by John Buchan
CHAPTER VI
HOW MR. McCUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION
At seven o'clock on the following morning the post-cart, summoned by anearly message from Mrs. Morran, appeared outside the cottage. In it satthe ancient postman, whose real home was Auchenlochan, but who sleptalternate nights in Dalquharter, and beside him Dobson the innkeeper.Dickson and his hostess stood at the garden-gate, the former with hispack on his back and at his feet a small stout wooden box, of the kindin which cheeses are transported, garnished with an immense padlock.Heritage for obvious reasons did not appear; at the moment he wascrouched on the floor of the loft watching the departure through a gapin the dimity curtains.
The traveller, after making sure that Dobson was looking, furtivelyslipped the key of the trunk into his knapsack.
"Well, good-bye, Auntie Phemie," he said. "I'm sure you've been awfulkind to me, and I don't know how to thank you for all you're sending."
"Tuts, Dickson, my man, they're hungry folk about Glesca that'll be glado' my scones and jeelie. Tell Mirren I'm rale pleased wi' her man andhaste ye back soon."
The trunk was deposited on the floor of the cart and Dickson clamberedinto the back seat. He was thankful that he had not to sit next toDobson, for he had tell-tale stuff on his person. The morning was wet,so he wore his waterproof, which concealed his odd tendency to stoutnessabout the middle.
Mrs. Morran played her part well, with all the becoming gravity of anaffectionate aunt, but so soon as the post-cart turned the bend of theroad her demeanour changed. She was torn with convulsions of silentlaughter. She retreated to the kitchen, sank into a chair, wrapped herface in her apron and rocked. Heritage, descending, found her strugglingto regain composure. "D'ye ken his wife's name?" she gasped. "I ca'edher Mirren! And maybe the body's no mairried! Hech sirs! Hech sirs!"
Meantime Dickson was bumping along the moor-road on the back of thepost-cart. He had worked out a plan, just as he had been used aforetimeto devise a deal in foodstuffs. He had expected one of the watchers toturn up, and was rather relieved that it should be Dobson, whom heregarded as "the most natural beast" of the three. Somehow he did notthink that he would be molested before he reached the station, since hisenemies would still be undecided in their minds. Probably they onlywanted to make sure that he had really departed to forget all about him.But if not, he had his plan ready.
"Are you travelling to-day?" he asked the innkeeper.
"Just as far as the station to see about some oil-cake I'm expectin'.What's in your wee kist? Ye came here wi' nothing but the bag on yourback."
"Ay, the kist is no' mine. It's my auntie's. She's a kind body, andnothing would serve but she must pack a box for me to take back. Let mesee. There's a baking of scones; three pots of honey and one of rhubarbjam--she was aye famous for her rhubarb jam; a mutton ham, which youcan't get for love or money in Glasgow; some home-made black puddingsand a wee skim-milk cheese. I doubt I'll have to take a cab from thestation."
Dobson appeared satisfied, lit a short pipe and relapsed intomeditation. The long uphill road, ever climbing to where far off showedthe tiny whitewashed buildings which were the railway station, seemedinterminable this morning. The aged postman addressed strangeobjurgations to his aged horse and muttered reflections to himself, theinnkeeper smoked, and Dickson stared back into the misty hollow wherelay Dalquharter. The south-west wind had brought up a screen of rainclouds and washed all the countryside in a soft wet grey. But the eyecould still travel a fair distance, and Dickson thought he had a glimpseof a figure on a bicycle leaving the village two miles back. He wonderedwho it could be. Not Heritage, who had no bicycle. Perhaps some womanwho was conspicuously late for the train. Women were the chief cyclistsnowadays in country places.
Then he forgot about the bicycle and twisted his neck to watch thestation. It was less than a mile off now, and they had no time tospare, for away to the south among the hummocks of the bog he saw thesmoke of the train coming from Auchenlochan. The postman also saw it andwhipped up his beast into a clumsy canter. Dickson, always nervous aboutbeing late for trains, forced his eyes away and regarded again the roadbehind them. Suddenly the cyclist had become quite plain--a little morethan a mile behind--a man, and pedalling furiously in spite of the stiffascent.... It could only be one person--Leon. He must have discoveredtheir visit to the House yesterday and be on the way to warn Dobson. Ifhe reached the station before the train, there would be no journey toGlasgow that day for one respectable citizen.
