Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (291 page)

He went up the aisle reverently, and took his place in the pew with lowered eyes, for he feared he had already offended the kind old gentleman in the pulpit, and was sedulous to offend no further.  He could not follow the prayer, not even the heads of it.  Brightnesses of azure, clouds of fragrance, a tinkle of falling water and singing birds, rose like exhalations from some deeper, aboriginal memory, that was not his, but belonged to the flesh on his bones.  His body remembered; and it seemed to him that his body was in no way gross, but ethereal and perishable like a strain of music; and he felt for it an exquisite tenderness as for a child, an innocent, full of beautiful instincts and destined to an early death.  And he felt for old Torrance — of the many supplications, of the few days — a pity that was near to tears.  The prayer ended.  Right over him was a tablet in the wall, the only ornament in the roughly masoned chapel — for it was no more; the tablet commemorated, I was about to say the virtues, but rather the existence of a former Rutherford of Hermiston; and Archie, under that trophy of his long descent and local greatness, leaned back in the pew and contemplated vacancy with the shadow of a smile between playful and sad, that became him strangely.  Dandie’s sister, sitting by the side of Clem in her new Glasgow finery, chose that moment to observe the young laird.  Aware of the stir of his entrance, the little formalist had kept her eyes fastened and her face prettily composed during the prayer.  It was not hypocrisy, there was no one further from a hypocrite.  The girl had been taught to behave: to look up, to look down, to look unconscious, to look seriously impressed in church, and in every conjuncture to look her best.  That was the game of female life, and she played it frankly.  Archie was the one person in church who was of interest, who was somebody new, reputed eccentric, known to be young, and a laird, and still unseen by Christina.  Small wonder that, as she stood there in her attitude of pretty decency, her mind should run upon him!  If he spared a glance in her direction, he should know she was a well-behaved young lady who had been to Glasgow.  In reason he must admire her clothes, and it was possible that he should think her pretty.  At that her heart beat the least thing in the world; and she proceeded, by way of a corrective, to call up and dismiss a series of fancied pictures of the young man who should now, by rights, be looking at her.  She settled on the plainest of them, — a pink short young man with a dish face and no figure, at whose admiration she could afford to smile; but for all that, the consciousness of his gaze (which was really fixed on Torrance and his mittens) kept her in something of a flutter till the word Amen.  Even then, she was far too well-bred to gratify her curiosity with any impatience.  She resumed her seat languidly — this was a Glasgow touch — she composed her dress, rearranged her nosegay of primroses, looked first in front, then behind upon the other side, and at last allowed her eyes to move, without hurry, in the direction of the Hermiston pew.  For a moment, they were riveted.  Next she had plucked her gaze home again like a tame bird who should have meditated flight.  Possibilities crowded on her; she hung over the future and grew dizzy; the image of this young man, slim, graceful, dark, with the inscrutable half-smile, attracted and repelled her like a chasm.  “I wonder, will I have met my fate?” she thought, and her heart swelled.

