The sleet had ended. Looking up in the lift Chris saw it lighten and the cumuli clear, a stiff wind blowing the New Year’s Day into the eyes of Duncairn below, wakening down there and about her, wakening while she stood here frozen like—oh, like a corpse, like Ma up there in the blinded room, if Ma was there, no day for her, just the dark, no snow, sun never again or shadow or cold.

Long ago Robert would have been able to put in fine words the things that you felt—or could even Robert? Could he have put in words both your pity and desire to laugh— laughter because death was so funny and foolish?

… And whatever next—oh, whatever next?

And then, as always at breaking point, she felt cool and kind and unworried no longer, brisk and competent, unwearied, she whistled a little as the sleet went by.

No worry could last beyond the last point, there was nothing awaiting her but her life, New Year and Life that would gang as it would, greeting or laughing, unheeding her fears.

And she went up the steps to death and life.

THREE

Apatite

COMING DOWN THE steps of Windmill Brae in the blaze of the late May afternoon Chris paused at the mirror, dust-sprinkled in summer’s beginning, and looked at her blithe self with a cool curiosity. If finery made fine birds, she thought, she’d peacocks beaten to the likeness of sparrows, new hat and dress, new shoes, new gloves, new-bathed—oh, new to her skin at least!

And, so she supposed, behind this newness and those cool eyes in the mirror, the fugitive Chris was imprisoned at last, led in a way like the captives long syne whom men dragged up the heights to Blawearie Loch to streek out and kill by the great grey stones. Caught as they were: she, who had often lain down in the shadow of the Stones—oh, daft to blether in her thoughts like this, when all that was happening to her today was as common a happening throughout the world as getting up, getting down, sleeping and waking….

Sleeping—

Even the cool amusement behind which she shielded could not restrain that shudder of disgust, goodness knew why, what was disgusting about the business? Going back to a life again full and complete from a half-life, unnatural, alone and apart. But she pulled off her gloves and stared at her fingers in a sudden, unreasoning spasm of panic. Oh, however had she come to betray herself so? Better the sleet and the grey despair of that five months ago when she last climbed here, no road or vision before her at all—

When young Alick Watson taiked home one night to the Cowgate in the middle of January and told the news that a strike was on, there was no going back to Gowans and Gloag’s till they’d stopped the making of shell-cases and cylinders, Meg Watson asked And what does that mean?—that a lot of tink brutes like yourself’ll gang idle?