Dickson was in a fever of impatience and fright. He dared not abjure thepostman to hurry, lest Dobson should turn his head and descry hiscolleague. But that ancient man had begun to realise the shortness oftime and was urging the cart along at a fair pace, since they were nowon the flatter shelf of land which carried the railway. Dickson kept hiseyes fixed on the bicycle and his teeth shut tight on his lower lip. Nowit was hidden by the last dip of hill; now it emerged into view not aquarter of a mile behind, and its rider gave vent to a shrill call.Luckily the innkeeper did not hear, for at that moment with a jolt thecart pulled up at the station door, accompanied by the roar of theincoming train.
Dickson whipped down from the back seat and seized the solitary porter."Label the box for Glasgow and into the van with it. Quick, man, andthere'll be a shilling for you." He had been doing some rapid thinkingthese last minutes and had made up his mind. If Dobson and he were alonein a carriage he could not have the box there; that must be elsewhere,so that Dobson could not examine it if he were set on violence,somewhere in which it could still be a focus of suspicion and attractattention from his person. He took his ticket, and rushed on to theplatform, to find the porter and the box at the door of the guard's van.Dobson was not there. With the vigour of a fussy traveller he shouteddirections to the guard to take good care of his luggage, hurled ashilling at the porter and ran for a carriage. At that moment he becameaware of Dobson hurrying through the entrance. He must have met Leon andheard news from him, for his face was red and his ugly brows darkening.
The train was in motion. "Here, you!" Dobson's voice shouted. "Stop! Iwant a word wi' ye." Dickson plunged at a third-class carriage, for hesaw faces behind the misty panes, and above all things then he feared anempty compartment. He clambered on to the step, but the handle would notturn, and with a sharp pang of fear he felt the innkeeper's grip on hisarm. Then some Samaritan from within let down the window, opened thedoor and pulled him up. He fell on a seat and a second later Dobsonstaggered in beside him.
Thank Heaven, the dirty little carriage was nearly full. There were twoherds, each with a dog and a long hazel crook, and an elderly woman wholooked like a ploughman's wife out for a day's marketing. And there wasone other whom Dickson recognised with a peculiar joy--the bagman in theprovision line of business whom he had met three days before atKilchrist.
The recognition was mutual. "Mr. McCunn!" the bagman exclaimed. "My, butthat was running it fine! I hope you've had a pleasant holiday, sir?"
"Very pleasant. I've been spending two nights with friends downhereaways. I've been very fortunate in the weather, for it has brokejust when I'm leaving."
Dickson sank back on the hard cushions. It had been a near thing, but sofar he had won. He wished his heart did not beat so fast, and he hopedhe did not betray his disorder in his face. Very deliberately he huntedfor his pipe and filled it slowly. Then he turned to Dobson. "I didn'tknow you were travelling the day. What about your oil-cake?"
"I've changed my mind," was the gruff answer.
"Was that you I heard crying on me, when we were running for the train?"
"Ay. I thought ye had forgot about your kist."
"No fear," said Dickson. "I'm no' likely to forget my auntie's scones."
He laughed pleasantly and then turned to the bagman. Thereafter thecompartment hummed with the technicalities of the grocery trade. Heexerted himself to draw out his companion, to have him refer to thegreat firm of D. McCunn, so that the innkeeper might be ashamed of hissuspic
ions. What nonsense to imagine that a noted and wealthy Glasgowmerchant--the bagman's tone was almost reverential--would concernhimself with the affairs of a forgotten village and a tumbledown house!
Presently the train drew up at Kirkmichael station. The woman descended,and Dobson, after making sure that no one else meant to follow herexample, also left the carriage. A porter was shouting: "Fast train toGlasgow--Glasgow next stop." Dickson watched the innkeeper shoulder hisway through the crowd in the direction of the booking office. "He's offto send a telegram," he decided. "There'll be trouble waiting for me atthe other end."
When the train moved on he found himself disinclined for further talk.He had suddenly become meditative, and curled up in a corner with hishead hard against the window pane, watching the wet fields andglistening roads as they slipped past. He had his plans made for hisconduct at Glasgow, but Lord! how he loathed the whole business! Lastnight he had had a kind of gusto in his desire to circumvent villainy;at Dalquharter station he had enjoyed a momentary sense of triumph; nowhe felt very small, lonely and forlorn. Only one thought far at the backof his mind cropped up now and then to give him comfort. He was enteringon the last lap. Once get this detestable errand done and he would be afree man, free to go back to the kindly humdrum life from which heshould never have strayed. Never again, he vowed, never again. Ratherwould he spend the rest of his days in hydropathics than come withinthe pale of such horrible adventures. Romance, forsooth! This was notthe mild goddess he had sought, but an awful harpy who battened on thesouls of men.
