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CHAPTER XXIX

It is another mercy, too, that in our age we learn to make the best of what aforetime might be ill to thole, as Bell made fine new garments out of old ones faded by turning them outside in and adding frills and flounces. Bud’s absence early ceased to be deplorable, since it wakened cheerful expectations not to be experienced had she stayed at home; gave rise to countless fond contrivances for her happiness in exile; and two or three times a-year to periods of bliss, when her vacations gave the house of Dyce the very flower of ecstasy. Her weekly letters of themselves were almost compensation for her absence. On the days of their arrival, Peter the post would come blithely whistling with his M.C. step to the lawyer’s kitchen window before he went to the castle itself, defying all routine and the laws of the Postmaster-General, for he knew Miss Dyce would be waiting feverishly, having likely dreamt the night before of happy things that – dreams going by contraries, as we all of us know in Scotland – might portend the most dreadful tidings.

Bud’s envelope was always on the top of his budget. For the sake of it alone (it sometimes seemed to Peter and those who got it) had the mail come splashing through the night, – the lawyer’s big blue envelopes, as it were, had got but a friendly lift through the courtesy of clerks in Edinburgh, and the men on the railway train, and the lad who drove the gig from Maryfield. What were big blue envelopes of the business world compared with the modest little square of grey with Lennox Dyce’s writing on it?

“Here’s the usual! Pretty thick to-day!” would Peter say, with a smack of satisfaction on the window-sash. Ah, those happy Saturdays! Everybody knew about them. “And how’s hersel’?” the bell-ringer would ask in the by-going, not altogether because his kindly interest led to an eye less strict on his lazy moods in the garden. One Fair day, when Maggie White’s was irresistible, it rang so merrily with drovers, and he lost the place again, he stopped the lawyer on the street to ask him what Miss Lennox thought of all this argument about the Churches, seeing she was in the thick of it in Edinburgh.

“Never you mind the argument, Will,” said Daniel Dyce, – “you do your duty by the Auld Kirk bell; and as for the Free folk’s quarrelling, amang them be’t!”

“But can you tell me, Mr D-D-Dyce,” said Wanton Wully, with as much assurance as if he was prepared to pay by the Table of Fees, “what’s the difference between the U.F.’s and the Frees? I’ve looked at it from every point, and I canna see it.”

“Come and ask me some day when you’re sober,” said the lawyer, and Wanton Wully snorted.

“If I was sober,” said he, “I wouldna want to ken – I wouldna give a curse.”

Yet each time Bud came home she seemed, to the mind of her Auntie Bell, a little farther off from them – a great deal older, a great deal less dependent, making for womanhood in a manner that sometimes was astounding, as when sober issues touched her, set her thinking, made her talk in fiery ardours. Aunt Ailie gloried in that rapid growth; Aunt Bell lamented, and spoke of brains o’ertaxed and fevered, and studies that were dangerous. She made up her mind a score of times to go herself to Edinburgh and give a warning to the teachers; but the weeks passed, and the months, and by-and-by the years, till almost three were gone, and the Edinburgh part of Lennox’s education was drawing to a close, and the warning visit was still to pay.

It was then, one Easter, came The Macintosh.

Bell and Ailie were out that afternoon for their daily walk in the woods or along the shore, when Mr Dyce returned from the Sheriff Court alert and buoyant, feeling much refreshed at the close of an encounter with a lawyer who, he used to say, was better at debating than himself, having more law books in his possession and a louder voice. Letting himself in with his pass-key, he entered the parlour, and was astonished to find a stranger, who rose at his approach and revealed a figure singular though not unpleasing. There was something ludicrous in her manner as she moved a step or two from the chair in which she had been sitting. Small, and silver-grey in the hair, with a cheek that burned – it must be with embarrassment – between a rather sallow neck and sunken temples, and wearing smoked spectacles with rims of tortoise-shell, she would have attracted attention anywhere even if her dress had been less queer. Queer it was, but in what manner Daniel Dyce was not the person to distinguish. To him there was about it nothing definitely peculiar, except that the woman wore a crinoline, a Paisley shawl of silken white, and such a bonnet as he had not seen since Grandma Buntain’s time.

