ENTER NANCY STAIR
I had been from Scotland near five years, when two letters were handed
to me as I sat in The British Sailors' Tavern, in Calcutta; one of
which was from Hugh Pitcairn and the other from Sandy Carmichael. I
thought as I read them what characteristic epistles they were, for
Hugh's read as though I had parted from him but the day before, and
urged my return to look after some land interest which he as my
solicitor felt should have my immediate supervision.
"There is another thing," he added, "which should bring you home. Huey
MacGrath is ailing and I fear is sickening to die."
Sandy spoke, as was his way, of our old affection and his wish to see
me once again, and he ended by a tender reference to the baby of mine
who was growing a big girl and needed me, he said.
God knows how lonely I was when these two letters came to me, and the
thoughts of home and a child dependent upon me brought, for the first
time since my dread trouble, a sense of comfort. Huey sick unto death
was another call to my heart, and in four days' time I was homeward
bound.
Before I stepped ashore at Leith it was Sandy who waved to me from the
quay; Sandy whose hand gripped mine so hard the fingers ached for days;
Sandy whose eyes beamed with joy as he looked at me and took me back to
Stair.
"I've been living on the docks awaiting your return until the town
doubtless thinks I'm going for a sailor," he cried. "Well, it's good to
have you back, Jock Stair--and I believe that Huey MacGrath's illness
is little more than a longing for the sight of you."
On our ride homeward his whole talk turned about his boy Danvers, of
whom he spoke with unfettered approval and satisfaction, which came
from a strange source.
"He looks like you, Jock Stair! It's heaven's truth that he's the image
of you! It seems odd that I, who am a brown man, should have a son with
an olive skin and hair like ink, but it's a fact. And he's like ye in
other ways, for he rides like a monkey and can thrash any one of his
weight in the county. Aye," he concluded, "ye'll be proud of Danvers!"
"And what of my girl?" I asked.
"Nancy," he said, a curious look coming into his face as he smiled;
"she's one you must see to judge of for yourself. I've raised her up as
well as I could. I've spent time with her!"
His determined reticence, which had some humor in it, put me on my
metal concerning the child, and the day after my arrival I sent Tam
MacColl with a written request to Dame Dickenson to fetch the little
one immediately to Stair.
Six days later Tam returned bringing a large sheet of paper, which I
have before me as I write. It was folded after a curious fashion, with
no address, and opening it I found the following:
[Illustration: I am not comming.
Nancy Stair.]
For the first time in five years I laughed aloud. This was something
worth. Here was an atom, not yet five, who took her pen in hand and
misspelled her firm intention to do as she chose. I folded the paper
and laid it aside, wondering what kind of offspring I had begotten, and
the following morning took horse to Landgore to see this very
determined little body for myself.
As I came in sight of the place after my long ride, strange voices
called to me from the sea, from the heather, from the great copper
birch over the house. Eyes long dead seemed looking into mine, hands
were on my hair, and there came to me, with the feeling of mortal
sickness, the terrible, sweet remembrances of an early passion and of
things to be known to none save Marian and me and the One who does most
wisely for the Great End, but bitterly to us who see but a little of
the way.
Reaching the porch, my strength left me utterly, and I leaned against
one of the wooden pillars for support. Standing thus, I saw a child
running down the braeside at the top of her speed, with no knowledge of
my presence, but coming at her fastest to reach the house. She wore a
short-waisted black frock, with a very long skirt, which almost touched
the ground. On her feet were red shoes, which twinkled in and out of
the black, as with great dexterity and lightness, she clambered up the
steps of the porch and stood before me, one of the miracles of God
before which we human folk stand abashed. For here was Marian again.
Marian to the turn of an eyelash; to the finger tips; in the bronze
chestnut curls which stood like a halo round the face; in the supple
little woman-body; in all the dear, quaint, beautiful baby who stood
before me devouring me with gray eyes, and looking at me with a
radiant, shy smile as she held a kitten tail up against her breast.
After a few seconds' regard of me, during which I could see by her face
that she was piecing some bits of knowledge together, she clapped her
hands.
"Jock!" she cried, with a rapturous smile.
I can never tell the joy and horror of the moment, for my name was the
first word my beloved had ever spoken to me, and at the sound of it
from this, her child, my heart leaped into my throat; there came a
whirring in the top of my head and a singing in my ears, and as I sank
upon the old stone settle something like a moan escaped me.
In the next minute I knew Nancy Stair for all time. The sight of
suffering seemed to put her past herself, and, dashing toward me, she
climbed up on the seat. I could feel the warmth of her body and the
clinging of her dimpled arm as she drew my head against her naked,
palpitating little breast as though to defend me from suffering against
the whole world.
"Oh, you poor fing!" she cried. "You poor fing! Does you hurt?"
When I had in some degree recovered my self-control, the child sat down
beside me, so close that she pushed her small body against mine, with
one rose-leaf of a hand laid upon my knee in a protective fashion,
every little while giving me a pat, as a mother soothes a child.
Sitting thus, my arm around her, my soul stirred to its depths, my eyes
brooded over all her baby charms.
She was of a slender, round figure, with dimpled neck and arms. Her
head was broad, her forehead low, with noticeably black brows, and she
had a way, when perplexed, I very soon discovered, of drawing these
together, the right one falling a bit lower than the left. It was the
eyes which struck one first, however; brooding, passionate, observant,
quick to look within or without, and fearless in their glance. Mrs.
