"A Superfluous Woman,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 22 October 1931, Page 7

"A Superfluous Woman,”

BY EMMA BROOKE. (Author of “Sir Elyot of the Woods,” “Transition,” etc).

Oil AFTER XX.—Continued.

She did so, and saw four stono walls festooned with soot; above them, a gray sky, across which trails of raincloud swept; a thin spiral of smoko was whirling about towards the top in momentary indecision whether to rise or descend.

“Surely,” said Jessamine, “you are smothered with smoke on windy dajs?

“Oil ay!” answered old Eorie; “we will just be smothered. Ye see, the vent’s too large. Ye see, the smoke blaws down back into the room, and that makes the rafters black. And, j e see, it will be verra eauld in the wunther time. But,” added he, 've ie used to it.” His smoke-ingrained skin well testified that Time had lent the clemency of habit. As for the rest of the room, there were good presses against the wall; there was a table, a wooden bench, and a chair or two, shelves with pots and pans, and an indescribable piece of furniture, which Jessamine suspected to be a bed.

“Will your Highness like to see the other room?” asked old Eorie, throwing in a title which he judged commensurate with his guest’s distinguished air. “Thank you,” said Jessamine, unwilling to confess to a former visit. “We live mostly in the kitchen, ye see, for comfort,” explained old Eorie; “but we have the parlour.” And he led the way to the other well-remembered room. There was the bed in the alcove, the clothes tossed aside as Colin had left them that morning; a couple of tables, a few chairs, a rifle leaning against the wall, a small looking-glass (for Colin i was something of a dandy), one or two books, a vase or two upon the mantelpiece, and a small ordinary, grate. The floor was without drugget, but everything was neat and orderly. “This will be the parlour, mem, and that will be Colin's bed. Colin sleeps here, mem. This will be his rifle, for Colin was joining the volunteers, ye see. ” “Colin is your only son?” “Colin will bo our only son, mem. He will be having the farm after me.” Here old Eorie assumed a confidential air, and approached close to Jessamine, who felt exceedingly alarmed; nor was sho at all encouraged by the laying of his hand upon her shoulder. “He will be a solid man, ye see, mem, with money at the bank. I m telling ye this, mem, not to boast, but that ye may just know that Colin will be something. He was ever a very quiet lad with his words.” “You live very simply,” said Jessamine, edging back nervously from the old peasant’s confidences. “Oh ay! verra simple. Just porridge and potaties, with a kipper now and then, and milk. That will be it a verra good diet, ye see. Folks will be over-heating themselves with meat. Oh ay! I’m often saying that porridge is the finest diet in the world.” Jessamine smiled. Not even the terrible jwesencc of old Eorie could quite overshadow the wistful strangeness in her heart at standing in the room of the man she loved. She leaned against the window-frame, looking out upon his beloved landscape, and inftoctually envying liis austerity and simplicity. • “ Ye must excuse me, mom,” said old Eorie, seeing that she made no answer, “if I am not speaking the English right. Ye see, I’m not verra good at the English.” “Oh!” said Jessamine; “do you speak Gaelic?” “Oh ay! We will just be talking the Gaelic at home. I can go into more things in the Gaelic. !l must ever be looking for my words in the English, your Highness will understand.” Jessamine looked up quickly, a pink spot in either check. “Do you call me ‘your Highness.’ I am —the McKenzies’ farm-help at Drynock.”

liis words.

Old Rorie’s jaw dropped at this information. Ilis mind had a long way to travel from the title of his invention to the simplicity of Jessamine’s claim, and her aspect belied her words. At last, while she rather tremulously watched him, the bewilderment passed from his face. He made an emphatic gesture with his hand, bringing it down to his side with a slap.

“A-weel,” said he—“a-weel, the farm-help at the McKenzies’. It’s come on me of a suddenty. Dear, clear, dear! I’m no verra good with my eyes, and I was taking ye for a grand 1 eddy. Ay, but ye are bonnie; I’m no so blind but I can see that. Ye are bonnie. Lads will let ye know it, I’m thinking. Ay, ye’ll be trailing a good few at your heels! Ay, I was hearing of ye—a bonnie wee lassie at McKenzies’! But ye’U no be much hand at the working?” “I am strong. I can do as much as most. Mrs McKenzie thinks I have learnt a good deal,” said Jessamine, feeling rather as one who has swept down all defences with her own hand.

“Ay? Yo will just be learning, so as ye can manage your own farm, I’m thinking. ’ ’

•He turned rather a cunning eye upon her.