“Be seated, ma’am,” said he; “I did not know I had the honour of a visitor,” and he gave a second, keener glance, that swept the baffling figure from the flounced green poplin to the snow-white lappet of her bonnet. A lady certainly, – that was in the atmosphere, however odd might be her dress. “Where in the world has this one dropped from?” he asked himself, and waited an explanation.

“Oh, Mr Dyce!” said the lady in a high, shrill voice, that plainly told she never came from south of the Border, and with a certain trepidation in her manner; “I’m feared I come at an inconvenient time to ye, and I maybe should hae bided at your office; but they tell’t me ye were out at what they ca’d a Pleading Diet. I’ve come about my mairrage.”

“Your marriage!” said the lawyer, scarcely hiding his surprise.

“Yes, my mairrage!” she repeated sharply, drawing the silken shawl about her shoulders, bridling. “There’s naething droll, I hope and trust, in a maiden lady ca’in’ on a writer for his help about her settlements!”

“Not at all – not at all, ma’am,” said Daniel Dyce. “I’m honoured in your confidence.” And he pushed his spectacles up on his brow that he might see her less distinctly and have the less inclination to laugh at such an eccentric figure.

She broke into a torrent of explanation. “Ye must excuse me, Mr Dyce, if I’m put-about and gey confused, for it’s little I’m acquent wi’ lawyers. A’ my days I’ve heard o’ naething but their quirks, for they maistly rookit my grandfaither. And I cam’ wi’ the coach frae Maryfield, and my heart’s in a palpitation wi’ sic briengin’ and bangin’ ower heughs and hills – ” She placed a mittened hand on a much-laced stomacher, and sighed profoundly.

“Perhaps – perhaps a glass of wine – ” began the lawyer, with his eye on the bell-pull, and a notion in his head that wine and a little seed-cake someway went with crinolines and the age of the Paisley shawl.

“No, no!” she cried extravagantly. “I never lip it; I’m – I’m in the Band o’ Hope.”

The lawyer started, and scanned her again through his glasses, with a genial chuckling crow. “So’s most maiden ladies, ma’am,” said he. “I’m glad to congratulate you on your hopes being realised.”

“It remains to be seen,” said the visitor. “Gude kens what may be the upshot. The maist deleeberate mairrage maun be aye a lottery, as my Auntie Grizel o’ the Whinhill used to say; and I canna plead that mine’s deleeberate, for the man just took a violent fancy the very first nicht he set his een on me, fell whummlin’ at my feet, and wasna to be put aff wi’ ‘No’ or ‘Maybe.’ We’re a puir weak sex, Mr Dyce, and men’s sae domineerin’!”

She ogled him through her clouded glasses: her arch smile showed a blemish of two front teeth amissing. He gave a nod of sympathy, and she was off again. “And to let ye ken the outs and ins o’t, Mr Dyce, there’s a bit o’ land near Perth that’s a’ that’s left o’ a braw estate my forebears squandered in the Darien. What I want to ken is, if I winna could hinder him that’s my fiancé frae dicin’ or drinkin’ ’t awa’ ance he got me mairried to him? I wad be sair vexed at ony such calamity, for my family hae aye been barons.”

“Ance a baron aye a baron,” said the lawyer, dropping into her own broad Scots.

“Yes, Mr Dyce, that’s a’ very fine; but baron or baroness, if there’s sic a thing, ’s no great figure wantin’ a bit o’ grun’ to gang wi’ the title; and John Cleghorn – that’s my intended’s name – has been a gey throughither chiel in his time by a’ reports, and I doubt wi’ men it’s the aulder the waur.”

“I hope in this case it’ll be the aulder the wiser, Miss – ” said the lawyer, and hung unheeded on the note of interrogation.

