All this time, while the mere prosaic matters of everyday life went on as above, a certain high-souled correspondence, which took no note of common things, continued to unite the Potterrow with St. James's Square. Alison still took letters, weary of the job, but loyal to her friend. Sometimes she was rewarded by hearing priceless extracts from the effusions which came in return. 'I am delighted, my lovely friend, with your enthusiasm for religion,' wrote the poet. '*'Tis also my favourite topic.*' Alison thought this sounded very nice—pious, even. Perhaps there was no harm after all, and Herries was, yes, he was too strict in his censures of a genius whom he did not, and would not, understand. Yet she sighed, and sometimes wished there was no poet in St. James's Square.
Once, near dusk, she and Nancy were walking in the New Town, and the latter took a perverse fancy to stroll into the square herself.
'But I left your note this morning, Nancy!' protested poor Alison.
'I know, I know, child,' said Nancy, whose face had an eager look. 'But I've been virtue, prudence itself, Ally, and never set foot in the sacred precincts myself. Now 'tis dusk nearly, and no one about. You know my romantic nature. I would see with my own eyes the shrine of genius. Come, love, be generous to your friend!' And they dawdled some minutes in the wretched, grimy square,—Nancy, holding her muff to her face, but peering up at the windows of the houses. Alison did not know that a foolish pen had written that morning: 'I am promised to be in your square this afternoon, and if your window be to the street, shall have the pleasure of giving you a nod.' Nor did she hear the poet's lively rejoinder of the next day: 'You don't know the proper storey for a poet's lodging, Clarinda! Why didn't you look higher?'
And then, coming out of the square, in the very neck of it, whom should they run against but Herries himself.
'This is an odd hour and place for you ladies to be walking alone,' said he. And Alison saw how his eyes narrowed with suspicion, and his lips set themselves in their most obstinate folds. But Nancy was inimitable in self-possession and unconcern; said something about a visit to a clockmaker in the square, and then talked of the weather. Alison, poor Alison, had felt the shock so, that her very heart jumped. Then followed the sickly sensation, so horribly novel to her young strength, of a feeling of faintness. She knew that her very lips grew white, as she stood there listening to Nancy's prattle. How foolish it was ... but, oh, would Nancy never go! At last she nodded a lively good-night to her relative, and they separated.
'La, child!' Nancy exclaimed, as they scurried home, 'that was a queer mischance! And did you see how mighty odd my gentleman looked at us? He knows, all the world knows, Burns lodges in the square. But I think I put him off the scent; he knows my big wag-at-the-wall clock comes from Jamieson's, and that's in the square too.... But, Ally, what made you turn so white? Are you not well, love? Sure I'm sorry you had a qualm; 'tis horrid, vapourish weather just now, but could anything on earth have been more opportune? For now, if Archie takes it into his head that either of us has a sentimental interest in the square, it must be you!' She laughed her little soft, thrilling laugh, and tripped gaily along beside her silent companion. 'But I don't think,' she added presently,' that he saw anything. It was too dark.'
That night Alison had a nightmare. She dreamt that she walked somewhere, but there was a chain about her feet; and ever, as she tried to hurry on, the chain tightened, bruising her ankles, cutting even into the flesh. On some height beyond her stood a figure. Its face was hidden, but she knew that it was Herries. Then Alison awoke, and found that she was crying.
CHAPTER XXII.
Herries was not greatly disturbed at the meeting in St. James's Square, after the first flash of annoyance. It was one of those incidents, little thought of at the time, which may, at a later date, loom large; a link in that chain of circumstantial evidence which sends many a culprit to his doom. He merely hoped, irritably enough, that his cousin was not playing tricks, making a fool of herself about the poet (he knew the poet's lodging perfectly), and he made a definite resolve to interfere, if this should be the case. Not only, he reflected, must Nancy walk warily on her own account, but she had, under her charge, a young and inexperienced girl, who must on no account be exposed to dangerous poetic wiles. Miss Graham, it struck him, bad looked pale; doubtless, she had confined herself too closely nursing Danny. He must design some little dissipation for her. As a matter of fact, he had two in view.