“Perhaps,” said Jessamine; then she added hastily: “And are you able to work upon the land yourself still, Mr Macgillvray ” “Oh ay! I can plant and hoe and lift potaties myself verra wcel. But Colin, he will bo rare at the working, mem.”

He looked sideways at Jessamine, a cunning thought visibly changing his features, and he nodded his head more than once.

“Indeed,” said Jessamine. Tho old man approached again with

“Yes,” said Jessamine. “And I’ll tell ye ae itlier thing. My Colin’s aye very tender in his feelings. ■Gude bless ye! I was myself when 1 was young. But a mon wears a bit better when lie will be eighty year. My Colin ho will be tender. And a lassie will just be saying ‘snap’ to his ‘snip.’ A lassie will if she was skeelfu’. And my Colin he will stick.” Having delivered himself of these predicates, old Rorie drew a deep breath and gazed down at the “lassie” before him.

“I am rested now,” said Jessamine, whoso eyes perused tho ground, “and I think the rain has stopped. I will go now, and I thank you very much.” Rorie disentangled his mind with difficulty from its preoccupation, and with, a very dignified air opened the door to let Jessamine pass. As she did so she glanced up the staircase, which disappeared into some nondescript region above.

“That is your bedroom up there, I suppose?” said she. ‘‘ Oh na! That will just be a make o ’ loft. Me and my auld wife we sleep in the kitchen —just for comfort, ye sec. But,” he added cunningly, “I’m not for saying that Colin wouldn’t knock up a bit room upstairs for the lass and the bairnies when they come.” “When Colin is married, you and Mrs Macgillvray will remain here, then?”

“Oh ay!” returned old Rorie with tho tranquillity of full assurance; “he wouldn’t be turning on his old father and mother whatever.”

(To be Continued.)

his terrifying air of confidence. Jessamine’s little start backwards did not discourage him. He came and laid a patronising hand upon her shoulder.

“Ay, Colin will be an awful clever lad! When he was a bit bairn, and a

charge was laid upon him, he was aye on the alert. Oh yes! he will just go straight on, and ye won’t be stopping him. He will have the farm when I’m gone, mem. And Colin will be a great match, mem —a solid man with money in the bank. Ay, ay, I was a saving mon in my day! And Colin's bonnie, mem—bonnie! ” Still with his hand on her shoulder, he looked into her face, grinning confidentially. “ Yes,” murmured Jessamine faintly. “The lassies was ever running after Colin!”

He gave her shoulder a pat as he spoke, and then drew back, and expanded himself into the joviality of reminiscence. “I was a great mon for lassies when I was young. But that will be a great while ago, mem.” ‘ ‘ Yes, ” “Eighty years, Ihn thinking, ormore. But I was ever for lassies. And Colin will be his father’s own son —- favours me, mem, in his features. But he will be quieter.” “Yes.”

“Lassies will be ever running after him, though. They will know a bonnie lad when they will see one. I was saying to Colin: ‘Colin,’ I was saying, ‘ye’ll be choosing a lass one o’ these days. ’ ’ ’ Old Eorie chuckled. “Yes.” “And Colin was just laughing.” Old Eorie bent himself together in a quite inexplicable ecstasy. “ Yes,” said J essamine. “I’m saying to him sometimes: ‘Colin,’ I am saying, ‘you will be choosing a lassie and bringing her home.’ ” Again he approached Jessamine, and, laying the tips of his lingers upon her shoulder, stood .leaning back and chuckling with a lively mirth. She gazed at him with fascinated intensity; tracing, through his dirt and grotesque manners, the curious faint remains of Colin’s ‘ ‘ bonniness ’ ’ and grandeur in typo of which he had claimed the parentage. Suddenly he withdrew his hand, and crumpled up liis smiling features into a shrewder look. “Ye see,” said lie, “we will be wanting a lassie about the bit lioosie now. The auld wife she’s ageing fast, and we would bo glad—verra glad—of a thumping lassie to scrub round and gather and hoo a bit. But my Colin, he’s slaw, I tell ye; slaw and canny my Colin will be. ’ ’

He shook his head with affected

gravity and great concern. ■ “Ay, my Colin’s slaw. But I’ll just be telling ye. ae thing. And I’d no bo telling it to every lassie. My Colin will stick. A lassie will just be dealing skeelfu’ with my Colin, and he’ll stick. Slaw he may be; but he ever was for sticking since he was young.”

He surveyed her to see the effect of

“No. I will go now, Mr Macgillvray. Thank you, and good-bye.” “'.Good-morning to ye, mem,” said the old peasant, standing on the threshold, and involuntarily saluting the high breeding in Jessamine. “I am most pleased to be seeing ye, and we will be verra pleased if we was seeing yo again,”