“I’ll run nae risks if I can help it,” said the lady emphatically; “and I’ll no’ put my trust in the Edinburgh lawyers either: they’re a’ tarred wi’ the ae stick, or I sair misjudge them. But I’m veesitin’ a cousin owerby at Maryfield, and I’m tell’t there’s no’ a man that’s mair dependable in a’ the shire than yoursel’, so I just cam’ ower ains errand for a consultation. Oh, that unco’ coach! the warld’s gane wud, Mr Dyce, wi’ hurry and stramash, and Scotland’s never been the same since – But there! I’m awa’ frae my story; if it’s the Lord’s will that I’m to marry Johnny Cleghorn, what comes o’ Kaims? Will he be owner o’t?”

“Certainly not, ma’am,” said Mr Dyce, with a gravity well preserved considering his inward feelings. “Even before the Married Women’s Property Act, his jus mariti, as we ca’ it, gave him only his wife’s personal and moveable estate. There is no such thing as communio bonorum– as community of goods – between husband and wife in Scotland.”

“And he canna sell Kaims on me?”

“No; it’s yours and your assigns ad perpetuam remanentiam, being feudal right.”

“I wish ye wad speak in honest English, like mysel’, Mr Dyce,” said the lady sharply. “I’ve forgotten a’ my Laiten, and the very sound o’t gars my heid bizz. I doubt it’s the lawyer’s way o’ gettin’ round puir helpless bodies.”

“It’s scarcely that,” said Mr Dyce, laughing. “It’s the only chance we get to air auld Mr Trayner, and it’s thought to be imposin’. Ad perpetuam remanentiam just means to remain for ever.”

“I thocht that maybe John might hae the poo’er to treat Kaims as my tocher.”

“Even if he had,” said Mr Dyce, “a dot, or dos, or tocher, in the honest law of Scotland, was never the price o’ the husband’s hand; he could only use the fruits o’t. He is not entitled to dispose of it, and must restore it intact if unhappily the marriage should at any time be dissolved.”

“Dissolved!” cried the lady. “Fegs! ye’re in an awfu’ hurry, and the ring no’ bought yet. Supposin’ I was deein’ first?”

“In that case I presume that you would have the succession settled on your husband.”

“On Johnny Cleghorn! Catch me! There’s sic a thing as – as – as bairns, Mr Dyce,” and the lady simpered coyly, while the lawyer rose hurriedly to fumble with some books and hide his confusion at such a wild conjecture. He was relieved by the entrance of Bell and Ailie, who stood amazed at the sight of the odd and unexpected visitor.

“My sisters,” said the lawyer hastily. “Miss – Miss – I did not catch the name.”

“Miss Macintosh,” said the stranger nervously, and Bell cried out immediately, “I was perfectly assured of it! Lennox has often spoken of you, and I’m so glad to see you. I did not know you were in the neighbourhood.”

Ailie was delighted with so picturesque a figure. She could scarcely keep her eyes off the many-flounced, expansive gown of poplin, the stomacher, the ponderous ear-rings, the great cameo brooch, the long lace mittens, the Paisley shawl, the neat poke-bonnet, and the fresh old face marred only by the spectacles, and the gap where the teeth were missing.

“I have just been consultin’ Mr Dyce on my comin’ mairrage,” said The Macintosh; and at this intelligence from a piece of such antiquity Miss Bell’s face betrayed so much astonishment that Dan and Ailie almost forgot their good manners.

“Oh! if it’s business – ” said Bell, and rose to go; but The Macintosh put a hand on her sleeve and stayed her.

“Ye needna fash to leave, Miss Dyce,” said she. “A’thing’s settled. It seems that Johnny Cleghorn canna ca’ a rig o’ Kaims his ain when he mairries me, and that was a’ I cam’ to see about. Oh, it’s a mischancy thing a mairrage, Miss Dyce; maist folk gang intill’t heels-ower-hurdies, but I’m in an awfu’ swither, and havena a mither to guide me.”

“Keep me!” said Miss Bell, out of all patience at such maidenly apprehensions, “ye’re surely auld enough to ken your ain mind. I hope the guidman’s worthy.”

“He’s no’ that ill – as men-folk gang,” said The Macintosh resignedly. “He’s as fat’s creish, and has a craighlin’ cough, the body, and he’s faur frae bonny, and he hasna a bawbee o’ his ain, and sirs! what a reputation! But a man’s a man, Miss Dyce, and time’s aye fleein’.”

