*CHAPTER XLVII*
*THE END; AND A BEGINNING*
A year has passed, and once again it is the month of May. My littleflower of the heather, transported from the hill-sides of Galloway andset in the kindlier atmosphere of this southern clime, has blossomedinto a flower of rare beauty. She has not a peer among the ladies ofWarwick, and that is saying much.
Sometimes, as we sit together on the green lawn that slopes down to thequiet Avon, and think of all the things that befell in the days that aredead, we wonder if they were all a dream. Yet in spite of what shesuffered among them, Mary sometimes whispers to me that her heart issick for the grey hills of Galloway, for the sting of the wind on hercheeks, for the cry of the whaup in her ears; and I find it hard tocomfort her. But I think she will never again be sick at heart for thehills of heather, for a new joy has come into her life and mine. A weekago the wonder happened.
When, in the early dawn, the good nurse brought me the news as I pacedin a fever up and down my study floor, I was all ardent, as any manwould be, to see my Mary and her child on the instant. But the nursebade me curb my impatience, telling me that Mary was asleep. So I mademy way out to the lawn, and, leaning on the retaining wall, gazed downupon the Avon. Early roses wet with dew were pouring their incense intothe still air, and I plucked me a handful for Mary. As I stood by thewall with the flowers in my hand I chanced to look up the river towardsthe bridge, and on it I saw a man upon whose shoulders was a pack.Lighting my pipe, I sat down upon the garden seat with the heap of rosesbeside me. As I sat there I heard a little voice that I had never heardbefore. Through the open window, my child was joining its little cry tothat of a jubilant bird, and my heart was glad within me and the wholesun-kissed earth was ringing with melody. O Mary mine!
The sound of footsteps upon the carriage-drive made me turn, and Isaw--Hector.
I rushed to him with hands outstretched. "Hector!" I cried, and shookhim warmly by the hand.
"Ay, it's me richt eneuch. I got your letter. Ye were wise to write inLatin--but, man, your construction's awfu'--gey near damnable. Yeshould mak' mair use o' the ablative absolute. I was pleased tae hearfrae ye, though, and things being mair settled up yonder I juist thochtI'd tak' a daunner into England to pit you richt on ane or twa points o'syntax. An' hoo's your good lady?"
"Mary is splendid," I said. "She has just this morning given birth to adaughter."
"My best respects to her and my felicitations upon this great event; butI'm sorry--I'll juist tak' the road again and gang awa' hame. I couldnaha'e come at a waur time."
"My dear Hector, what do you mean? Mary would never forgive me if I letyou go." And, dropping into the language which I knew he loved, Islipped my arm through his and said, "Come awa' intae the hoose."
To-night I have been penning the final pages of this my book, withHector sitting at his ease in a leathern chair reading a volume from thewell-stocked shelves of the study. And I--because my hand was weary, orbecause my heart was aching for a sight of Mary--stole up to her room amoment since. She was lying in the great carved oaken bed, with thelight from the candles in their silver sconces falling upon her dearface and the glory of her hair as it lay outspread on thelavender-scented pillow. I bent over her, and slipping an arm under hershoulders kissed her, and she pushed down the white coverlet with herpretty hand to let me peep at our daughter lying asleep in the fold ofher arm.
"Isn't she bonnie?" she whispered. "I think we'll ca' her Jean."
"Flower o' the heather and little heather-bell," I said, and gatheredthem both in my arms.
* * * * * * * *
_*BY THE SAME AUTHOR*_
*THE ADVENTURE OF DEATH*
An uplifting and strengthening book, free from gloom, and written withliterary charm. _Fifth Impression_
*THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE*
"Eloquent and popular talks, such as have been commended to many rendersby Dr. Mackenna's 'Adventure of Death.'"--_The Times. SecondImpression_
*BRACKEN AND THISTLEDOWN*
"A work of singular charm, gracious in the spirit pervading it, pawky inits humour, and bright and keen in its delineation of character. Thebook should make a very wide appeal."--_Liverpool Post. ThirdImpression_
*THROUGH FLOOD AND FIRE*
"Mr. Mackenna is a true son of Scott and (dare it be said?) much morelikely to appeal to the younger generation than the master. He has thepower of vivid story-telling, a remarkable gift for atmosphere and hispeople are real human stuff."--_Daily Chronicle_
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Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times Page 47