It was a very pleasant tea-party, indeed, in spite of the absence of Mrs. Maclehose, which was regretted with due politeness. Mr. Creighton devoted himself grimly to the entertainment of Willy, who, perched precariously upon the edge of a high chair, regarded his overtures much as he might those of a well-intentioned ogre. Mr. Creighton 'pressed' the cakes—boys, he reflected, could eat a limitless quantity. Willy was too frightened to refuse; he ate, until the powers of mastication were all but paralysed, and then rolled helpless eyes of repletion towards Alison, silently imploring succour.
But Alison, it is to be feared, was not paying that attention to her young charge, which was customary with her. She had been requested to make the tea—an absorbing process always; and then, Herries was helping her, kind, 'as a grandfather,' of course. How pretty was the china and the silver! The goodly spread made her think of gala days at The Mains, with a touch, an ache, of home. The conversation was all that a grandfather, at his best, could have attained.
'You must tell my cousin,' Herries was saying, 'that I have arranged to take Danny down to Prestonpans on Saturday. 'Tis sudden, but Ross presses the change, while this clearer spell of weather lasts. I'll have a comfortable coach at the Grassmarket—the boy will travel in warmth and comfort. Nancy will come with him, doubtless. And you—I trust you will honour us, Miss Graham? 'Tis a fine drive, and there's much of interest to be seen at Prestonpans.' Alison said it would be delightful. Then she rose to go, for it grew late.
''Tis a fine clear evening to take the air,' said Herries, 'and if Miss Graham walks, may I have the honour to escort her to the Potterrow?' His glance was searching hers. His escort ... through the grim streets, under these rosy skies of the winter twilight? Her eyes shone acquiescence. And then—and then she remembered Nancy's letter, and the willing answer died on her lips.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Herries was waiting for her to speak; his quick eye caught, first, the eager, answering look, then the cloud, the hesitation, the confusion.
'I could not trouble you to come with me, sir,' said Alison, in a low voice, her eyes on the ground. 'Willy and I know the way well.' There was the unmistakable note of refusal in her speech.
Herries raised his eyebrows; his irritable pride was at once in arms. 'Very well,' he said coldly; 'then I will have a coach called. At this New Year season you cannot be permitted to walk in the streets at this hour, with no protection but Willy.'
'I wish to walk, sir,' said Alison, miserably. She was, indeed, a poor actress; inventions and excuses came never a one to her aid. Mr. Creighton advanced unexpectedly to her rescue.
'These coaches,' he said, 'are a terrible expense, the drivers extortionate, indeed, especially going up the town. There is the lass, Mysie, sir,'—to Herries,—'could she not be spared to accompany Miss Graham?'