“I’m sorry to say, mem, ’at I canna,”
he answered. “I promised Maister Graham
to tak the schule for him, an’ lat him gang.”
“Weel, weel! Mr Graham’s obleeged
to ye, nae doobt, an’ we canna help it.
Gie my compliments to yer gran’father.”
“I’ll du that, mem. He’ll be
sair pleased, for he’s unco gratefu’ for
ony sic attention,” said Malcolm, and with the
words took his leave.
That night the weather changed, and grew cloudy and
cold. Saturday morning broke drizzly and dismal.
A northeast wind tore off the tops of the drearily
tossing billows. All was gray—enduring,
hopeless gray. Along the coast the waves kept
roaring on the sands, persistent and fateful; the
Scaurnose was one mass of foaming white: and
in the caves still haunted by the tide, the bellowing
was like that of thunder.
Through the drizzle shot wind and the fog blown in
shreds from the sea, a large number of the most respectable
of the male population of the burgh, clothed in Sunday
gloom deepened by the crape on their hats, made their
way to Miss Horn’s, for, despite her rough manners,
she was held in high repute. It was only such
as had reason to dread the secret communication between
closet and housetop that feared her tongue; if she
spoke loud, she never spoke false, or backbit in the
dark. What chiefly conduced however to the respect
in which she was held, was that she was one of their
own people, her father having died minister of the
parish some twenty years before.
Comparatively little was known of her deceased cousin,
who had been much of an invalid, and had mostly kept
to the house, but all had understood that Miss Horn
was greatly attached to her; and it was for the sake
of the living mainly that the dead was thus honoured.
As the prayer drew to a close, the sounds of trampling
and scuffling feet bore witness that Watty Witherspail
and his assistants were carrying the coffin down the
stair. Soon the company rose to follow it, and
trooping out, arranged themselves behind the hearse,
which, horrid with nodding plumes and gold and black
panelling, drew away from the door to make room for
them.
Just as they were about to move off, to the amazement
of the company and the few onlookers who, notwithstanding
the weather, stood around to represent the commonalty,
Miss Horn herself, solitary, in a long black cloak
and somewhat awful bonnet, issued, and made her way
through the mourners until she stood immediately behind
the hearse, by the side of Mr Cairns, the parish minister.
The next moment, Watty Witherspail, who had his station
at the further side of the hearse, arriving somehow
at a knowledge of the apparition, came round by the
horses’ heads, and with a look of positive alarm
at the glaring infringement of time honoured customs,
addressed her in half whispered tones expostulatory:
“Ye’ll never be thinkin’ o’
gauin’ yersel’, mem!” he said.