At such a list of disabilities in a husband the Dyces lost all sense of the proprieties and broke into laughter, in which the lady joined them, shaking in her arm-chair. Bell was the first to recover with a guilty sense that this was very bad for Daniel’s business. She straightened her face and was about to make apologies, when Footles bounded in at the open door, to throw himself at the feet of The Macintosh and wave a joyous tail. But he was not content there. In spite of her resistance, he must be in her lap, and then, for the first time, Bell and Ailie noticed a familiar cadence in the stranger’s laugh.

Dan rose and clapped her on the back. “Well done, Bud!” said he. “Ye had us a’; but Footles wasna to be swindled wi’ an auld wife’s goon,” and he gently drew the spectacles from the laughing eyes of his naughty niece!

“Oh, you rogue!” cried Auntie Ailie.

“You wretch!” cried Auntie Bell. “I might have known your cantrips. Where in the world did you get these clothes?”

Bud sailed across the room like a cutter yacht and put her arms about her neck. “Didn’t you know me?” she asked.

“How could I know you, dressed up like that? And your teeth – you imp! they’re blackened; and your neck – you jad! it’s painted; and – oh, lassie, lassie! Awa’! awa’! the deil’s ower grit wi’ ye!”

“Didn’t you know me, Aunt Ailie?” asked Bud.

“Not in the least,” said Ailie, taking the droll old figure in her arms. “Perhaps I might have known you if I didn’t think it was to-morrow you were coming.”

“It was to have been to-morrow; but the measles have broken out in school, and I came a day earlier, and calculated I’d just hop in and surprise you all. Didn’t you guess, Uncle Dan?”

“Not at first,” said he. “I’ll admit I was fairly deceived, but when you talked about being in the Band of Hope I saw at a shot through The Macintosh. I hope you liked my Latin, Bud.”

CHAPTER XXX

“You surely did not come in these daft-like garments all the way from Edinburgh?” asked her Auntie Bell, when the wig had been removed and Bud’s youth was otherwise resumed.

“Not at all!” said Bud, sparkling with the success of her deception. “I came almost enough of a finished young lady to do you credit, but when I found there was nobody in the house except Kate, I felt I couldn’t get a better chance to introduce you to The Macintosh if I waited for a year. I told you we’d been playing charades last winter at the school, and I got Jim to send me some make-up, the wig, and this real ’cute old lady’s dress. They were all in my box to give you some fun sometime, and Kate helped me hook things, though she was mighty scared to think how angry you might be, Aunt Bell; and when I was ready for you she said she’d be sure to laugh fit to burst, and then you’d see it was only me dressed up, and Footles he barked, so he looked like giving the show away, so I sent them both out into the garden and sat in a stage-fright that almost shook my ear-rings off. I tell you I felt mighty poorly sitting there wondering what on earth I was to say; but by-and-by I got to be so much The Macintosh I felt almost sure enough her to have the rheumatism, and knew I could fix up gags to keep the part going. I didn’t expect Uncle Dan would be the first to come in, or I wouldn’t have felt so brave about it, he’s so sharp and suspicious – that’s with being a lawyer, I s’pose, they’re a’ tarred wi’ the ae stick, Miss Macintosh says; and when he talked all that solemn Latin stuff and looked like running up a bill for law advice that would ruin me, I laughed inside enough to ache. Now amn’t I just the very wickedest girl, Uncle Dan?”

“A little less Scotch and a more plausible story would have made the character perfect,” said her uncle. “Where did you get them both? Miss Macintosh was surely not the only model?”

“Well, she’s not so Scotch as I made out, except when she’s very sentimental, but I felt she’d have to be as Scotch as the mountain and the flood to fit these clothes; and she’s never talked about marrying anybody herself, but she’s making a match just now for a cousin of hers, and tells us all about it. I was partly her, but not enough to be unkind or mean, and partly her cousin, and a little bit of the Waverley Novels, – in fact, I was pure mosaic, like our dog. There wasn’t enough real quaint about Miss Macintosh for ordinary to make a front scene monologue go, but she’s fuller of hints than – than a dictionary, and once I started I felt I could play half a dozen Macintoshes all different, so’s you’d actually think she was a surging crowd. You see there’s the Jacobite Macintosh, and the ‘aboaminable’ English Macintosh, and the flirting Macintosh who raps Herr Laurent with her fan, and the fortune-telling Macintosh who reads palms and tea-cup leaves, and the dancing and deportment Macintosh who knows all the first families in Scotland.”

