One day, however, when he was superintending (or "grieving," as it was called) the haymakers, an idea struck across his brain, and instantly changed his whole mood, and filled his heart with delight. Grace, he thought, was uneducated just now, but was it necessary that she should remain so? She was naturally bright and clever, and without doubt would be eager to learn. Why should she not have the opportunity? He would earn some money by going out as a tutor, and with this money he would send her to a first-class boarding-school, where she would learn the accomplishments, manners, and graces; and thus she would become a young lady of whom anyone in his position might be proud. A fond dream which might so easily be realised!
But when, in his next letter, he had propounded his plan to Grace, she, instead of accepting it gratefully, rejected it with the utmost scorn. She had some difficulty in expressing her love, but none in giving vent to her indignation. So (she wrote) he was ashamed of her because she could not jabber a few French phrases, and hammer on the piano; and he wanted her to go to one of those boarding-schools, where nothing but what was bad could be learned. She would not go to one of these dens of wickedness; but as he was ashamed of her, she would poison herself, and her murder would lie at his door. Thus ended Blair's first and last attempt to educate his betrothed.
Three years had passed without altering the state of matters. His parents had come to know of his engagement, and he saw, by their looks, how deeply disappointed and chagrined they were. He had frequently visited Grace; and although he could not help being pleased with her affectionate greeting, yet her frequent vulgar remarks, and her mother's coarse style of joking, stung him to the quick. And now there happened a change of circumstances which stirred up within him a strange mixture of vexation and delight. The letters of Miss Bourhill came to be short and far between. He suspected that there was some new attraction engrossing her; and he asked a confidential friend in St Andrews to ascertain if this was so. His suspicion was correct. She was frequently seen with a divinity student, by name Harker, good-looking after a sort, but notoriously self-indulgent and even loose in his principles. In fact, his very name at the University seemed redolent of dissipation; and his presence among innocent young girls would have been deemed absolutely blighting. He would have looked like an obscene raven among a troop of snowy doves. This man was now Mrs Bourhill's lodger, and it was evident that Miss Grace was trying her charms upon him. The reason of this double-dealing was equally clear. As a student of the Established Church, he had the prospect of a better manse, and a larger and surer stipend, than Blair would ever possess.
This revelation threw Blair into a fever of excitement; and various feelings within him struggled for the mastery: Indignation at being jilted for such a worthless rival; shame at having been inveigled into tying himself to such a mercenary flirt; determination to do his utmost to free himself; and exultation at the prospect of being able to do so. Under the influence of this whirlpool of emotion he set out to walk to St Andrews, and was carried along at a great pace, scarcely noticing the objects that he passed, and making little of the long distance. As he drew near to the ancient city, there came into his view two figures that instantly revived his flagging feelings—Harker and Miss Bourhill returning from a walk on the links. Keeping well behind them, he dogged their footsteps, and watched with a fiendish gratification how they talked, looked into each other's faces and laughed, until they reached College Street and disappeared in Mrs Bourhill's house. Then he entered without much ceremony, received the surprise and the salutation of the two women, who were in the lobby, with a cold and stern manner, said that he wished to speak with Grace alone, and following her into the parlour, locked the door to keep the mother out.
Malcolm lost no time in giving vent to his feelings. He told her the reports that had reached him; he exposed the deplorable character of Harker; he demanded that she should break off all correspondence with this man whose touch was an insult to a woman; and he wound up by saying that she must, on the spot, and once for all, choose between him and this new admirer. He spoke with great vehemence and determination, and expected to see her completely overwhelmed with shame and confusion.
But what was his astonishment to find that this uneducated girl, with nothing but her animal cunning, was more than a match for all his culture, and was prepared to defend her conduct out and out. With the air and smile of one who was dealing with a testy and unreasonable child, she proceeded to argue the matter with him. Did he really mean to blame her, because she spoke to her mother's lodger, and because she allowed him, when he met her in the street, to walk home with her? And did he really wish her to promise not to speak to Mr Harker? They could not afford to turn him away, and as long as he remained in their rooms they could not insult him. Then, waxing righteously indignant, she demanded why he employed sneaks to tell tales of her, and why he came raging and locking the door as if he were going to murder her. The fact was, that he was ashamed of her, and wanted to pick a quarrel, and to get an excuse for throwing her off. But, thank God! although she was a poor girl, she was not without friends. Her uncle, the solicitor in Edinburgh, would see that she was not wronged. And having said all this calmly, she unlocked the door and went out.
After a rest and slight repast at the Star Hotel, Malcolm returned home full of the gloomiest thoughts. This wretched girl had come out in her true character—cunning, unscrupulous, heartless. While she claimed the liberty of throwing him off, he was not to have the liberty of throwing her off. That reference to her uncle, the solicitor, showed that the terrors of the law would be employed, if necessary, to keep him to his bargain. It was a gloomy future that was opening up before him; and for several days he wandered aimlessly about, the most melancholy of men.
But Nature takes care that a healthy young soul shall not droop for long. Like a downtrodden daisy, it revives under the influence of sunshine and shower, and opens its heart to the brightness of Spring. When weeks had passed without bringing a letter from Miss Bourhill, he became sanguine, nay, even confident. Her new flirtation was evidently prospering. Harker would soon be licensed; and, as he was glib and clever enough, he would soon get a church and marry her; and then, oh! what an ominous cloud would be lifted from his life! He would then be a free man! And so a miraculous change now came over him. His youth seemed to be restored; and he began to look with a new and fresh interest on all the old familiar scenes. His mother noticed the transformation, and knew the cause; and, as she said to her husband, "Now that the boy was himself again, the farmyard and the fields seemed brighter and pleasanter."
But unfortunately this exultation was premature. One evening towards the end of March, as he sat in the parlour reading the county paper, his eyes fell upon a paragraph which struck him like an electric shock. He tried hard to fancy that the narrative might not be true after all; but the details were given in such a circumstantial and confident manner, that he was compelled in the end to believe them. They were as follows:—