Opie states that they were black, and Reynolds painted them bright
blue; but the truth is, that they were like her mother's, clear gray,
with pupils of unusual size, and heavy lashed, especially on the under
lid.
She was still under five, but I had not been with her a quarter of an
hour before I recognized a potent and wonderful personality and knew
that there was something which this small soul had in her keeping to
give the world which others have not.
"Sandy was here," I heard her sweet voice saying when I had recovered
myself. "Sandy was here one day. He fetched the drey hen you sent me."
Here she patted my knee, looking up as though to assure me of her
protection.
"He said the rabbits were from you," she went on; "and the owl got
broke that was in the box. It was too little for him."
"Sandy brought me," she said finally, "the child that stares so," and
she pointed, her eyebrows puckered together, at a rag-doll, with
painted cheeks and round, offensive eyes, sitting head down in a corner
of the porch.
Beyond money, I had not sent even a message to the child in all these
years of absence, and my heart filled with gratitude to that friend who
had made me a fairy-grandfather and won a child's love for me, who was
so unthoughtful and so far away.
As we sat thus, Dame Dickenson heard the sound of voices, and came from
the house to welcome me with a smile, though the tears were in her eyes
as she spoke her words of welcome.
Her life of ease and freedom from money-care had changed her greatly,
and with her black silk frock, her lace kerchief and cap, she seemed
quite like some old gentlewoman. I tried, knowing the inadequacy of
words, even while speaking, to thank her for my wonderful child, when
she interrupted me.
"I should have died but for her--after"--she broke off here, not
wishing to name the sorrow between us. "But you've not seen the wonder
of her yet; she has the whole Cairn Mills bewitched, and if she were a
queen on her throne could not have her way more than she does now."
It was of a piece with the Dame's thoughtfulness to have prepared for
me a room which I had never known, and where no memories dwelt; a
low-raftered apartment on the land-side of the house, with a window
looking over the garden and a fire burning cheerily in the corner
chimney. Dropping off to sleep, happier than I thought it possible for
me to be again, I became aware that there was some one in the room with
me. Opening my eyes, I found Nancy, with her long white gown gathered
on her breast to keep it from the floor, standing looking at me, her
head about level with my own as it lay on the pillow.
"What is it?" I asked.
"_GetinwifJock_," she answered.
"What?" I inquired again, for she had slipped her words all together.
"Get--in--wif--Jock," she repeated, with an unmistakable movement of
her small hand to turn back the bed covers.
"You darling!" I cried, and drew her in beside me.
The tenderness I felt for her as she lay on my breast was akin to
agony. I trembled at the touch of her, and what she meant to me, and
all that I had missed. And long after she fell asleep, I lay, seeing
the past with new eyes, understanding new truths, and making myself,
please God, a better man.
I woke the next morning about eight, to find her gone, but as I was
dressing by the window I saw her below me in the garden, busy with some
hens that were clucking all about her.
"Hello, Little Flower," I called to her.[1]
[1] The name came to me with no thought, but for years it was the
one she fancied most, and many of her early poems were signed
L.F.S., or sometimes by nothing save a queer little drawing, half
rose and half daisy.
(The manuscript of the "Maid with the Wistfu' Eye" in the
Edinburgh collection has only this mark as signature.)
She smiled up at me, blinking in the strong sunshine, and I hastened
down to join her.
"Are you willing to come back with me to Stair?" I asked.
"We're getting ready, Jock," she answered, putting her hand in mine.
"We?" I inquired. "Whom do you mean?"
"Nancy Stair," she said, touching herself on the breast with her small
forefinger, "Dame Dickenson, Father Michel, Uncle Ben, the two or three
dogs, the kittens, the one without a name, the drey hen, and the broken
owl----"
"Nancy Stair," I broke in, with some firmness in my voice, "it will be
utterly impossible to take all these folk up to Stair Castle."
She looked at me and went white, as grown people do when news which
chills the blood is suddenly brought to them, and struck her little
hands together as though in pain. Turning suddenly she left me and
trotted off through a cleft in the stone wall of the kitchen garden, to
which place I followed her, with remorse in my heart for the rough way
in which I had spoken.
I found her lying flat in the grass, her face hidden in her arms, her
body trembling, but she made no sound.
"What is it, dear?" I asked.
"I can't go," she said, without looking up, "I can't go, Jock."
"Why?" I inquired.
She arose at this and leaned against me, her head but little above my
knee and her eyes looking straight up into mine.
"Oh, don't you see?" she cried. "I can't go!--I can't go and leave my
people, Jock!"
I can see now that then was the time I should have been firm with her,
and have escaped the tyranny of latter years. Firm with her! Firm!
while Nancy stood leaning against me with her baby curls under my hand.
Firm! with eyes that held tears in them, tears which I had caused.
"Take them," I cried, "take the free-traders, the old wreck, the Cairn
Mills, and the new light-house, for all of me; but never let me see
that look in your face again, my little one!" and I had her in my arms,
as weak a father as I had been as lover and as husband, with the
resulting that I, John Stair, Lord of Stair and Alton in the Mearns, in
company with Dame Dickenson, Father Michel, Uncle Ben, the two or three
dogs, the kittens, the Nameless One, the "drey hen," and a small child
holding a dissipated-looking owl with but one whole feather in its
tail, drove up to the gateway of Stair Castle in a gipsy wagon of an
abandoned character, on the afternoon of a day in late February, in the
year 1773.