Bud solemnly counted off the various Macintoshes on her finger-tips.

“We’ll have every one of them when you come home next winter,” said Miss Ailie. “I’d prefer it to the opera.”

“I can’t deny but it’s diverting,” said Miss Bell; “still, it’s dreadfully like play-acting, and hardly the thing for a sober dwelling. Lassie, lassie, away this instant and change yourself!”

If prizes and Italian songs had really been the proof that Bud had taken on the polish, she would have disappointed Uncle Dan, but this art of hers was enough to make full amends, it gave so much diversion. Character roused and held her interest; she had a lightning eye for oddities of speech and gesture. Most of a man’s philosophy is in a favourite phrase, his individuality is betrayed in the way he carries his hat along the aisle on Sunday. Bud, each time that she came home from Edinburgh, collected phrases as others do postage-stamps, and knew how every hat in town was carried. Folk void of idiosyncrasy, having the natural self restrained by watchfulness and fear, were the only ones whose company she wearied of; all others she studied with delight, storing of each some simulacrum in her memory. Had she reproduced them in a way to make them look ridiculous she would have roused the Dyces’ disapproval, but lacking any sense of superiority she made no impersonation look ignoble; the portraits in her gallery, like Raeburn’s, borrowed a becoming curl or two and toned down crimson noses.

But her favourite character was The Macintosh in one of the countless phases that at last were all her own invention, and far removed from the original. Each time she came home, the dancing-mistress they had never really seen became a more familiar personage to the Dyces. “I declare,” cried Bell, “I’m beginning to think of you always as a droll old body.” “And how’s the rheumatism?” Dan would ask; it was “The Macintosh said this” or “The Macintosh said that” with Ailie; and even Kate would quote the dancing-mistress with such earnestness, that the town became familiar with the name and character without suspecting they were often merely parts assumed by young Miss Lennox.

Bud carried the joke one night to daring lengths by going as Miss Macintosh with Ailie to a dance, in a gown and pelerine of Grandma Buntain’s that had made tremendous conquests eighty years before.

Our dances at the inn are not like city routs: Petronella, La Tempête, and the reel have still an honoured place in them; we think the joy of life is not meant wholly for the young and silly, and so the elderly attend them. We sip claret-cup and tea in the alcove or “adjacent,” and gossip together if our dancing days are done, or sit below the flags and heather, humming “Merrily danced the quaker’s wife,” with an approving eye on our bonny daughters. Custom gives the Provost and his lady a place of honour in the alcove behind the music: here is a petty court where the civic spirit pays its devoirs, where the lockets are large and strong, and hair-chains much abound, and mouths before the mellowing midnight hour are apt to be a little mim.

Towards the alcove, Ailie – Dan discreetly moving elsewhere – boldly led The Macintosh, whose ballooning silk brocade put even the haughtiest of the other dames in shadow. She swam across the floor as if her hoops and not her buckled shoon sustained her, as if she moved on air.

“Dod! here’s a character!” said Dr Brash, pulling down his waistcoat. “Where have the Dyces gotten her?”

“The Ark is landed,” said the Provost’s lady. “What a peculiar creature!”

Ailie gravely gave the necessary introductions, and soon the notable Miss Macintosh of Kaims was the lion of the assembly. She flirted most outrageously with the older beaux, sharing roguish smiles and taps of the fan between them, and, compelling unaccustomed gallantries, set their wives all laughing. They drank wine with her in the old style; she met them glass for glass in water.

“And I’ll gie ye a toast now,” she said, when her turn came – “Scotland’s Rights,” raising her glass of water with a dramatic gesture.