He had some bad minutes as the train passed through the suburbs, andalong the grimy embankment by which the southern lines enter the city.But as it rumbled over the river bridge and slowed down before theterminus, his vitality suddenly revived. He was a business man, andthere was now something for him to do.
After a rapid farewell to the bagman, he found a porter and hustled hisbox out of the van in the direction of the left-luggage office. Spies,summoned by Dobson's telegram, were, he was convinced, watching hisevery movement, and he meant to see that they missed nothing. Hereceived his ticket for the box, and slowly and ostentatiously stowed itaway in his pack. Swinging the said pack on his arm he sauntered throughthe entrance hall to the row of waiting taxi-cabs, and selected that onewhich seemed to him to have the oldest and most doddering driver. Hedeposited the pack inside on the seat, and then stood still as if struckwith a sudden thought.
"I breakfasted terrible early," he told the driver. "I think I'll have abite to eat. Will you wait?"
"Ay," said the man, who was reading a grubby sheet of newspaper. "I'llwait as long as ye like, for it's you that pays."
Dickson left his pack in the cab and, oddly enough for a careful man, hedid not shut the door. He re-entered the station, strolled to thebookstall and bought a _Glasgow Herald_. His steps then tended to therefreshment room, where he ordered a cup of coffee and two Bath buns,and seated himself at a small table. There he was soon immersed in thefinancial news, and though he sipped his coffee he left the bunsuntasted. He took out a penknife and cut various extracts from the_Herald_, bestowing them carefully in his pocket. An observer would haveseen an elderly gentleman absorbed in market quotations.
After a quarter of an hour had been spent in this performance hehappened to glance at the clock and rose with an exclamation. He bustledout to his taxi and found the driver still intent upon his reading."Here I am at last," he said cheerily, and had a foot on the step, whenhe stopped suddenly with a cry. It was a cry of alarm, but also ofsatisfaction.
"What's become of my pack? I left it on the seat, and now it's gone!There's been a thief here."
The driver, roused from his lethargy, protested in the name of his godsthat no one had been near it. "Ye took it into the station wi' ye," heurged.
"I did nothing of the kind. Just you wait here till I see the inspector.A bonny watch _you_ keep on a gentleman's things."
But Dickson did not interview the railway authorities. Instead hehurried to the left-luggage office. "I deposited a small box here ashort time ago. I mind the number. Is it there still?"
The attendant glanced at a shelf. "A wee deal box with iron bands. Itwas took out ten minutes syne. A man brought the ticket and took it awayon his shoulder."
"Thank you. There's been a mistake, but the blame's mine. My man mistookmy orders."
Then he returned to the now nervous taxi-driver. "I've taken it up withthe station-master and he's putting the police on. You'll likely bewanted, so I gave him your number. It's a fair disgrace that thereshould be so many thieves about this station. It's not the first timeI've lost things. Drive me to West George Street and look sharp." And heslammed the door with the violence of an angry man.
But his reflections were not violent, for he smiled to himself. "Thatwas pretty neat. They'll take some time to get the kist open, for Idropped the key out of the train after we left Kirkmichael. That givesme a fair start. If I hadn't thought of that, they'd have found some wayto grip me and ripe me long before I got to the Bank." He shuddered ashe thought of the dangers he had escaped. "As it is, they're off thetrack for half an hour at least, while they're rummaging among AuntiePhemie's scones." At the thought he laughed heartily, and when hebrought the taxi-cab to a standstill by rapping on the front window, heleft it with a temper apparently restored. Obviously he had no grudgeagainst the driver, who to his immense surprise was rewarded with tenshillings.
Three minutes later Mr. McCunn might have been seen entering the headoffice of the Strathclyde Bank, and inquiring for the manager. Therewas no hesitation about him now, for his foot was on his native heath.The chief cashier received him with deference, in spite of hisunorthodox garb, for he was not the least honoured of the bank'scustomers. As it chanced he had been talking about him that very morningto a gentleman from London. "The strength of this city," he had said,tapping his eyeglasses on his knuckles, "does not lie in its dozen veryrich men, but in the hundred or two homely folk who make no parade ofwealth. Men like Dickson McCunn, for example, who live all their life ina semi-detached villa and die worth half a million." And the Londonerhad cordially assented.
