Herries followed at his leisure, his hands behind him, and his head bent. The few words-that, he had spoken of himself to Alison had disturbed his serenity; such words, however commonplace, when spoken of the inner self by a man so wrapt in reserve as Herries, are apt to affect the speaker thus, for their utterance is the breaking of the rule and habit of a life. He stood, and looked absently seawards. A schooner, under full sail, was beating up the firth. How slow, how infinitely tedious, was her tacking course! It seemed to Herries, just then, to typify his own life, for ever beating up against the wind of his tastes and inclinations, in the uncongenial profession of his adoption. Had anyone asked Herries the ruling motive of his existence at this time, he would have answered, drearily enough, and with no thought of taking credit to himself, 'A sense of duty.' Sober, in an age of drunkenness, and constitutionally fastidious where the manners of the times permitted, and even sanctioned, an extreme of licence—Herries had something of the melancholy in him, which dogs a man who is born before his time. Neither boon companions had he, nor social pleasures, nor tender friendships; all these he seemed to have outgrown. Life, at the very springs of it, seemed to have gone dry. And yet he was a man with all the appurtenances of success, who commanded the respect of other men, and held his head above the crowd. Duty—success—respect.... How laudable it sounded! And yet there was something wanting, greater than all these.
He strolled on along the links, while Alison and Willy ran races on the sands. Evidently the races were warm work, for Alison had dropped her pelisse, and left it on the grassy ledge where the links break into the shore. Herries sat down beside it, in the sun. He slipped a half-frozen hand beneath its folds; it was still warm from her wearing, and a curious emotion thrilled him at the contact, as though his blood ran warmer. Presently Alison came herself to where he sat, glowing from her run—panting, rosy, happy. Heavens! what a breath of life—young life—the creature brought along with her. Her curls were blown about by the wind; her eyes were bright—they had the wide-open, innocent look of a child's. Herries looked at her, and a terrible ache of longing took hold of him—whether it was for her, or just for what she stood for, of all that was lacking in his own life—he could not tell. It is very difficult to say when, to a nature of Herries's reserve, his critical hesitancy and profound fastidiousness—the divine moment comes, and the proud man's approval first melts into the tenderness of passion. But with Herries, I rather think it was then—on that sunny morning on the sandy links—when Alison stood before him, with the sea behind her, and the ribbon falling from her loosened curls. True, all that he said was, pointing with an instructive arm,—
'That is the Berwick road, Miss Graham. And over there, that odd-shaped hill you see—that is North Berwick Law.' But there, again, was the nature of the man; once a feeling had him, it then became too inward for common recognition, and far too sacred for speech.
After that, they retraced their steps, and Herries, who felt somehow that he had been erring on the side of sentimentality, instituted a thorough and improving examination of the antiquities of Prestonpans. Willy, it is true, showed symptoms of rebellion, but Alison, though rather cold and hungry, followed, ready and smiling, with that infinite patience for the foibles of a man, as for the gambols of a child, which comes as naturally to some women—well, as naturally as love itself.
They had a very pleasant hour in Isabella's cottage, as a subsequent reward. They supped broth at the fireside, and got warmed through and through. There was a grand platter of potatoes, boiled in their jackets, so hot that nobody could touch them.
'You'd be astonished how long they keep their heat, too,' Herries said to Alison. 'We'll put one in your muff, and you'll see how 'twill keep your hands warm all the way home.' And he popped the biggest into Alison's muff, and was very 'jokey' with Isabella, and Isabella with him, and so the time went very pleasantly. But, alas! as the end drew near, and Danny heard the horses' feet upon the street, and knew he was to be left behind, he began to cry, not with the robust roar of healthy childhood, but with silent tears, that overflowed his piteous dark eyes, and wet his small pale face. Alison gathered him in her arms, and cuddled him against her shoulder. She spoke to him of the coming summer—of the time when he would be well again and able to run about, and Willy should come down and play with him on the sands. And Danny—who would never see another summer, or run about again, or play with his little brother more—looked up in her kind face, and was comforted.
The afternoon had settled to a piercing cold, as they drove home. For a mile, the horses, maddened with the frost, and fresh from their long rest, ran away, and the coach swayed from side to side, Willy shrieking with delight. Alison felt a strange excitement in the air; the evening was so lovely—earth and sky and sea wore those strange, gem-like tints which are part of the magic accompaniment of a great frost. There rose, to their left, out of the ruddy haze—the craggy mass of Arthur's Seat; and tower and crown, and citadel and spire rose, one by one, and the great rock-built city wore all its classic air—a smoky fane, spread to the cold gods of the north. Herries was very silent; in the dark of the coach, silhouetted against the window, Alison could see the fine, cold profile, the severe, set mouth. She was very silent too, and presently Willy fell asleep, and lay against her knee in a tired heap.
When they got out at the Grassmarket it was in the gloaming, and Herries said he would see his charges to their door. A slip of the new moon swam in the limpid sky; every now and then she looked down at them between the high houses. Alison was turning over in her mind the pretty speech that she must make to Mr. Herries for this pleasant day. Ah, how to say enough, and not too much! The very thought of it made her heart beat—with sheer nervousness, was it? Or was it that Herries's extreme silence was burdened with a meaning which made itself felt, in the strange way of such things?
When they got to the General's Entry, Willy clattered up the stair. The lamp flared, and in its doubtful light Herries stood waiting. And then, because, perhaps, being of a masterful mind, he meant to wait no longer for what he wanted; or just because what he wanted was so near, so sweet, so terribly desirable,—his arm crept to Alison's waist, and he kissed her, and the ice of his life seemed broken, all the sweet springs of summer to gush in his heart.
'Ally, Ally,' he whispered—and why his first words were jealous ones he could not have told you—'Ally, tell me, did a man ever kiss you before?'