enveloped the spot where a face had been. He went on manfully, raising his voice.
Then the bat, in one of its wide sweeps, struck against the open umbrella. Auntie Thompson sprang up, and holding it slanting before her face, made stiffly, blindly, for the door. Her nephew opened it, and she passed out and disappeared from the public eye. Her heavy tread descended the stairs, and the tension which bound the assembly, as the plod of her boots marked each step of her descent, was only broken by the slam of the kirk door as she drew it to behind her. The sweat broke out on Alec’s forehead.
At last the congregation got back its composure. The old man shut his mouth and the young suppressed their mirth. The faces of the MacAndrew family were set like stone; their sense of the outrage committed radiated from every feature and laid its chilly shadow on poor Alec across the whole space of the kirk.
When the last paraphrase was sung he hurried downstairs. Not a look had Isa given him. She hurried out with her father and mother, and by the time the young man had reached the gate MacAndrew had grasped the reins from the boy in charge of the pony and the carriage with its load was starting homewards. The girl turned away her head, so that he saw nothing but the outline of her cheek and the drooping feather as they drove away. Mr. and Mrs. MacAndrew looked steadily at the horizon in front of them. Alec’s heart was hot with grief and wrath as he watched the absurd conveyance grow smaller and smaller in the distance.
He did not wait to speak to anyone. His pride was bitterly hurt and his sense of injury was forcing him to action of some kind; he was not clever, but his instinct told him that matters could not stay as they were. They must either go forward or back. It was lucky for him that the insolence of his future family-in-law was so marked that it helped him to act and to forget the ache in his heart in healthy anger. A mean-minded man might have blamed Auntie Thompson for her innocent share in the catastrophe, but Alec had no meanness in him.
He went past his own door without turning in, and on, up the Muir Road, until at the end of the four miles MacAndrew’s little farm, with its varnished gate and perky laurel bushes, came into sight. The house was like a child’s drawing in a copy-book; it had one window on either side of the door and three above. He approached boldly and knocked with his fist instead of pulling out the brass handle. He was not accustomed to bell-handles. Isa and Mrs. MacAndrew were watching him from behind a blind.
‘The impidence o’ him!’ exclaimed the latter, ‘aifter this mornin’—!’
‘If it was not for Mrs. Thompson, I’d like him well enough,’ sighed Isa, whose resolution was beginning to be a little affected by the sight of her lover.
‘He’ll need tae be done wi’ yon auld limmer afore he can hae vera muckle tae say tae us,’ rejoined her mother. ‘Isa, ye’ll no—’
But she was cut short by the servant, who opened the door and thrust Alec forward.
‘Robina-Ann, a seat for Mr. Soutar,’ said Mrs. MacAndrew, determined to put all possible distance between herself and the visitor by her knowledge of worldly customs.
The maid was bewildered. The room was full of chairs. There was a whole ‘suite’ of them in walnut.
‘Wull a be tae hurl yer ain chair in-by frae the kitchen?’ she inquired loudly.
Confusion smote the party, only missing Alec, who took no notice of any chair, but stood in the middle of the room.
Robina-Ann retreated before the eye of her mistress. The latter turned upon the young man. She meant to avenge the discomfiture dealt her by her servant on somebody.
But he forestalled her.
‘Isa, what way would ye no speak tae me at the kirk? What ails ye at me?’
‘A’ll tell ye just now!’ exclaimed Mrs. MacAndrew, her gentility forsaking her. ‘A’ll warrant ye it’ll no tak’ me lang! A’m seekin’ tae ken what-like impidence brings ye here aifter the affront that Mrs. Thompson put upon the hale congregation!’
‘A’ve come tae see Isa,’ said Alec, the angry blood rising to his face.
‘Weel, yonder’s Isa!’ cried Mrs. MacAndrew, pointing a finger that shook with rage, ‘but ye’ll no get vera muckle guid o’ Isa! A’m no tae let a lassie o’mine waste hersel’ on a plough-laddie – a fushionless loon that maybe hasna twa coats till his back – a lad a’d be fair ashamed o’—’
‘O mamawe—!’ began Isa.
‘I’ll mamawe ye!’ shouted Mrs. MacAndrew, gathering rage from the sound of her own voice, ‘hey! gang awa’ oot o’ this, you that’s got nae richt tae speak till a lassie like mine! Gang awa’ back tae yer auld besom ο’ an aunt that’s nae mair nor a disgrace tae the parish!’
He stood looking at the coarse-grained, furious creature, astonished. Then he turned to Isa, prim and aloof, in her flounces.
‘Isa—’
Mrs. MacAndrew opened her mouth again, but Alec stepped towards her. His eyes were so fierce that she drew back.
‘Haud yer whisht, woman,’ he said hoarsely, ‘dinna get in my road. Isa, what are ye tae say? Ye wasna this way, yesterday.’
The girl looked rather frightened, and the corners of her small mouth drooped. She liked Alec, but she liked other things better. She was weak, but she was obstinate, and she had never overcome the feeling that she was throwing herself away. Before her mind’s eye rose the vision of the stranger in church.
‘What’s wrang wi’ me that wasna wrang yesterday?’ he demanded.
Isa’s vision, the vision with the trim hair, a gold tie-pin and a prospective farm, was making her feel rather guilty. It was so real to her that she felt she must hide it.
‘It’s – it’s Mrs. Thompson,’ faltered she.
‘What?’
‘Ye’ll need to have no more to do with Mrs. Thompson if you’re to marry me,’ said she, plucking up courage.
An angry exclamation broke from him.
‘Awa’ ye gang!’ cried Mrs. MacAndrew.
‘Isa,’ said Alec, ‘d’ye mean that ye’re seeking tae gar me turn ma back on m’ Auntie Thompson?’
‘Aye,’ said the girl, nodding stubbornly.
He turned and went. On the threshold he looked back.
‘Ye can bide whaur ye are,’ said he. ‘A’m no wantin’ ye.’
NOT MANY DAYS afterwards Isa walked down the Muir Road with a little packet in her hand. The hairy pony was at work on the farm, or she would have had herself driven in the basket carriage. But although she was on foot, she wore her best hat with the drooping feather and her blue flounced dress.
She had two excellent reasons for this extravagance. She was going to the very door of the white cottage, and she was anxious that Auntie Thompson’s neighbours should have a good chance of observing how superior she was to Alec; also, she hoped that some happy stroke of fortune might throw her against the interesting stranger. She had heard nothing about him since the last eventful Sunday, when
