Young Hermiston was struck with a certain chill.He was reminded that he now dealt in serious matters of life and death.This was a grown woman he was approaching, endowed with her mysterious potencies and attractions, the treasury of the continued race, and he was neither better nor worse than the average of his sex and age.He had a certain delicacy which had preserved him hitherto unspotted, and which (had either of them guessed it) made him a more dangerous companion when his heart should be really stirred.His throat was dry as he came near; but the appealing sweetness of her smile stood between them like a guardian angel.
For she turned to him and smiled, though without rising.There was a shade in this cavalier greeting that neither of them perceived; neither he, who simply thought it gracious and charming as herself; nor yet she, who did not observe (quick as she was) the difference between rising to meet the laird, and remaining seated to receive the expected admirer.
"Are ye stepping west, Hermiston?" said she, giving him his territorial name after the fashion of the country-side.
"I was," said he, a little hoarsely, "but I think I will be about the end of my stroll now.Are you like me, Miss Christina? The house would not hold me.I came here seeking air."He took his seat at the other end of the tombstone and studied her, wondering what was she.There was infinite import in the question alike for her and him.
"Ay," she said."I couldna bear the roof either.It's a habit of mine to come up here about the gloaming when it's quaiet and caller.""It was a habit of my mother's also," he said gravely.The recollection half startled him as he expressed it.He looked around."I have scarce been here since.It's peaceful," he said, with a long breath.
"It's no like Glasgow," she replied."A weary place, yon Glasgow! But what a day have I had for my homecoming, and what a bonny evening!""Indeed, it was a wonderful day," said Archie."I think I will remember it years and years until I come to die.On days like this - I do not know if you feel as I do - but everything appears so brief, and fragile, and exquisite, that I am afraid to touch life.We are here for so short a time; and all the old people before us - Rutherfords of Hermiston, Elliotts of the Cauldstaneslap - that were here but a while since riding about and keeping up a great noise in this quiet corner - making love too, and marrying - why, where are they now? It's deadly commonplace, but, after all, the commonplaces are the great poetic truths."He was sounding her, semi-consciously, to see if she could understand him; to learn if she were only an animal the colour of flowers, or had a soul in her to keep her sweet.She, on her part, her means well in hand, watched, womanlike, for any opportunity to shine, to abound in his humour, whatever that might be.The dramatic artist, that lies dormant or only half awake in most human beings, had in her sprung to his feet in a divine fury, and chance had served her well.She looked upon him with a subdued twilight look that became the hour of the day and the train of thought; earnestness shone through her like stars in the purple west; and from the great but controlled upheaval of her whole nature there passed into her voice, and rang in her lightest words, a thrill of emotion.
"Have you mind of Dand's song?" she answered."I think he'll have been trying to say what you have been thinking.""No, I never heard it," he said."Repeat it to me, can you?""It's nothing wanting the tune," said Kirstie.
"Then sing it me," said he.
"On the Lord's Day? That would never do, Mr.Weir!""I am afraid I am not so strict a keeper of the Sabbath, and there is no one in this place to hear us, unless the poor old ancient under the stone.""No that I'm thinking that really," she said."By my way of thinking, it's just as serious as a psalm.Will I sooth it to ye, then?""If you please," said he, and, drawing near to her on the tombstone, prepared to listen.
She sat up as if to sing."I'll only can sooth it to ye," she explained.
"I wouldna like to sing out loud on the Sabbath.I think the birds would carry news of it to Gilbert," and she smiled."It's about the Elliotts," she continued, "and I think there's few bonnier bits in the book-poets, though Dand has never got printed yet."And she began, in the low, clear tones of her half voice, now sinking almost to a whisper, now rising to a particular note which was her best, and which Archie learned to wait for with growing emotion:-"O they rade in the rain, in the days that are gane, In the rain and the wind and the lave, They shoutit in the ha' and they routit on the hill, But they're a' quaitit noo in the grave.