Miles had only to pass on the message the old woman had given him over the low stone wall, on his way to Glenbossie. In her Gaelic-spoken message she had given him the eternally old message, and though he “had not Gaelic,” he had understood it, because she had spoken in the universal language. A lover’s language may be as new as the morning; it is also as old as the hills. And that old woman had not forgotten the days of her youth, and why? Because the sun was in the heavens, by day, to remind her: the stars in the sky at night: the burn on the hillside: the heather on the moor: the little children passing by—tender reminders, these. Even the rain must re-awaken memories of the enfolded plaid: the peat smoke bring back memories of evenings when the day was past and over, the harvest gathered in, and the bairns asleep.
As with Dick and his mother the parting lay like a weight on the hearts of Miles and Diana. When she said it would not be for long, he laughed. She little knew how short a time it might be, or that it rested with her to make it short or interminable. He had promised to leave her when he had seen her into the train which should take her on to Loch Bossie and he saw her into that train. When she asked him why he didn’t come on with her, he said it was against orders. Against whose? she wanted to know. He would not tell her. She asked him if he should go south that night?
And he said he should go to Glenbossie by the next train.
“Why not by this?”
Because, he said, he had promised not to go by her train unless something should happen to make him alter his plans.
The dear old lady would have been more human if she had not made this impossible condition, he thought, but she had made it.
“Diana?” he said.
“What?”
“You have never told me.”
“No—”