Geordie's Tryst: A Tale of Scottish Life

It was a chilly Scotch spring day. The afternoon sun glistened with fitful, feeble rays on the windows of the old house of Kirklands, and unpleasant little gusts of east wind came eddying round its ancient gables, and sweeping along its broad walks and shrubberies, sending a chill to the hearts of all the young green things that were struggling into life.

On the time-worn steps of the grey mansion there stood a girl, cloaked and bonneted for a walk, notwithstanding the uninviting weather.

"It's a fule's errand, I assure ye, Miss Grace, and on such an afternoon, too. I've been askin' at old Adam the gardener, and he says there isna one o' the kind left worth mindin' in all the valley o' Kirklands. So do not go wanderin' on such an errand in this bitter wind, missy."

The speaker was an old woman, standing in the doorway, glancing with an expression of kindly anxiety towards the girl, who leant on one of the carved griffins of the old stone railing.

Grace had been looking at the speaker with troubled eyes as she listened to her remonstrance, and now she said, meditatively, "Does old Adam really say so, Margery?" Then with a quick gesture she turned to go down the steps, adding cheerily, "Well, there's no harm in trying, and as for the wind, that doesn't matter a bit. It's what Walter would call a nice breezy day. I'm really going, nursie. Shut the door, and keep your old self warm. I shall be home again by the time aunt has finished her afternoon's sleep." And Grace turned quickly away, not in the direction of the sheltered elm avenue, but across the park, by the path which led most quickly beyond the grounds. Presently she slackened her pace, and turning for a moment she glanced rather ruefully towards the high walls of the old garden, as if prudence dictated that she should seek fuller information there, before she set out on this search, which she had planned that afternoon. The old nurse's words on the subject seemed to have sent a chilling gust to her heart, harder to bear than the bitter spring wind. Old Adam certainly knew the countryside better than anybody else, she pondered, and he seemed to have given it as his decision that she would not find her search successful.

Was it a rare plant growing in the valley that Grace was in search of? Then, surely, the gardener was right; she should wait till the warm sunshine came, and the south winds wafted sweet scents about, leading to where the pleasant flowers grow among the cozy moss. Or did she mean to go to the green velvety haughs of the winding river to get her fishing-rod and tackle into working order at the little boat-house, and try to tempt some unwary trout to eat his last supper, as she and her brother Walter used to do in sunny summer evenings long ago?

These had been very pleasant days, and their lingering memories came hovering round Grace as she stood once again among the familiar haunts, after an absence of years. Echoes of merry ringing tones, in which her own mingled, seemed to resound through the wooded paths, where only the parching wind whistled shrilly to-day, and a boyish voice seemed still to call impatiently under the lozenge-paned window of the old school-room, "Gracie, Gracie, are you not done with lessons yet? Do come out and play." And how dreary "Noel and Chapsal" used to grow all of a sudden when that invitation came, and with what relentless slowness the hands of the old clock dragged through the lesson-hour still to run.

But the quaint old window has the shutters on it now, and the eager face that used to seek his caged playmate through its bars is looking out on new lands from his wandering home at sea. The little girl, too, who used to sit in the dim school-room seems to hear other voices calling to her this afternoon.

And while Grace stands hesitating whether, after all, it might be wise to go into the garden to hear what old Adam has to say before she proceeded to the high road, we shall try to find what earnest quest sent her out this afternoon, in spite of her old nurse's remonstrances and the east wind.

Grace Campbell's father and mother died when she was very young, and since then her home had been with her aunt. For the last few years Miss Hume had been so infirm that she did not feel able to undertake the journey to Kirklands, a small property in the north of Scotland, which she inherited from her father. Her winter home was Edinburgh, and Miss Hume for some years had only ventured on a short journey to the nearest watering-place, while her country home stood silent and deserted, with only the ancient gardener and his wife wandering about through the darkened rooms and the old garden, with its laden fruit-trees and its flowers run to seed. But, to Grace's great delight, her aunt had announced some months before that if she felt strong enough for the journey, she meant to go to Kirklands early in the spring. It seemed as if in her fading autumnal time she longed to see the familiar woods and dells of her childhood's home grow green again with returning life. So the darkened rooms had been opened to the sun again, and on the day before our story begins, some of the former inmates had taken possession of them.

The three years during which Grace had been absent from Kirklands had proved very eventful to her in many ways. There had been some changes in her outer life. Walter, her only brother and playmate, had left home to go to sea. They had only had one passing visit from him since, so changed in his midshipman's dress, with his broadened shoulders and bronzed face, and so full of sailor life and talk, that his playmate had hardly composure of mind to discover till he was gone that the same loving heart still beat under the blue dress and bright buttons. And while she thought of him with a new pride, she felt an undercurrent of sadness in the consciousness that the pleasant threads of daily intercourse had been broken, and the old childish playfellow had passed away.

