Bell and Ailie were out that afternoon for their daily walk in the woods or along the shore, when Mr Dyce returned from the Sheriff Court alert and buoyant, feeling much refreshed at the close of an encounter with a lawyer who, he used to say, was better at debating than himself, having more law books in his possession and a louder voice. Letting himself in with his pass-key, he entered the parlour, and was astonished to find a stranger, who rose at his approach and revealed a figure singular though not unpleasing. There was something ludicrous in her manner as she moved a step or two from the chair in which she had been sitting. Small, and silver-grey in the hair, with a cheek that burned—it must be with embarrassment—between a rather sallow neck and sunken temples, and wearing smoked spectacles with rims of tortoise-shell, she would have attracted attention anywhere even if her dress had been less queer. Queer it was, but in what manner Daniel Dyce was not the person to distinguish. To him there was about it nothing definitely peculiar, except that the woman wore a crinoline, a Paisley shawl of silken white, and such a bonnet as he had not seen since Grandma Buntain’s time.
“Be seated, ma’am,” said he; “I did not know I had the honour of a visitor,” and he gave a second, keener glance, that swept the baffling figure from the flounced green poplin to the snow-white lappet of her bonnet. A lady certainly,—that was in the atmosphere, however odd might be her dress. “Where in the world has this one dropped from?” he asked himself, and waited an explanation.
“Oh, Mr Dyce!” said the lady in a high, shrill voice, that plainly told she never came from south of the Border, and with a certain trepidation in her manner; “I’m feared I come at an inconvenient time to ye, and I maybe should hae bided at your office; but they tell’t me ye were out at what they ca’d a Pleading Diet. I’ve come about my mairrage.”
“Your marriage!” said the lawyer, scarcely hiding his surprise.
“Yes, my mairrage!” she repeated sharply, drawing the silken shawl about her shoulders, bridling. “There’s naething droll, I hope and trust, in a maiden lady ca’in’ on a writer for his help about her settlements!”
“Not at all—not at all, ma’am,” said Daniel Dyce. “I’m honoured in your confidence.” And he pushed his spectacles up on his brow that he might see her less distinctly and have the less inclination to laugh at such an eccentric figure.
She broke into a torrent of explanation. “Ye must excuse me, Mr Dyce, if I’m put-about and gey confused, for it’s little I’m acquent wi’ lawyers. A’ my days I’ve heard o’ naething but their quirks, for they maistly rookit my grandfaither. And I cam’ wi’ the coach frae Maryfield, and my heart’s in a palpitation wi’ sic briengin’ and bangin’ ower heughs and hills—” She placed a mittened hand on a much-laced stomacher, and sighed profoundly.
“Perhaps—perhaps a glass of wine—” began the lawyer, with his eye on the bell-pull, and a notion in his head that wine and a little seed-cake someway went with crinolines and the age of the Paisley shawl.
“No, no!” she cried extravagantly. “I never lip it; I’m—I’m in the Band o’ Hope.”
The lawyer started, and scanned her again through his glasses, with a genial chuckling crow. “So’s most maiden ladies, ma’am,” said he. “I’m glad to congratulate you on your hopes being realised.”