certainly not upon her host, but on the erect figure of hisunder-gardener, who stood staring and transfixed by the rose-bush whichhe had been pruning.

  "My Lady Wellwood," said Roger McGhie, "this is indeed an honor and aprivilege."

  "Who may this youth be?" interrupted the lady, imperiously cuttingshort his sober courtesies and pointing to Lang Wat of the Glenkens.

  "It is but one of my gardeners; he has lately come about the house,"answered Roger McGhie, "a well-doing carle enough and a good worker.But hark ye, my lady, perhaps a wee overfond of Whiggery and suchstrait-lacedness, and so it may be as well to give his name the go-bywhen John Graham comes this way."

  My Lady of Wellwood never took her eyes off the gardener's face.

  "Come hither and help me to dismount," she said, beckoning with herfinger.

  Wat Gordon went reluctantly enough, dragging one foot after theother. He realized that the end had come to his residence among theflower-closes of Balmaghie, and that he must e'en bid farewell tothese walks and glades as of Paradise, upon which, as upon his life,the hazel eyes of Kate McGhie had lately rained such sweet influences.Meanwhile the laird stood meekly by. The caprices of great court-ladieswere not in his province, but, having set out to humor them, he was notto be offended by the favor shown his servitor. He had heard of suchthings at Whitehall, and the memory rather kindled him than otherwise.He felt all the new life and energy which comes of being transportedinto a new world of new customs, new ideas, and even of new laxities.

  Wat gave my Lady Wellwood his hand in the courtliest manner. The habitand gait of the under-gardener seemed to fall from him in a moment atthe sound of that voice, low and languorous, with a thrill in it offormer days which it irked him to think had still power to affect him.

  "You have not quite forgotten me, then, sweet lad of Lochinvar?" askedthe Duchess of Wellwood softly in his ear. For so in the days of hissometime madness she had been wont to call him.

  "No," answered Wat, sullenly enough, as he lifted her to the ground,not knowing what else to say.

  "Then meet me at the head of the wood on my way home," whispered thelady, as she disengaged herself from his arm, and turned with a smilingface to Roger McGhie.

  "And this is your sweet daughter," she murmured, caressingly, to Kate,who stood by with drooping eyelids, but who, nevertheless, had lost noshade of the colloquy between Wat Gordon and her father's guest.

  The Lady Wellwood took the girl's hand, which lay cold and unresponsivein her plump white fingers. "A pretty maid--you will be a beauty oneday, my dear," she added, with the condescension of one who knows shehas as yet nothing to fear from younger rivals.

  To this Kate answered nothing. For her flatterer was a woman. Hadthe Duchess of Wellwood been a man and condescended to this sort ofleft-handed praise, Kate would have flashed her eyes and said, "I havenot seldom been told that I am one already." Whereupon he would haveamended his sentence. As it was, Kate said nothing, but only hardenedher heart and wondered what the great court lady had found to whisperto the man who, during these last months, had daily been avowinghimself her lover. And though Kate was conscious that her heart satsecure and untouched on its virgin throne, it had, nevertheless, beennot unpleasant to listen to the lad. For of a surety Wat Gordon toldhis tale wondrously well.

  Roger McGhie conducted the lady gallantly through the garden walkstowards the house. But she had not gone far when she professed herselfovercome by the heat, and desired to be permitted to sit down on arustic seat. She was faint, she said; yet, even as she said it, thekeen eye of Kate McGhie noted that her color remained warm and high.

  "A tass of water--nay, no wine," she called after the Laird ofBalmaghie; "I thank you for your courtesy."

  And Kate's father hastened away a little stiffly to bring it. She knewthat his Sunday shoes irked him. It served him right, she thought. Athis age he ought to know better--but there remained the more importantmatter of the under-gardener.

  "Come and sit by me, pretty one," said the Lady Wellwood, cooingly, toKate.

  The "pretty one" would infinitely rather have set herself down by theside of an adder sunning itself on a bank than shared the woodland seatwith the bold horsewoman of Grenoch.

  "Ah! sly one," she said, "I warrant you knew that your under-gardenerthere, that handsome lad, was not the landward man he seemed."

  She shook her finger reproachfully at her companion as she spoke.

  Kate blushed hotly, and then straightway fell to despising herselffor doing it almost as much as she hated my lady for making her. LadyWellwood watched her covertly out of the corner of her eyes. Shecultivated a droop of the left eyelid on purpose.

  "I know that he is proscribed, and has a price set on his head," Katesaid, quietly, looking after Wat with great indifference as he wentdown the avenue of trees.

  "And do you know why?" asked the duchess, somewhat abruptly.

  "No," answered Kate, wondering at her tone.

  "It was for wounding my late husband within the precincts of Holyrood,"said Lady Wellwood.

  But Kate McGhie's anger was now fully roused, and her answer rantrippingly off her tongue.