But as the golden gate of childhood thus closed on Grace Campbell, another gate opened for her which led to pleasant places. It had, indeed, been waiting open for her ever since she came into the world, though she had often passed it by unheeded. But at last there came to Grace a glimpse of the shining light which still guides the way of seeking souls to "yonder wicket gate." She began to feel an intense longing to enter there and begin that new life to which it leads. She knocked, and found that it was open for her, and entering there she met the gracious Guide who had beckoned her to come, whispering in the silence of her heart, "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life." Not long after Grace had begun to walk in this path, an event happened which proved to her like the visit to the "Interpreter's House" in the Pilgrim's story; but in order to explain its full eventfulness, we must go back to tell of earlier days in her aunt's home.

On Sunday mornings Grace usually drove with her aunt to church in decorous state. When Walter was at home he made one of the carriage party, though generally under protest, declaring that it would be "ever so much jollier to walk than to be bowled along in that horrid old rumble," as he used irreverently to designate his aunt's rather antique chariot. When they arrived at church, the children followed their aunt's slow steps to one of the pews in the gallery, where Miss Hume used to take the precautionary measure of separating them by sending Grace to the top of the seat, and placing herself between the vivacious Walter and his playmate. Notwithstanding this precaution, they generally contrived to find comfortable recreative resources during the service, bringing all their inventive energy to bear on creating new diversions as each Sunday came round. There was always their Aunt Hume's fur cloak to stroke the wrong way, if there was nothing more diverting within reach; had it only been the cat, whose sentiments regarding a like treatment of her fur were too well known to Walter, he felt that the pleasure would have been greater. Sometimes, indeed, the amusements were of a strictly mental nature, conducted in the "chambers of imagery." Miss Hume would feel gratified by the stillness of posture and the earnest gaze in her nephew's eyes. They were certainly not fixed directly on the preacher, but surely the boy must be listening, or he would never be so quiet. Grace, however, was in the secret, and knew better. Walter had confided to her that he had got such "a jolly make-believe" to think about in church. The great chandelier which hung from the centre of the church ceiling, with its poles, and chains, and brackets, was transformed in his imagination to a ship's mast and rigging, where he climbed and swung, and performed marvellous feats, also in imagination, be it understood. And so it happened that Grace could guess where her brother's thoughts were when he sat gazing dreamily at the huge gilded chandelier of the city church.

Other imaginings had sometimes grown round it for Grace when it was all lit up in the short winter days at afternoon service, and queer lights and shadows fell on the gilded cherubs that decorated it, till their wings seemed to move and hover over the heads of the congregation. To Grace's childish mind they had been the embodiment of angels ever since she could remember; and even long after childish things were put away there remained a strange link between her conception of angelic beings and those burnished cherubs whose serene, shining faces looked down benignantly over the drowsy congregation on dark winter afternoons.

But all these imaginings certainly came under the catalogue of "wandering thoughts," from which the old minister always prayed at the opening of the service that they might be delivered. So it is to be feared that the sermon had not even the chance of the wayside seed in the parable of sinking into the children's hearts. The words of her aunt's old minister had as yet proved little more than an outside sound to Grace, though she was in the habit of listening more observantly than her brother. But there came a day when, amidst those familiar surroundings, with the molten cherubs looking serenely down on her, she heard words which made her heart burn within her, and kindled a flame which lasted as long as life.

It was on a Sunday afternoon in November, not long after Walter left. Miss Hume was ailing, and unable to go to church, so it was arranged that Margery should accompany Grace. The old nurse attended the same church, and Grace had been in the habit of going under her wing when her aunt was obliged to remain at home. The walk to church through the crowded streets was a pleasant change, and Grace was in high spirits when she ensconced herself at the top of Margery's seat--which was a much better observatory than her aunt's pew--where every thing could be seen that was interesting and amusing within the four walls. Besides, there were small amenities connected with a seat in nurse's pew which had great attractions for Grace when she was a little girl, and had still a lingering charm for her. In the pew behind there sat a worthy couple, friends of Margery, who exchanged friendly salutations with her on Sunday, always including a kindly nod of recognition to her charges if they happened to be with her. Then, at a certain juncture in the service, the worthy tinsmith, for that was his calling, would hand across the book-board his ancient silver snuff-box, of the contents of which he himself partook freely and noisily. Of course, Margery only used it politely, after the manner of a scent-bottle; and then Grace came in for her turn of it, with a warning glance from nurse to beware of staining her hat-strings, or any other serious effects from the odorous powder. If Walter happened to be invited to enjoy the privilege, he always contrived to secrete a deposit of the snuff between his finger and thumb, being most anxious to imitate the tinsmith's accomplishment. He was, however, afraid to make his first essay in church, in case of sneezing symptoms, and before he had a chance of a quiet moment to make the experiment when they left the pew, he used generally to be caught by Margery, and summoned to put on his glove like a gentleman, and any resistance was sure to end in the discovery and loss of the precious pinch of snuff. Then the tinsmith's wife had also her own congenial resources for comfort during service, which she delighted to share with her neighbours. Grace used to receive a little tap on the shoulder, and, on looking round, a box of peppermint lozenges lay waiting her in the old woman's fat palm. These were very homely little interchanges of friendship, but they made part of the happy childish world to Grace, and years after, when the old pew knew her no more, and she asked admittance to it as a stranger, she glanced round in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of the broad, shining, kindly faces of the old couple, feeling that to see them in their place would bring back many pleasanter bygone associations than snuff and peppermint lozenges.