Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (292 page)

By that they were come to the place where their ways severed.  The old grey moors were all about them; in the midst a few sheep wandered; and they could see on the one hand the straggling caravan scaling the braes in front of them for Cauldstaneslap, and on the other, the contingent from Hermiston bending off and beginning to disappear by detachments into the policy gate.  It was in these circumstances that they turned to say farewell, and deliberately exchanged a glance as they shook hands.  All passed as it should, genteelly; and in Christina’s mind, as she mounted the first steep ascent for Cauldstaneslap, a gratifying sense of triumph prevailed over the recollection of minor lapses and mistakes.  She had kilted her gown, as she did usually at that rugged pass; but when she spied Archie still standing and gazing after her, the skirts came down again as if by enchantment.  Here was a piece of nicety for that upland parish, where the matrons marched with their coats kilted in the rain, and the lasses walked barefoot to kirk through the dust of summer, and went bravely down by the burn-side, and sat on stones to make a public toilet before entering!  It was perhaps an air wafted from Glasgow; or perhaps it marked a stage of that dizziness of gratified vanity, in which the instinctive act passed unperceived.  He was looking after!  She unloaded her bosom of a prodigious sigh that was all pleasure, and betook herself to run.  When she had overtaken the stragglers of her family, she caught up the niece whom she had so recently repulsed, and kissed and slapped her, and drove her away again, and ran after her with pretty cries and laughter.  Perhaps she thought the laird might still be looking!  But it chanced the little scene came under the view of eyes less favourable; for she overtook Mrs. Hob marching with Clem and Dand.

“You’re shürely fey, lass!” quoth Dandie.

“Think shame to yersel’, miss!” said the strident Mrs. Hob.  “Is this the gait to guide yersel’ on the way hame frae kirk?  You’re shiirely no sponsible the day!  And anyway I would mind my guid claes.”

“Hoot!” said Christina, and went on before them head in air, treading the rough track with the tread of a wild doe.

She was in love with herself, her destiny, the air of the hills, the benediction of the sun.  All the way home, she continued under the intoxication of these sky-scraping spirits.  At table she could talk freely of young Hermiston; gave her opinion of him off-hand and with a loud voice, that he was a handsome young gentleman, real well mannered and sensible-like, but it was a pity he looked doleful.  Only — the moment after — a memory of his eyes in church embarrassed her.  But for this inconsiderable check, all through meal-time she had a good appetite, and she kept them laughing at table, until Gib (who had returned before them from Crossmichael and his separative worship) reproved the whole of them for their levity.

Singing “in to herself” as she went, her mind still in the turmoil of a glad confusion, she rose and tripped upstairs to a little loft, lighted by four panes in the gable, where she slept with one of her nieces.  The niece, who followed her, presuming on “Auntie’s” high spirits, was flounced out of the apartment with small ceremony, and retired, smarting and half tearful, to bury her woes in the byre among the hay.  Still humming, Christina divested herself of her finery, and put her treasures one by one in her great green trunk.  The last of these was the psalm-book; it was a fine piece, the gift of Mistress Clem, in distinct old-faced type, on paper that had begun to grow foxy in the warehouse — not by service — and she was used to wrap it in a handkerchief every Sunday after its period of service was over, and bury it end-wise at the head of her trunk.  As she now took it in hand the book fell open where the leaf was torn, and she stood and gazed upon that evidence of her bygone discomposure.  There returned again the vision of the two brown eyes staring at her, intent and bright, out of that dark corner of the kirk.  The whole appearance and attitude, the smile, the suggested gesture of young Hermiston came before her in a flash at the sight of the torn page.  “I was surely fey!” she said, echoing the words of Dandie, and at the suggested doom her high spirits deserted her.  She flung herself prone upon the bed, and lay there, holding the psalm-book in her hands for hours, for the more part in a mere stupor of unconsenting pleasure and unreasoning fear.  The fear was superstitious; there came up again and again in her memory Dandie’s ill-omened words, and a hundred grisly and black tales out of the immediate neighbourhood read her a commentary on their force.  The pleasure was never realised.  You might say the joints of her body thought and remembered, and were gladdened, but her essential self, in the immediate theatre of consciousness, talked feverishly of something else, like a nervous person at a fire.  The image that she most complacently dwelt on was that of Miss Christina in her character of the Fair Lass of Cauldstaneslap, carrying all before her in the straw-coloured frock, the violet mantle, and the yellow cobweb stockings.  Archie’s image, on the other hand, when it presented itself was never welcomed — far less welcomed with any ardour, and it was exposed at times to merciless criticism.  In the long vague dialogues she held in her mind, often with imaginary, often with unrealised interlocutors, Archie, if he were referred to at all came in for savage handling.  He was described as “looking like a stork,” “staring like a caulf,” “a face like a ghaist’s.”  “Do you call that manners?” she said; or, “I soon put him in his place.”  “‘
Miss Christina
,
if you please
,
Mr. Weir
!’ says I, and just flyped up my skirt tails.”  With gabble like this she would entertain herself long whiles together, and then her eye would perhaps fall on the torn leaf, and the eyes of Archie would appear again from the darkness of the wall, and the voluble words deserted her, and she would lie still and stupid, and think upon nothing with devotion, and be sometimes raised by a quiet sigh.  Had a doctor of medicine come into that loft, he would have diagnosed a healthy, well-developed, eminently vivacious lass lying on her face in a fit of the sulks; not one who had just contracted, or was just contracting, a mortal sickness of the mind which should yet carry her towards death and despair.  Had it been a doctor of psychology, he might have been pardoned for divining in the girl a passion of childish vanity, self-love
in excelsis
, and no more.  It is to be understood that I have been painting chaos and describing the inarticulate.  Every lineament that appears is too precise, almost every word used too strong.  Take a finger-post in the mountains on a day of rolling mists; I have but copied the names that appear upon the pointers, the names of definite and famous cities far distant, and now perhaps basking in sunshine; but Christina remained all these hours, as it were, at the foot of the post itself, not moving, and enveloped in mutable and blinding wreaths of haze.