“Dod! the auld body’s got an arm on her,” whispered Dr Brash to Colin Cleland, seeing revealed the pink plump flesh between the short sleeves and the top of the mittens.

They drank the sentiment – the excuse for the glass was good enough, though in these prosaic days a bit mysterious.

“What are they?” asked the Provost.

“What are what?” said The Macintosh.

“Scotland’s Rights.”

“I’ll leave it to my frien’ Mr Dyce to tell ye,” she said quickly, for the lawyer had now joined the group. “It’ll aiblins cost ye 6s. 8d., but for that I daresay he can gie ye them in the Laiten. But – but I hope we’re a’ friens here?” she exclaimed with a hurried glance round her company. “I hope we have nane o’ thae aboaminable English amang us. I canna thole them! It has been a sair dooncome for Scotland since ever she drew in wi’ them.” For a space she dwelt on themes of rather antique patriotism that made her audience smile, for in truth in this burgh town we see no difference between Scotch and English: in our calculations there are only the lucky folk, born, bred, and dwelling within the sound of Will Oliver’s bell, and the poor souls who have to live elsewhere, all equally unfortunate, whether they be English, Irish, or Scots.

“But here I’m keepin’ you gentlemen frae your dancin’,” she said, interrupting herself, and consternation fell on her company, for sets were being formed for a quadrille, and her innuendo was unmistakable. She looked from one to the other of them as if enjoying their discomfiture.

“I – I – I haven’t danced, myself, for years,” said the Provost, which was true; and Colin Cleland, sighing deeply in his prominent profile and hiding his feet, protested quadrilles were beyond him. The younger men quickly remembered other engagements and disappeared. “Will you do me the honour?” said Dr Brash – good man! a gentle hero’s heart was under that wrinkled waistcoat.

“Oh!” said The Macintosh, rising to his arm, “you’ll be sure and no’ to swing me aff my feet, for I’m but a frail and giddy creature.”

“It would be but paying you back,” said the Doctor, bowing. “Miss Macintosh has been swinging us a’ aff our feet since she entered the room.”

She laughed behind her clouded glasses, tapped him lightly with her fan, and swam into the opening movement of the figure. The word’s abused, yet I can but say she danced divinely, with such grace, lightness of foot, and rhythm of the body that folk stared at her in admiration and incredulity: her carriage, seen from behind, came perilously near betraying her, and possibly her partner might have soon discovered who he had, even if she had not made him a confession.

“Upon my word!” said he, in a pause between the figures, – “Upon my word! you dance magnificently, Miss Macintosh. I must apologise for such a stiff old partner as you’ve gotten.”

“I micht weel dance,” said she. “You ken I’m a dancin’-mistress?” Then she whispered hurriedly in her natural voice to him. “I feel real bold, Dr Brash, to be dancing with you here when I haven’t come out yet, and I feel real mean to be deceiving you, who would dance with an old frump just because you’re sorry for her, and I can’t do it one minute longer. Don’t you know me, really?”

“Good Lord!” said he in an undertone, aghast. “Miss Lennox!”

“Only for you,” she whispered. “Please don’t tell anybody else.”

“You beat all,” he told her. “I suppose I’m making myself ridiculous dancing away here with – h’m! – auld langsyne, but faith I have the advantage now of the others, and you mustn’t let on when the thing comes out that I did not know you from the outset. I have a crow to pick with Miss Ailie about this – the rogue! But, young woman, it’s an actress you are!”

“Not yet, but it’s an actress I mean to be,” she said, pousetting with him.

“H’m!” said he, “there seems the natural gift for it, but once on a time I made up my mind it was to be poetry.”

“I’ve got over poetry,” she said. “I found I was only one of that kind of poets who always cut it up in fourteen-line lengths and begin with ‘As when.’ No, it’s to be the stage, Dr Brash; I guess God’s fixed it.”

“Whiles He is – h’m – injudicious,” said the Doctor. “But what about Aunt Bell?”

“There’s no buts about it, though I admit I’m worried to think of Auntie Bell. She considers acting is almost as bad as lying, and talks about the theatre as Satan’s abode. If it wasn’t that she was from home to-night, I daren’t have been here. I wish – I wish I didn’t love her so – almost – for I feel I’ve got to vex her pretty bad.”

