Mrs. Dorriman made a gesture of assent. The recollection of her old home, and the way in which it had been sold to the first bidder, was inexpressibly bitter to her. She was depressed and sad, and felt as though she had small need of other and painful memories, on this, her last evening here.
"From the east and the west, from the north and the south, gathered darkness—so black was the night that not a thing was to be seen—the hill where your father's house stood was but a shadow, and the lights in the windows shone out with a wonderful power.
"The heavens were in gloom from a gathering storm, and the wind was howling up and down, and up and down—none but my father, who understood things, would have stood as he stood and faced it. Then the clouds opened, and a great ball of fire came down; it broke over the house, my dear, over the house, and divided itself into three pieces—only three; and a piece went on the east corner, and one flame touched the south and one the north, and only the one corner, the one from the west, was left untouched, and that meant a great deal, and then the fire met and fell on the house itself." Christie's voice was so impressive, her manner so solemn, that Mrs. Dorriman, though the story was one she had often heard before, felt as though she was hearing it for the first time.
"What did it mean?" she asked breathlessly.
"It meant, my dear, what happened. Your father lost the lady (she came from the south), and that was one misfortune, and a very great one; then he lost his suit—the law-suit about some land in the North. Then he died himself, poor man, and that was the third thing—and the house was sold."
"So the misfortunes were complete?" and Mrs. Dorriman pressed forward a little and shivered. It was impossible not to be uncomfortably impressed by Christie—her tall figure and commanding gestures looming large beside her in the ever-increasing darkness.
"Not complete, my dear—not ended. No, that was what my father always said, he talked often and often about it, that is why it is written upon my brain. All he said came true, and why should this not come true? He saw it all to the end and he read it, and he was meant to read it." She dropped her voice in saying this, and once more was silent.
The two came to the little gate and bridge that spanned the burn and led to Mrs. Dorriman's place. She turned and took Christie's hand: "I feel it is the end," she said, speaking with that sob in the voice which is more pathetic than weeping; "you know this place is gone from me, and that I shall never, never see it again!"
"Yes, you will," said Christie, firmly; "my father said what I will tell you now—though I was not to speak of it to all. That night I told you of—when the fire-ball divided and fell—there was one corner of the house untouched; and when the fire and its great redness died away, he saw a silvery light rise, and it came from that corner and spread and spread like a flood of moonlight over everything, and the light was just above where you lay, my dear, a baby not many weeks old, and I shall live to see you do as you please, and live here or there, or in the old house, at your pleasure."
She raised Mrs. Dorriman's hands to her lips, kissed them fervently, and, uttering an impassioned prayer in Gaelic, she left her and moved up the hill. Mrs. Dorriman went home; she blamed herself for taking comfort from words which were the wild visions of a superstitious woman, but she did take comfort. By nature easily impressed, easily held up and as easily lowered by passing influences—the conversation with Christie had filled her with a sort of courage.