The Elect Lady | Page 2

a line I thought hardly rhythmical, but--"
"Excuse me, ma'am; the want of rhythm there was intentional."
"I am sorry for that. Intention is the worst possible excuse for wrong!
The accent should always be made to fall in the right place."
"Beyond a doubt--but might not the right place alter with the sense?"
"Never. The rule is strict"
"Is there no danger of making the verse monotonous?"
"Not that I know."

"I have an idea, ma'am, that our great poets owe much of their music to
the liberties they take with the rhythm. They treat the rule as its masters,
and break it when they see fit."
"You must be wrong there! But in any case you must not presume to
take the liberties of a great poet"
"It is a poor reward for being a great poet to be allowed to take liberties.
I should say that, doing their work to the best of their power, they were
rewarded with the discovery of higher laws of verse. Every one must
walk by the light given him. By the rules which others have laid down
he may learn to walk; but once his heart is awake to truth, and his ear to
measure, melody and harmony, he must walk by the light, and the
music God gives him."
"That is dangerous doctrine, Andrew!" said the lady, with a superior
smile. "But," she continued, "I will mark what faults I see, and point
them out to you."
"Thank you, ma'am, but please do not send the verses anywhere."
"I will not, except I find them worthy. You need not be afraid. For my
father's sake I will have an eye to your reputation."
"I am obliged to you, ma'am," returned Andrew, but with his curious
smile, hard to describe. It had in it a wonderful mixing of sweetness
and humor, and a something that seemed to sit miles above his
amusement. A heavenly smile it was, knowing too much to be angry. It
had in it neither offense nor scorn. In respect of his poetry he was shy
like a girl, but he showed no rejection of the patronage forced upon him
by the lady.
He rose and stood a moment.
"Well, Andrew, what is it?"
"When will you allow me to call for the verses?"

"In the course of a week or so. By that time I shall have made up my
mind. If in doubt, I shall ask my father."
"I wouldn't like the laird to think I spend my time on poetry."
"You write poetry, Andrew! A man should not do what he would not
have known."
"That is true, ma'am; I only feared an erroneous conclusion."
"I will take care of that. My father knows that you are a hard-working
young man. There is not one of his farms in better order than yours.
Were it otherwise, I should not be so interested in your poetry."
Andrew wished her less interested in it. To have his verses read was
like having a finger poked in his eye. He had not known that his mother
looked at his papers. But he showed little sign of his annoyance, bade
the lady good-morning, and left the kitchen.
Miss Fordyce followed him to the door, and stood for a moment
looking out. In front of her was a paved court, surrounded with low
buildings, between two of which was visible, at the distance of a mile
or so, a railway line where it approached a viaduct. She heard the sound
of a coming train, and who in a country place will not stand to see one
pass!

CHAPTER II.
AN ACCIDENT.
While the two were talking, a long train, part carriages, part trucks, was
rattling through a dreary country, where it could never have been were
there not regions very different on both sides of it. For miles in any
direction, nothing but humpy moorland was to be seen, a gathering of
low hills, with now and then a higher one, its sides broken by
occasional torrents, in poor likeness of a mountain. No smoke
proclaimed the presence of human dwelling; but there were spots

between the hills where the hand of man had helped the birth of a
feeble fertility; and in front was a small but productive valley, on the
edge of which stood the ancient house of Potlurg, with the heath behind
it: over a narrow branch of this valley went the viaduct.
It was a slow train, with few passengers. Of these one was looking from
his window with a vague, foolish sense of superiority, thinking what a
forgotten, scarce created country it seemed. He was a well-dressed,
good-looking fellow, with a keen but pale-gray eye, and a fine forehead,
but a chin such as is held to