I turned my head away that I might not spy upon her feeling, for here, it was plain, was a tragedy laid bare. She stopped her song mid-way with a laugh, dashed a hand across her eyes, and threw herself into a chair.
“Oh, fie! Mr. Greig, to be backing up a daft woman, old enough to know better, in her vapours. You must be fancying I am a begrutten bairn to be snackin' my daidlie in this lamentable fashion, but it's just you and your Mearns, and your Ballageich, and your douce Scots face and tongue that have fair bewitched me. O Scotland! Scotland! Let us look oot at this France o' theirs, Mr. Greig.” She came to the window (her movements were ever impetuous, like the flight of a butterfly), and “Do I no' wish that was the Gallowgate,” said she, “and Glasgow merchants were in the shops and Christian signs abin the doors, like 'MacWhannal' and 'Mackay,' and 'Robin Oliphant'? If that was Bailie John Walkinshaw, wi' his rattan, and yon was the piazza o' Tontine, would no' his dochter be the happy woman? Look! look! ye Mearns man, look! look! at the bairn playing pal-al in the close. 'Tis my little sister Jeanie that's married on the great Doctor Doig—him wi' the mant i' the Tron kirk—and bairns o' her ain, I'm tell't, and they'll never hear their Aunt Clemie named but in a whisper. And yon auld body wi' the mob cap, that's the baxter's widow, and there's carvie in her scones that you'll can buy for a bawbee apiece.”
The maddest thing!—but here was the woman smiling through her tears, and something tremulous in her as though her heart was leaping at her breast. Suddenly her manner changed, as if she saw a sobering sight, and I looked out again, and there was Father Hamilton heaving round the corner of a lane, his face as red as the moon in a fog of frost.
“Ah!” cried Miss Walkinshaw, “here's France, sure enough, Mr. Greig. We must put by our sentiments, and be just witty or as witty as we can be. If you're no' witty here, my poor Mr. Greig, you might as well be dumb. A heart doesna maitter much; but, oh! be witty.”
The priest was making for the house. She dried her tears before me, a frankness that flattered my vanity; “and let us noo to our English, Mr. Greig,” said she as the knock came to the door. “It need be nae honest Scots when France is chappin'. Would you like to travel for a season?”
The question took me by surprise; it had so little relevance to what had gone before.
“Travel?” I repeated.
“Travel,” said she again quickly. “In a glass coach with a companion who has plenty of money—wherever it comes from—and see all Europe, and maybe—for you are Scots like myself—make money. The fat priest wants a secretary; that's the long and the short of it, for there's his foot on the stairs, and if you'll say yes, I fancy I can get you the situation.”
I did not hesitate a second.
“Why, then yes, to be sure,” said I, “and thank you kindly.”