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Updated: June 28, 2025
"It's no' so respectable, an' syne ma mither'd gie me anither lickin', an' they'd gie me twa more awfu' aces, an' black marks for a month, at Heriot's." Word had been left at all the inns and carting offices about both markets for the tenant of Cauldbrae farm to call at Mr. Traill's place for Bobby. The man appeared Wednesday afternoon, driving a big Clydesdale horse to a stout farm cart.
Very early the next morning he was standing before the door of Mr. Traill's place, in the fitful sunshine of clearing skies, when the landlord appeared to begin the business of the day. "Are ye Maister John Traill?" "Havers, Davie! What ails you, man? You know my name as weel as you know your ain." "It's juist a formality o' the law to mak' ye admit yer identity. Here's a bit paper for ye."
It was not so much because she had heard he was in love, that she realized it; that even then her faith, in its ashes, repudiated. But when Devenish had said alluding to the faintest chance of his return "I shouldn't be here, I assure you, if there were," she had been made conscious of Traill's tacit permission unspoken no doubt to Devenish which had prompted his visit to her rooms.
No one was in the little anteroom to the editorial offices beside a young clerk, but at sight of a red-headed, freckle-faced Heriot laddie of Bobby's puppyhood days Mr. Traill's spirits rose. "A gude day to you, Sandy McGregor; and whaur's your auld twin conspirator, Geordie Ross?" "He's a student in the Medical College, Mr. Traill.
But what were tears? They were better than nothing; better than the hollowness of such an end as the writing of a letter would bring. With half-formed decision, she turned up Haymarket instead of crossing towards Trafalgar Square and so, slowly, by indecisive steps, she found herself, some ten minutes later, once more knocking gently upon Traill's door.
Devenish thought of all the things that Traill's sister had said to him; he thought of the many others, far more potent, that she had left unsaid in the silent parenthesis of insinuation. "She said how pretty she thought you were," he replied. Had he thought that would please her? Scarcely.
Firelight danced on the dark old wainscoting and high, carved overmantel, winked on rows of drinking mugs and metal covers over cold meats on the buffet, and even picked out the gilt titles on the backs of a shelf of books in Mr. Traill's private corner behind the bar. Bobby shook himself on the hearth to free his rain-coat of surplus water.
The farmer was back in ten minutes, with a canny face that defied reading. He lighted his short Dublin pipe and smoked it out before he spoke again. "It's ower grand for a puir auld shepherd body to be buried i' Greyfriars." "No' so grand as heaven, I'm thinking." Mr. Traill's response was dry.
We shall be all alone if you don't." Sally's face rose in Traill's mind. If he went, this would be the first evening, except for those engagements which his profession demanded, on which he would have left her to dine at a restaurant by herself. But was he bound? Not in the least! The consideration that it might even seem to an outsider, decided him. "Yes, I'll come," he said. "What time dinner?"
Gang doon to the Coogate noo, an' find Auld Jock." Uttering no cry at all, Bobby gave the man such a woebegone look and dropped to the pavement, with his long muzzle as far under the wicket as he could thrust it, that the truth shot home to Mr. Traill's understanding. He opened the gate.
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