So Dickson was ushered promptly into an inner room, and was warmlygreeted by Mr. Mackintosh, the patron of the Gorbals Die-Hards.
"I must thank you for your generous donation, McCunn. Those boys willget a little fresh air and quiet after the smoke and din of Glasgow. Alittle country peace to smooth out the creases in their poor littlesouls."
"Maybe," said Dickson, with a vivid recollection of Dougal as he hadlast seen him. Somehow he did not think that peace was likely to be theportion of that devoted band. "But I've not come here to speak aboutthat."
He took off his waterproof; then his coat and waistcoat; and showedhimself a strange figure with sundry bulges about the middle. Themanager's eyes grew very round. Presently these excrescences wererevealed as linen bags sewn on to his shirt, and fitting into the hollowbetween ribs and hip. With some difficulty he slit the bags andextracted three hide-bound packages.
"See here, Mackintosh," he said solemnly. "I hand you over theseparcels, and you're to put them in the innermost corner of your strongroom. You needn't open them. Just put them away as they are, and writeme a receipt for them. Write it now."
Mr. Mackintosh obediently took pen in hand.
"What'll I call them?" he asked.
"Just the three leather parcels handed to you by Dickson McCunn, Esq.,naming the date."
Mr. Mackintosh wrote. He signed his name with his usual flourish andhanded the slip to his client.
"Now," said Dickson, "you'll put that receipt in the strong box whereyou keep my securities, and you'll give it up to nobody but me inperson, and you'll surrender the parcels only on presentation of thereceipt. D'you understand?"
"Perfectly. May I ask any questions?"
"You'd better not if you don't want to hear lees."
"What's in the packages?" Mr. Mackintosh weighed them in his hand.
"That's asking," said
Dickson. "But I'll tell ye this much. It's jools."
"Your own?"
"No, but I'm their trustee."
"Valuable?"
"I was hearing they were worth more than a million pounds."
"God bless my soul," said the startled manager. "I don't like this kindof business, McCunn."
"No more do I. But you'll do it to oblige an old friend and a goodcustomer. If you don't know much about the packages you know all aboutme. Now, mind, I trust you."
Mr. Mackintosh forced himself to a joke. "Did you maybe steal them?"
Dickson grinned. "Just what I did. And that being so, I want you to letme out by the back door."
When he found himself in the street he felt the huge relief of a boy whohad emerged with credit from the dentist's chair. Remembering that therewould be no midday dinner for him at home, his first step was to feedheavily at a restaurant. He had, so far as he could see, surmounted allhis troubles, his one regret being that he had lost his pack, whichcontained among other things his _Izaak Walton_ and his safety razor. Hebought another razor and a new Walton, and mounted an electric tram-car_en route_ for home.
Very contented with himself he felt as the car swung across the Clydebridge. He had done well--but of that he did not want to think, for thewhole beastly thing was over. He was going to bury that memory, to beresurrected perhaps on a later day when the unpleasantness had beenforgotten. Heritage had his address, and knew where to come when it wastime to claim the jewels. As for the watchers, they must have ceased tosuspect him, when they discovered the innocent contents of his knapsackand Mrs. Morran's box. Home for him, and a luxurious tea by his ownfireside; and then an evening with his books, for Heritage's nonsensehad stimulated his literary fervour. He would dip into his oldfavourites again to confirm his faith. To-morrow he would go for a jauntsomewhere--perhaps down the Clyde, or to the South of England, which hehad heard was a pleasant, thickly peopled country. No more lonely innsand deserted villages for him; henceforth he would make certain ofcomfort and peace.
The rain had stopped, and, as the car moved down the dreary vista ofEglinton Street, the sky opened into fields of blue and the April sunsilvered the puddles. It was in such place and under such weather thatDickson suffered an overwhelming experience.
It is beyond my skill, being all unlearned in the game ofpsycho-analysis, to explain how this thing happened. I concern myselfonly with facts. Suddenly the pretty veil of self-satisfaction was rentfrom top to bottom, and Dickson saw a figure of himself within, a smugleaden little figure which simpered and preened itself and was hollow asa rotten nut. And he hated it.