The day was growing late and the sunbeams long and level, when she sat suddenly up, and wrapped in its handkerchief and put by that psalm-book which had already played a part so decisive in the first chapter of her love-story.  In the absence of the mesmerist’s eye, we are told nowadays that the head of a bright nail may fill his place, if it be steadfastly regarded.  So that torn page had riveted her attention on what might else have been but little, and perhaps soon forgotten; while the ominous words of Dandie — heard, not heeded, and still remembered — had lent to her thoughts, or rather to her mood, a cast of solemnity, and that idea of Fate — a pagan Fate, uncontrolled by any Christian deity, obscure, lawless, and august — moving indissuadably in the affairs of Christian men.  Thus even that phenomenon of love at first sight, which is so rare and seems so simple and violent, like a disruption of life’s tissue, may be decomposed into a sequence of accidents happily concurring.

She put on a grey frock and a pink kerchief, looked at herself a moment with approval in the small square of glass that served her for a toilet mirror, and went softly downstairs through the sleeping house that resounded with the sound of afternoon snoring.  Just outside the door, Dandie was sitting with a book in his hand, not reading, only honouring the Sabbath by a sacred vacancy of mind.  She came near him and stood still.

“I’m for off up the muirs, Dandie,” she said.

There was something unusually soft in her tones that made him look up.  She was pale, her eyes dark and bright; no trace remained of the levity of the morning.

“Ay, lass?  Ye’ll have yer ups and downs like me, I’m thinkin’,” he observed.

“What for do ye say that?” she asked.

“O, for naething,” says Dand.  “Only I think ye’re mair like me than the lave of them.  Ye’ve mair of the poetic temper, tho’ Guid kens little enough of the poetic taalent.  It’s an ill gift at the best.  Look at yoursel’.  At denner you were all sunshine and flowers and laughter, and now you’re like the star of evening on a lake.”

She drank in this hackneyed compliment like wine, and it glowed in her veins.

“But I’m saying, Dand” — she came nearer him — ”I’m for the muirs.  I must have a braith of air.  If Clem was to be speiring for me, try and quaiet him, will ye no?”

“What way?” said Dandie.  “I ken but the ae way, and that’s leein’.  I’ll say ye had a sair heid, if ye like.”

“But I havena,” she objected.

“I daursay no,” he returned.  “I said I would say ye had; and if ye like to nay-say me when ye come back, it’ll no mateerially maitter, for my chara’ter’s clean gane a’ready past reca’.”

“O, Dand, are ye a lecar?” she asked, lingering.

“Folks say sae,” replied the bard.

“Wha says sae?” she pursued.

“Them that should ken the best,” he responded.  “The lassies, for ane.”

“But, Dand, you would never lee to me?” she asked.

“I’ll leave that for your pairt of it, ye girzie,” said he.  “Ye’ll lee to me fast eneuch, when ye hae gotten a jo.  I’m tellin’ ye and it’s true; when you have a jo, Miss Kirstie, it’ll be for guid and ill.  I ken: I was made that way mysel’, but the deil was in my luck!  Here, gang awa wi’ ye to your muirs, and let me be; I’m in an hour of inspiraution, ye upsetting tawpie!”

But she clung to her brother’s neighbourhood, she knew not why.

“Will ye no gie’s a kiss, Dand?” she said.  “I aye likit ye fine.”

He kissed her and considered her a moment; he found something strange in her.  But he was a libertine through and through, nourished equal contempt and suspicion of all womankind, and paid his way among them habitually with idle compliments.