  "And was it for that service you spoke so kindly to him just now, andbade him meet you at the head of the wood as you went home?"

  The duchess stared a little, but her well-bred calmness was not ruffled.

  "Even so," she said, placidly, "and for the further reason that WalterGordon was on his way to see _me_ on the night when it was his illfortune to meet with my husband instead."

  "I do not believe it," cried the girl, lifting her head and lookingLady Wellwood straight in the eyes.

  "Ask him, then!" answered the duchess, with the calm assurance of fortyanswering the chit of half her years. For at first sight my lady hadenvied and hated the clear, blushful ivory of the girl's cheek and thenatural luxuriance of her close-tangled curls. And since all the art ofSt. James's could not match with these, she was now getting even withKate in ways of her own.

  The girl did not speak. Her heart only welled within her withcontradiction and indignation.

  "Or if you will not do that, sit down half an hour hence and read yourbook in the little arbor by the end of the avenue, and you will hearnews. Whether you may like it or not is another question. But, atall events, you shall not have cause to say again that a Duchess ofWellwood lied."

  Kate rose and walked away without answering a word. She cared no jotfor Wat Gordon, so she told herself. He was nothing to her, save thatshe desired his safety and had risked much to give him shelter. Yetthis Duchess of Wellwood--that woman of whom the gross popular tonguewhispered commonly the most terrible things! Had Lochinvar made love toher? Was he to meet her at the end of the avenue? She could not believeit. It was, indeed, no matter if he did. What did she care? Go to thearbor, become an eavesdropper--not for any man alive, least of allfor Wat Gordon! Thank God, she had a tongue in her head, and was notafraid to ask Wat Gordon, or any living soul, whatever she desired toknow.

  But after a little hesitation she went up-stairs to her chamber, and,denying herself the listening of the ear, she listened with her eyesinstead. For she watched my Lady Wellwood being helped into her saddleright courteously by her father. She saw her looking down at him thewhile with a glance professionally tender--a glance that lingered inthe memory by reason of the quiver of an eyelid and the pressure of asoft, reluctant hand. And Roger McGhie bowed over her plump fingers asthough he had been bidding farewell to some angelic visitant.

  For the first time in her life Kate McGhie despised her father. And,lo! to hurt her heart yet more, and to convince her of the ultimatefalsity of all men, there was Wat, his tall figure overtopping thehawthorn hedge, walking briskly in the direction of the pinewood at theend of the avenue.

  Kate went down-stairs with a set, still face. She would not cry. Shedid not care.
She was only bitterly disappointed with the whole raceof mankind, nothing more. They were all no better than so many blindfools, ready to be taken in by a plausible tongue and a rolling eye. Afine figure of a woman, and--Lord, where was the best of them?

  But her Wat--and with the Duchess of Wellwood; she could not believeit! Why, she might be his--well, hardly that--but his mother at thevery least.

  Not that she cared; she had her work to think about; and Kate McGhiewent down to the little suckling lamb she had fed daily with warm milkout of a wooden spoon, and which, though now almost of the greatness ofa full-grown sheep, still leaped and fawned upon her. She fetched herpail and mixed pet Donald's mid-day meal.

  Outside the garden wall the lamb was standing, bleating indignantpetitions, and there Katie McGhie fed him with a gradually swellingheart. As the last drops disappeared into the moist black muzzle, Kateput her arms about the woolly neck and sobbed aloud.

  "Oh, Donald, Donald, my lamb, you are the only friend I have! I donot love anybody else, and no one in the world loves me. But I amnot sorry--I am glad, and I will not cry. It is not that I love him,Donald; but, oh! he might not have done it!"

  That same evening Wat Gordon, as was his custom, came walking slowlythrough the garden pleasaunce. Kate McGhie met him by the rose-bush hehad been pruning that morning.

  "Is it true," she asked, looking at him bravely and directly, "that youare in hiding because, when going to visit the Duchess of Wellwood, youencountered her husband instead?"

  "This much is true," answered Wat, promptly, "that while passing downthe Canongate one snowy night, my cousin, Will Gordon of Earlstoun, andI were beset by a band of ruffians in the pay of the Duke of Wellwood,and that in defending ourselves the Duke himself was hurt."

  "And when you went out of your lodging that night, was it to walk withyour cousin or to visit my Lady of Wellwood in her boudoir?"

  Wat Gordon took his breath hard. The manner of the question left him noescape with honor. But he could not lie. And he would offer no excuse.

  "I went out to visit my Lady Wellwood!" he said, very shortly.

  Kate McGhie held out her hand.

  "I bid you good-bye," she said; "you will find your ancient friend andhostess at the Grenoch. There is nothing to detain you any longer aboutthe poor house of Balmaghie."

  And so saying the girl turned on her heel and walked slowly through thegarden garth and past the pruned rose-bushes. She crossed the grassyslope to the door and there disappeared, leaving Wat Gordon standingsilent, shamed, and amazed.