The horrid truth burst on him that Heritage had been right. He onlyplayed with life. That imbecile image was a mere spectator, content toapplaud, but shrinking from the contact of reality. It had been allright as a provision merchant, but when it fancied itself capable ofhigher things it had deceived itself. Foolish little image with itsbrave dreams and its swelling words from Browning! All make-believe ofthe feeblest. He was a coward, running away at the first threat ofdanger. It was as if he were watching a tall stranger with a wandpointing to the embarrassed phantom that was himself, and ruthlesslyexposing its frailties! And yet the pitiless showman was himselftoo--himself as he wanted to be, cheerful, brave, resourceful,indomitable.
Dickson suffered a spasm of mortal agony. "Oh, I'm surely not so bad asall that," he groaned. But the hurt was not only in his pride. He sawhimself being forced to new decisions, and each alternative was of theblackest. He fairly shivered with the horror of it. The car slipped pasta suburban station from which passengers were emerging--comfortableblack-coated men such as he had once been. He was bitterly angry withProvidence for picking him out of the great crowd of sedentary folk forthis sore ordeal. "Why was I tethered to sich a conscience?" was hismoan. But there was that stern inquisitor with his pointer exploring hissoul. "You flatter yourself you have done your share," he was saying."You will make pretty stories about it to yourself, and some day you maytell your friends, modestly disclaiming any special credit. But you willbe a liar, for you know you are afraid. You are running away when thework is scarcely begun, and leaving it to a few boys and a poet whom youhad the impudence the other day to despise. I think you are worse than acoward. I think you are a cad."
His fellow-passengers on the top of the car saw an absorbed middle-agedgentleman who seemed to have something the matter with his bronchialtubes. They could not guess at the tortured soul. The decision wascoming nearer, the alternatives loomed up dark and inevitable. On oneside was submission to ignominy, on the other a return to that place,which he detested, and yet loathed himself for detesting. "It seems I'mnot likely to have much peace either way," he reflected dismally.
How the conflict would have ended had it continued on these lines Icannot say. The soul of Mr. McCunn was being assailed by moral andmetaphysical adversaries with which he had not been trained to deal. Butsuddenly it leapt from negatives to positives. He saw the face of thegirl in the shuttered House, so fair and young and yet so haggard. Itseemed to be appealing to him to rescue it from a great loneliness andfear. Yes, he had been right, it had a strange look of his Janet--thewide-open eyes, the solemn mouth. What was to become of that child if hefailed her in her great need?
Now Dickson was a practical man and this view of the case brought himinto a world which he understood. "It's fair ridiculous," he reflected."Nobody there to take a grip of things. Just a wheen Gorbals keelies andthe lad Heritage. Not a business man among the lot."
The alternatives, which hove before him like two great banks of cloud,were altering their appearance. One was becoming faint and tenuous; theother, solid as ever, was just a shade less black. He lifted his eyesand saw in the near distance the corner of the road which led to hishome. "I must decide before I reach that corner," he told himself.
Then his mind became apathetic. He began to whistle dismally through histeeth, watching the corner as it came nearer. The car stopped with ajerk. "I'll go back," he said aloud, clambering down the steps. Thetruth was he had decided five minutes before when he first saw Janet'sface.
He walked briskly to his house, entirely refusing to waste any moreenergy on reflection. "This is a business proposition," he told himself,"and I'm going to handle it as sich." Tibby was surprised to see him andoffered him tea in vain. "I'm just back for a few minutes. Let's see theletters."
There was one from his wife. She proposed to stay another week at theNeuk Hydropathic and suggested that he might join her and bring herhome. He sat down and wrote a long affectionate reply, declining, butexpressing his delight that she was soon returning. "That's very likelythe last time Mamma will hear from me," he reflected, but--oddlyenough--without any great fluttering of the heart.
Then he proceeded to be furiously busy. He sent out Tibby to buy anotherknapsack and to order a cab and to cash a considerable cheque. In theknapsack he packed a fresh change of clothing and the new safety razor,but no books, for he was past the need of them. That done, he drove tohis solicitors.
"What like a firm are Glendonan and Speirs in Edinburgh?" he asked thesenior partner.
"Oh, very respectable. Very respectable indeed. Regular Edinburgh W.S.lot. Do a lot of factoring."
"I want you to telephone through to them and inquire about a place inCarrick called Huntingtower, near the village of Dalquharter. Iunderstand it's to let, and I'm thinking of taking a lease of it."