“Gae wa’ wi’ ye!” said he.  “Ye’re a dentie baby, and be content wi’ that!”

That was Dandie’s way; a kiss and a comfit to Jenny — a bawbee and my blessing to Jill — and goodnight to the whole clan of ye, my dears! When anything approached the serious, it became a matter for men, he both thought and said.  Women, when they did not absorb, were only children to be shoo’d away.  Merely in his character of connoisseur, however, Dandie glanced carelessly after his sister as she crossed the meadow.  “The brat’s no that bad!” he thought with surprise, for though he had just been paying her compliments, he had not really looked at her.  “Hey! what’s yon?”  For the grey dress was cut with short sleeves and skirts, and displayed her trim strong legs clad in pink stockings of the same shade as the kerchief she wore round her shoulders, and that shimmered as she went.  This was not her way in undress; he knew her ways and the ways of the whole sex in the country-side, no one better; when they did not go barefoot, they wore stout “rig and furrow” woollen hose of an invisible blue mostly, when they were not black outright; and Dandie, at sight of this daintiness, put two and two together.  It was a silk handkerchief, then they would be silken hose; they matched — then the whole outfit was a present of Clem’s, a costly present, and not something to be worn through bog and briar, or on a late afternoon of Sunday.  He whistled.  “My denty May, either your heid’s fair turned, or there’s some ongoings!” he observed, and dismissed the subject.

She went slowly at first, but ever straighter and faster for the Cauldstaneslap, a pass among the hills to which the farm owed its name.  The Slap opened like a doorway between two rounded hillocks; and through this ran the short cut to Hermiston.  Immediately on the other side it went down through the Deil’s Hags, a considerable marshy hollow of the hill tops, full of springs, and crouching junipers, and pools where the black peat-water slumbered.  There was no view from here.  A man might have sat upon the Praying Weaver’s stone a half century, and seen none but the Cauldstaneslap children twice in the twenty-four hours on their way to the school and back again, an occasional shepherd, the irruption of a clan of sheep, or the birds who haunted about the springs, drinking and shrilly piping.  So, when she had once passed the Slap, Kirstie was received into seclusion.  She looked back a last time at the farm.  It still lay deserted except for the figure of Dandie, who was now seen to be scribbling in his lap, the hour of expected inspiration having come to him at last.  Thence she passed rapidly through the morass, and came to the farther end of it, where a sluggish burn discharges, and the path for Hermiston accompanies it on the beginning of its downward path.  From this corner a wide view was opened to her of the whole stretch of braes upon the other side, still sallow and in places rusty with the winter, with the path marked boldly, here and there by the burn-side a tuft of birches, and — two miles off as the crow flies — from its enclosures and young plantations, the windows of Hermiston glittering in the western sun.

Here she sat down and waited, and looked for a long time at these far-away bright panes of glass.  It amused her to have so extended a view, she thought.  It amused her to see the house of Hermiston — to see “folk”; and there was an indistinguishable human unit, perhaps the gardener, visibly sauntering on the gravel paths.

By the time the sun was down and all the easterly braes lay plunged in clear shadow, she was aware of another figure coming up the path at a most unequal rate of approach, now half running, now pausing and seeming to hesitate.  She watched him at first with a total suspension of thought.  She held her thought as a person holds his breathing.  Then she consented to recognise him.  “He’ll no be coming here, he canna be; it’s no possible.”  And there began to grow upon her a subdued choking suspense.  He
was
coming; his hesitations had quite ceased, his step grew firm and swift; no doubt remained; and the question loomed up before her instant: what was she to do?  It was all very well to say that her brother was a laird himself: it was all very well to speak of casual intermarriages and to count cousinship, like Auntie Kirstie.  The difference in their social station was trenchant; propriety, prudence, all that she had ever learned, all that she knew, bade her flee.  But on the other hand the cup of life now offered to her was too enchanting.  For one moment, she saw the question clearly, and definitely made her choice.  She stood up and showed herself an instant in the gap relieved upon the sky line; and the next, fled trembling and sat down glowing with excitement on the Weaver’s stone.  She shut her eyes, seeking, praying for composure.  Her hand shook in her lap, and her mind was full of incongruous and futile speeches.  What was there to make a work about?  She could take care of herself, she supposed!  There was no harm in seeing the laird.  It was the best thing that could happen.  She would mark a proper distance to him once and for all.  Gradually the wheels of her nature ceased to go round so madly, and she sat in passive expectation, a quiet, solitary figure in the midst of the grey moss.  I have said she was no hypocrite, but here I am at fault.  She never admitted to herself that she had come up the hill to look for Archie.  And perhaps after all she did not know, perhaps came as a stone falls.  For the steps of love in the young, and especially in girls, are instinctive and unconscious.