Torrance was got some way into his first exposition, positing a deep layer of texts as he went along, laying the foundations of his discourse, which was to deal with a nice point in divinity, before Archie suffered his eyes to wander.  They fell first of all on Clem, looking insupportably prosperous, and patronising Torrance with the favour of a modified attention, as of one who was used to better things in Glasgow.  Though he had never before set eyes on him, Archie had no difficulty in identifying him, and no hesitation in pronouncing him vulgar, the worst of the family.  Clem was leaning lazily forward when Archie first saw him.  Presently he leaned nonchalantly back; and that deadly instrument, the maiden, was suddenly unmasked in profile.  Though not quite in the front of the fashion (had anybody cared!), certain artful Glasgow mantua-makers, and her own inherent taste, had arrayed her to great advantage.  Her accoutrement was, indeed, a cause of heart-burning, and almost of scandal, in that infinitesimal kirk company.  Mrs. Hob had said her say at Cauldstaneslap.  “Daft-like!” she had pronounced it.  “A jaiket that’ll no meet!  Whaur’s the sense of a jaiket that’ll no button upon you, if it should come to be weet?  What do ye ca’ thir things?  Demmy brokens, d’ye say?  They’ll be brokens wi’ a vengeance or ye can win back!  Weel, I have nae thing to do wi’ it — it’s no good taste.”  Clem, whose purse had thus metamorphosed his sister, and who was not insensible to the advertisement, had come to the rescue with a “Hoot, woman!  What do you ken of good taste that has never been to the ceety?”  And Hob, looking on the girl with pleased smiles, as she timidly displayed her finery in the midst of the dark kitchen, had thus ended the dispute: “The cutty looks weel,” he had said, “and it’s no very like rain.  Wear them the day, hizzie; but it’s no a thing to make a practice o’.”  In the breasts of her rivals, coming to the kirk very conscious of white under-linen, and their faces splendid with much soap, the sight of the toilet had raised a storm of varying emotion, from the mere unenvious admiration that was expressed in a long-drawn “Eh!” to the angrier feeling that found vent in an emphatic “Set her up!”  Her frock was of straw-coloured jaconet muslin, cut low at the bosom and short at the ankle, so as to display her
demi-broquins
of Regency violet, crossing with many straps upon a yellow cobweb stocking.  According to the pretty fashion in which our grandmothers did not hesitate to appear, and our great-aunts went forth armed for the pursuit and capture of our great-uncles, the dress was drawn up so as to mould the contour of both breasts, and in the nook between, a cairngorm brooch maintained it.  Here, too, surely in a very enviable position, trembled the nosegay of primroses.  She wore on her shoulders — or rather on her back and not her shoulders, which it scarcely passed — a French coat of sarsenet, tied in front with Margate braces, and of the same colour with her violet shoes.  About her face clustered a disorder of dark ringlets, a little garland of yellow French roses surmounted her brow, and the whole was crowned by a village hat of chipped straw.  Amongst all the rosy and all the weathered faces that surrounded her in church, she glowed like an open flower — girl and raiment, and the cairngorm that caught the daylight and returned it in a fiery flash, and the threads of bronze and gold that played in her hair.

Archie was attracted by the bright thing like a child.  He looked at her again and yet again, and their looks crossed.  The lip was lifted from her little teeth.  He saw the red blood work vividly under her tawny skin.  Her eye, which was great as a stag’s, struck and held his gaze.  He knew who she must be — Kirstie, she of the harsh diminutive, his housekeeper’s niece, the sister of the rustic prophet, Gib — and he found in her the answer to his wishes.

Christina felt the shock of their encountering glances, and seemed to rise, clothed in smiles, into a region of the vague and bright.  But the gratification was not more exquisite than it was brief.  She looked away abruptly, and immediately began to blame herself for that abruptness.  She knew what she should have done, too late — turned slowly with her nose in the air.  And meantime his look was not removed, but continued to play upon her like a battery of cannon constantly aimed, and now seemed to isolate her alone with him, and now seemed to uplift her, as on a pillory, before the congregation.  For Archie continued to drink her in with his eyes, even as a wayfarer comes to a well-head on a mountain, and stoops his face, and drinks with thirst unassuageable.  In the cleft of her little breasts the fiery eye of the topaz and the pale florets of primrose fascinated him.  He saw the breasts heave, and the flowers shake with the heaving, and marvelled what should so much discompose the girl.  And Christina was conscious of his gaze — saw it, perhaps, with the dainty plaything of an ear that peeped among her ringlets; she was conscious of changing colour, conscious of her unsteady breath.  Like a creature tracked, run down, surrounded, she sought in a dozen ways to give herself a countenance.  She used her handkerchief — it was a really fine one — then she desisted in a panic: “He would only think I was too warm.”  She took to reading in the metrical psalms, and then remembered it was sermon-time.  Last she put a “sugar-bool” in her mouth, and the next moment repented of the step.  It was such a homely-like thing!  Mr. Archie would never be eating sweeties in kirk; and, with a palpable effort, she swallowed it whole, and her colour flamed high.  At this signal of distress Archie awoke to a sense of his ill-behaviour.  What had he been doing?  He had been exquisitely rude in church to the niece of his housekeeper; he had stared like a lackey and a libertine at a beautiful and modest girl.  It was possible, it was even likely, he would be presented to her after service in the kirk-yard, and then how was he to look?  And there was no excuse.  He had marked the tokens of her shame, of her increasing indignation, and he was such a fool that he had not understood them.  Shame bowed him down, and he looked resolutely at Mr. Torrance; who little supposed, good, worthy man, as he continued to expound justification by faith, what was his true business: to play the part of derivative to a pair of children at the old game of falling in love.

