intimacy ceased. Mrs Falconer remembered her own impotent fury against her sister. And, after all, Kate had given no sign. ‘Another dream of mine, I suppose,’ thought Mrs Falconer. And she sighed. It was not easy to include Kate in any dream. ‘And she’s all I have to love,’ thought her mother wistfully.
Mrs Hunter ran on. ‘ “O, that’s to see,” he says. “I’ve never found a lassie yet that I love like your ain bonny self.” “You flatterer,” I says. “Unless it would be my aunt.” And we both to the laughin’. But he’s fair fond of her, mind you. There’s nae put-on yonder.’
‘He would be,’ said Theresa. ‘Sic mannie sic horsie. She’s a Hielan’ yowe yon.’
Mrs Hunter bridled. ‘She’s a good woman, Miss Craigmyle. There’s worse things than being queer. There’s being bad. There’s lots that’s nae quite at themsels and nae ill in them, and some that’s all there and all the worse for that. There’s Louie Morgan, now—queer you must allow she is, but bad she couldna be.’
Whether because the affront put on her by Miss Barbara’s rash incursion was still rankling, or whether by reason of the naturally combative quality of her mind, Miss Theresa stormed on the suggestion.
‘Louie!’ she said. ‘Hantle o’ whistlin’ and little red land yonder. And you don’t call it bad to bedizen herself with honours and her never got them?’
‘Meaning’ what, Miss Craigmyle?’
‘This tale of her engagement,’ said Theresa with scorn.
‘Poor craitur! That was a sore heart to her. Losin’ young Mr Grey that road, and them new promised. It’ll be a while or she ca’ ower’t.’
‘She never had him.’
‘Havers, Miss Theresa, she has the ring.’
‘Think of that, now.’
‘She let me see the ring.’
‘She bought it.’
‘She didna that, Miss Theresa. It’s his mother’s ain ring, that she showed me lang syne, and said her laddie’s bride would wear whan she was i’ the mools.’
Miss Theresa took the check badly. To be found in the wrong was a tax she could not meet. She had grown up with a hidden angry conviction that she was in the wrong by being born. As third daughter, she had defrauded her father of a son. It was after Theresa’s birth that James Craigmyle set himself to turn Annie into as good a farmer as himself. He never reproached Tris to her face, but the sharp child guessed her offence. When he was dead, and she in the Weatherhouse had power and authority for the first time in her life, she developed an astounding genius for being in the right. To prove Theresa wrong was to jeopardise the household peace.
She was therefore dead set in her own opinion by Mrs Hunter’s apparent proof of her mistake. The matter, to be sure, was hardly worth an argument. Louie Morgan was a weak, palavering thing, always playing for effect. The Craigmyle ladies knew better than to be taken in with her airs and her graces, that deceived the lesser intellects; but they had, like everyone else, accepted the story of her betrothal to David Grey, a young engineer brought up in the district, although David Grey was already dead before the betrothal was announced. Even Theresa had not openly questioned the story before. Irritation made her do it now, and the crossing of her theory drove her to conviction.
‘It’s as plain as a hole in a laddie’s breeks,’ she said. ‘There was no word of an engagement when the young man was alive, was there?’
The whole company, however, was against her. The supposition was monstrous, and in view of Mrs Hunter’s evidence upon the ring, untenable.
‘And look at the times she’s with auld Mr Grey,’ said Mrs Hunter, ‘that bides across the dyke from us, and him setting a seat for her that kindly like and cutting his braw chrysanthemums to give her.’
‘She had sought them,’ said Theresa.
‘Oh, I wouldna say. She’s fit for it, poor craiturie. But she wouldna tell a lee.’ Mrs Hunter frankly admitted the failings of all her friends, but thought none the worse of them for that. ‘She’s her father’s daughter there. A good man, the old Doctor, and a grand discourse he gave. It was worth a long traivel to see him in the pulpit, a fine upstandin’ man as ever you saw. “Easy to him,” Jake says. Jake’s sair bent, Miss Craigmyle. “Easy to him, he’s never done a stroke of work in his life.” His wife did a’ thing—yoked the shalt for him whan he went on his visitations, and had aye to have his pipe filled with tobacco to his hand when he got hame.’
‘Where’s Lindsay gone to?’ Theresa cut abruptly across the conversation. ‘She’s taking a monstrous while to put away her cloak. And it’s time these bairns were home.’ She pulled the coloured streamers from the tree out of Stella’s hands.
They called for Lindsay, but had no answer. When it became plain she was not in the house, there was a flutter of consternation.
‘Out?’ said Miss Annie. ‘But she’ll get her death. And what could she be seeking out at this time of night?’
Only Mrs Falconer held her peace. A light smile played over her features, and her thoughts were running away by the upland paths of romance. She had a whole history woven for herself in a moment—a girl in love and escaping into moonshine on such a pure and radiant night as this: did one require pedestrian excuse?
She said, ‘I’ll put on my coat and take these children home. I’m sure to meet her on the way.’
Like Lindsay, she had the sense of escaping into light. She went along with a skipping step, her heart rejoicing; and almost forgot that she had come to look for a runaway whose absence caused concern.
She delivered over the children to Francie, who shut the door on them and said, ‘I’ll show you a sight, if you come up the park a bit.’ Mrs Falconer followed, caring little where she went in that universal faerie shimmer. It seemed to her that she was among the days of creation, and light had been called into being, but neither divisions of time nor substance, nor any endeavours nor disturbances of man.
‘What think you o’ that in a Christian country?’ Francie was asking; and Mrs Falconer saw, as Lindsay had seen, the blazing lights of Knapperley.
‘What a strange pale beauty they have,’ she said, ‘in the moonlight.’
‘Beauty, said ye?’ echoed Francie, with supreme scorn. ‘It’s a beauty I can do fine wantin’ in a war-time, and all them Zepps about.’
‘Hoots, Francie,’ said Mrs Falconer, recovering herself, ‘it’s as light as day. The house lights ’ll make little difference in the sky tonight.’
‘I’ve seen that lights, Mrs Falconer, in the darkest night o’ winter. It’s nae canny. She’ll come by some mishaunter, ay will she, ay will she that.’
‘A fine, maybe. Don’t you worry, Francie. If she carries on like that the police ’ll soon put a stop to her cantrips.’
Francie went away muttering. Mrs Falconer returned home, having forgotten to look very hard for the runaway. Lindsay was still absent.
‘You can’t have
