Geordie's Tryst by Janet Milne Rae Page 1 of 75
It was a chilly Scotch spring day. The afternoon sun glistened with fitful, feeble rays on the windows of the old house of Kirklands, and unpleasant little gusts of east wind came eddying round its ancient gables, and sweeping along its broad walks and shrubberies, sending a chill to the hearts of all the young green things that were struggling into life.
On the time-worn steps of the grey mansion there stood a girl, cloaked and bonneted for a walk, notwithstanding the uninviting weather.
"It's a fule's errand, I assure ye, Miss Grace, and on such an afternoon, too. I've been askin' at old Adam the gardener, and he says there isna one o' the kind left worth mindin' in all the valley o' Kirklands. So do not go wanderin' on such an errand in this bitter wind, missy."
The speaker was an old woman, standing in the doorway, glancing with an expression of kindly anxiety towards the girl, who leant on one of the carved griffins of the old stone railing.
Grace had been looking at the speaker with troubled eyes as she listened to her remonstrance, and now she said, meditatively, "Does old Adam really say so, Margery?" Then with a quick gesture she turned to go down the steps, adding cheerily, "Well, there's no harm in trying, and as for the wind, that doesn't matter a bit.
It's what Walter would call a nice breezy day. I'm really going, nursie. Shut the door, and keep your old self warm. I shall be home again by the time aunt has finished her afternoon's sleep." And Grace turned quickly away, not in the direction of the sheltered elm avenue, but across the park, by the path which led most quickly beyond the grounds.