Christina was greatly relieved at first.  It seemed to her that she was clothed again.  She looked back on what had passed.  All would have been right if she had not blushed, a silly fool!  There was nothing to blush at, if she
had
taken a sugar-bool.  Mrs. MacTaggart, the elder’s wife in St. Enoch’s, took them often.  And if he had looked at her, what was more natural than that a young gentleman should look at the best-dressed girl in church?  And at the same time, she knew far otherwise, she knew there was nothing casual or ordinary in the look, and valued herself on its memory like a decoration.  Well, it was a blessing he had found something else to look at!  And presently she began to have other thoughts.  It was necessary, she fancied, that she should put herself right by a repetition of the incident, better managed.  If the wish was father to the thought, she did not know or she would not recognise it.  It was simply as a manœuvre of propriety, as something called for to lessen the significance of what had gone before, that she should a second time meet his eyes, and this time without blushing.  And at the memory of the blush, she blushed again, and became one general blush burning from head to foot.  Was ever anything so indelicate, so forward, done by a girl before?  And here she was, making an exhibition of herself before the congregation about nothing!  She stole a glance upon her neighbours, and behold! they were steadily indifferent, and Clem had gone to sleep.  And still the one idea was becoming more and more potent with her, that in common prudence she must look again before the service ended.  Something of the same sort was going forward in the mind of Archie, as he struggled with the load of penitence.  So it chanced that, in the flutter of the moment when the last psalm was given out, and Torrance was reading the verse, and the leaves of every psalm-book in church were rustling under busy fingers, two stealthy glances were sent out like antennæ among the pews and on the indifferent and absorbed occupants, and drew timidly nearer to the straight line between Archie and Christina.  They met, they lingered together for the least fraction of time, and that was enough.  A charge as of electricity passed through Christina, and behold! the leaf of her psalm-book was torn across.

Archie was outside by the gate of the graveyard, conversing with Hob and the minister and shaking hands all round with the scattering congregation, when Clem and Christina were brought up to be presented.  The laird took off his hat and bowed to her with grace and respect.  Christina made her Glasgow curtsey to the laird, and went on again up the road for Hermiston and Cauldstaneslap, walking fast, breathing hurriedly with a heightened colour, and in this strange frame of mind, that when she was alone she seemed in high happiness, and when any one addressed her she resented it like a contradiction.  A part of the way she had the company of some neighbour girls and a loutish young man; never had they seemed so insipid, never had she made herself so disagreeable.  But these struck aside to their various destinations or were out-walked and left behind; and when she had driven off with sharp words the proffered convoy of some of her nephews and nieces, she was free to go on alone up Hermiston brae, walking on air, dwelling intoxicated among clouds of happiness.  Near to the summit she heard steps behind her, a man’s steps, light and very rapid.  She knew the foot at once and walked the faster.  “If it’s me he’s wanting, he can run for it,” she thought, smiling.

Archie overtook her like a man whose mind was made up.

“Miss Kirstie,” he began.

“Miss Christina, if you please, Mr. Weir,” she interrupted.  “I canna bear the contraction.”

“You forget it has a friendly sound for me.  Your aunt is an old friend of mine, and a very good one.  I hope we shall see much of you at Hermiston?”

“My aunt and my sister-in-law doesna agree very well.  Not that I have much ado with it.  But still when I’m stopping in the house, if I was to be visiting my aunt, it would not look considerate-like.”

“I am sorry,” said Archie.

“I thank you kindly, Mr. Weir,” she said.  “I whiles think myself it’s a great peety.”

“Ah, I am sure your voice would always be for peace!” he cried.

“I wouldna be too sure of that,” she said.  “I have my days like other folk, I suppose.”

“Do you know, in our old kirk, among our good old grey dames, you made an effect like sunshine.”

“Ah, but that would be my Glasgow clothes!”

“I did not think I was so much under the influence of pretty frocks.”

She smiled with a half look at him.  “There’s more than you!” she said.  “But you see I’m only Cinderella.  I’ll have to put all these things by in my trunk; next Sunday I’ll be as grey as the rest.  They’re Glasgow clothes, you see, and it would never do to make a practice of it.  It would seem terrible conspicuous.”