“Indeed you have!” said Dr Brash. “And you’ve spoiled my dancing, for I’ve a great respect for that devoted little woman.”

Back in the alcove The Macintosh found more to surround her than ever, though it was the penalty of her apparent age that they were readier to joke than dance with her. Captain Consequence, wanting a wife with money, if and when his mother should be taken from him, never lost a chance to see how a pompous manner and his medals would affect strange ladies. He was so marked in his attention, and created such amusement to the company, that, pitying him, and fearful of her own deception, she proposed to tell fortunes. The ladies brought her their emptied teacups; the men solemnly laid their palms before her; she divined, for all, their past and future in a practised way that astonished her uncle and aunt, who, afraid of some awkward sally, had kept aloof at first from her levee, but now were the most interested of her audience.

Over the leaves in Miss Minto’s cup she frowned through her clouded glasses. “There’s lots o’ money,” said she, “and a braw house, and a muckle garden wi’ bees and trees in’t, and a wheen boys speilin’ the wa’s – you may be aye assured o’ bien circumstances, Miss Minto.”

Miss Minto, warmly conscious of the lawyer at her back, could have wished for a fortune less prosaic.

“Look again; is there no’ a man to keep the laddies awa’?” suggested the Provost, pawky body!

“I declare there is!” cried The Macintosh, taking the hint. “See; there! he’s under this tree, a’ huddled up in an awfu’ passion.”

“I can’t make out his head,” said the Provost’s lady.

“Some men hae nane,” retorted the spaewife; “but what’s to hinder ye imaginin’ it like me?”

“Oh! if it’s imagination,” said the Provost’s lady, “I can hear him swearin’. And now, what’s my cup?”

“I see here,” said The Macintosh, “a kind o’ island far at sea, and a ship sailin’ frae’t this way, wi’ flags to the mast-heid, and a man on board.”

“I hope he’s well, then,” said the Provost’s lady, “for that’s our James, and he’s coming from Barbadoes: we had a letter just last week. Indeed you’re a perfect wizard!” She had forgotten that her darling James’s coming was the talk of the town for ten days back.

Colin Cleland, rubicund, good-natured, with his shyness gone, next proffered his palm to read. His hand lay like a plaice, inelegant and large, in hers, whose fresh young beauty might have roused suspicion in observers less carried away in the general illusion.

“Ah! sir,” said she with a sigh, “ye hae had your trials!”

“Mony a ane, ma’am,” said the jovial Colin. “I was ance a lawyer, for my sins.”

“That’s no’ the kind o’ trial I mean,” said The Macintosh. “Here’s a wheen o’ auld tribulations.”

“Perhaps you’re richt, ma’am,” he admitted. “I hae a sorry lot o’ them marked doon in auld diaries, but gude-be-thanked I canna mind them unless I look them up. They werena near sae mony as the rattlin’ ploys I’ve had.”

“Is there no’ a wife for Mr Cleland?” said the Provost – pawky, pawky man!

“There was ance, I see, a girl, and she was the richt girl too,” said The Macintosh.

“Yes, but I was the wrang man,” said Colin Cleland, drawing his hand away, and nobody laughed, for all but The Macintosh knew that story and made it some excuse for foolish habits.

“I’m a bit of a warlock myself,” said Dr Brash, beholding the spaewife’s vexation at a faux-pas she only guessed herself guilty of. “I’ll read your loof, Miss Macintosh, if ye let me.”

They all insisted she should submit herself to the Doctor’s unusual art, and taking her hand in his he drew the mitten off and pretended to scan the lines.

“Travel – h’m – a serious illness – h’m – your life, in youth, was quite adventurous, Miss Macintosh.”

“Oh! I’m no’ that auld yet,” she corrected him. “There’s mony a chance at fifty. Never mind my past, Dr Brash, what about my future?”

He glanced up a moment and saw her aunt and uncle listening in amusement, unaware as yet that he knew the secret, then scanned her palm again.