The senior partner after some delay got through to Edinburgh, and waspresently engaged in the feverish dialectic which the long-distancetelephone involves. "I want to speak to Mr. Glendonan himself.... Yes,yes, Mr. Caw of Paton and Linklater.... Good afternoon.... Huntingtower.Yes, in Carrick. Not to let? But I understand it's been in the marketfor some months. You say you've an idea it has just been let. But myclient is positive that you're mistaken, unless the agreement was madethis morning.... You'll inquire? Oh, I see. The actual factoring is doneby your local agent. Mr. James Loudon, in Auchenlochan. You think myclient had bet
ter get into touch with him at once. Just wait a minute,please."
He put his hand over the receiver. "Usual Edinburgh way of doingbusiness," he observed caustically. "What do you want done?"
"I'll run down and see this Loudon. Tell Glendonan and Speirs to advisehim to expect me, for I'll go this very day."
Mr. Caw resumed his conversation. "My client would like a telegram sentat once to Mr. Loudon introducing him. He's Mr. Dickson McCunn of MearnsStreet--the great provision merchant, you know. Oh, yes! Good for anyrent. Refer if you like to the Strathclyde Bank, but you can take myword for it. Thank you. Then that's settled. Good-bye."
Dickson's next visit was to a gunmaker who was a fellow-elder with himin the Guthrie Memorial Kirk.
"I want a pistol and a lot of cartridges," he announced. "I'm not caringwhat kind it is, so long as it is a good one and not too big."
"For yourself?" the gunmaker asked. "You must have a licence, I doubt,and there's a lot of new regulations."
"I can't wait on a licence. It's for a cousin of mine who's off toMexico at once. You've got to find some way of obliging an old friend,Mr. McNair."
Mr. McNair scratched his head. "I don't see how I can sell you one. ButI'll tell you what I'll do--I'll lend you one. It belongs to my nephew,Peter Tait, and has been lying in a drawer ever since he came back fromthe front. He has no use for it now that he's a placed minister."
So Dickson bestowed in the pockets of his waterproof a service revolverand fifty cartridges, and bade his cab take him to the shop in MearnsStreet. For a moment the sight of the familiar place struck a pang tohis breast, but he choked down unavailing regrets. He ordered a greathamper of foodstuffs--the most delicate kind of tinned goods, twoperfect hams, tongues, Strassburg pies, chocolate, cakes, biscuits and,as a last thought, half a dozen bottles of old liqueur brandy. It was tobe carefully packed, addressed to Mrs. Morran, Dalquharter Station, anddelivered in time for him to take down by the 7.33 train. Then he droveto the terminus and dined with something like a desperate peace in hisheart.
On this occasion he took a first-class ticket, for he wanted to bealone. As the lights began to be lit in the wayside stations and theclear April dusk darkened into night, his thoughts were sombre yetresigned. He opened the window and let the sharp air of the Renfrewshireuplands fill the carriage. It was fine weather again after the rain, anda bright constellation--perhaps Dougal's friend O'Brien--hung in thewestern sky. How happy he would have been a week ago had he beenstarting thus for a country holiday! He could sniff the faint scent ofmoor-burn and ploughed earth which had always been his first reminder ofspring. But he had been pitchforked out of that old happy world andcould never enter it again. Alas! for the roadside fire, the cosy inn,the _Compleat Angler_, the Chavender or Chub!
And yet--and yet! He had done the right thing, though the Lord aloneknew how it would end. He began to pluck courage from his verymelancholy and hope from his reflections upon the transitoriness oflife. He was austerely following Romance as he conceived it, and if thatcapricious lady had taken one dream from him she might yet reward himwith a better. Tags of poetry came into his head which seemed to favourthis philosophy--particularly some lines of Browning on which he used todiscourse to his Kirk Literary Society. Uncommon silly, he considered,these homilies of his must have been, mere twitterings of the unfledged.But now he saw more in the lines, a deeper interpretation which he hadearned the right to make.
"Oh, world, where all things change and nought abides, Oh, life, the long mutation--is it so? Is it with life as with the body's change?-- Where, e'en tho' better follow, good must pass."
That was as far as he could get, though he cudgelled his memory tocontinue. Moralising thus, he became drowsy, and was almost asleep whenthe train drew up at the station of Kirkmichael.
