'Never in all my life!' said Alison, staring straight out before her into the dark, with wonder-struck eyes. And lo! that which had been a reproach at The Mains became the crowning glory of her life, and at that Pygmalion-like touch of a lover's lips, the soul of Alison awoke to passion, as the marble awoke to life.
But—such is the relentlessness of the prose of life—Jean must choose this interesting moment in which to open the door above them and let a light down the shaft of the stair. The pair started asunder, Herries stammered good-night, and Alison walked up the dirty steps of that Edinburgh common stair as though they were the rungs of a golden ladder leading straight to heaven.
CHAPTER XXVI.
It might generally be supposed that one great emotion of the mastering kind possesses the soul to the temporary exclusion of all others. But this is not the case; for it is, rather, when the soul is awake—quivering to the touch of some novel experience—that its sensitiveness to new impressions is the greatest, and its capacity for seeing all things and understanding all things is at the fullest stretch. Thus, when Alison walked into Nancy's room that night, full of her own bliss, her heart gave only one bounding throb the more when she found a stranger there, and realised that at last she beheld the longed-for visitor, stood in the presence of genius, and touched the hand of Robert Burns.
The familiar room wore its cosiest and most seductive aspect—the curtains drawn, and fire- and candle-light shining on the wall. The figure, which, at Nancy's motion, rose to meet Alison, seemed to her almost colossal; but only so, because her mind's-eye was filled with the slenderer proportions of a very different figure. The man was indeed of peasant build, of a goodly height, but heavy and thick-set, dressed decently and yeoman-wise, 'like a farmer to dine with the laird.' As he bent towards her the full-blooded, warm-hued, powerful face, she became conscious of his eyes, black as night, with their fringe of shadow-casting lashes—commanding and compelling eyes, almost surcharged with brilliance. Nancy was speaking, lightly, gracefully.
'I told you of my song-bird,' said she to the poet; 'here she is. She'll warble your lays with the very "wood-note wild" you are always asking for. Ally, love, welcome home! We were waiting for you. Run, child, and take off your things, and come and sing. Must she not, Sylvander?'
The poet bowed. It could not be said that his gestures were clumsy, for the man had ever a natural dignity; but they had the air of indifferently controlled strength, which spoke the peasant struggling with the conventions of the parlour. His great, black glance covered Alison; half-wondering and half-shrinking, she felt it search her.
'If Miss Graham,' he said, with a low bow, 'will honour me with a song, she will make a poor poet the richer. I find no inspiration in the world like the lilt of a bonny voice in a bonny tune.'
Alison smiled to herself as she went to put off her hood and pelisse and smooth her curls. The deep, flattering voice rang oddly in her ears, for they were full of the curt speech and clear, incisive utterance of her lover—who was certainly no poet.
In her absence, the Bard leaned against the mantel-piece and glowered down with his dark look upon his hostess. She—flushed, radiant, passionate, fluttered like a bird in the big hand of the fowler, but a willing bird.