BLUE PETER.
The door of Blue Peter’s cottage was opened by his sister. Not much
at home in the summer, when she carried fish to the country, she was
very little absent in the winter, and as there was but one room for
all uses, except the closet bedroom and the garret at the top of the
ladder, Malcolm, instead of going in, called to his friend, whom he saw
by the fire with his little Phemy upon his knee, to come out and speak
to him.
Blue Peter at once obeyed the summons.
“There’s naething wrang, I houp, Ma’colm?” he said, as he closed the
door behind him.
“Maister Graham wad say,” returned Malcolm, “naething ever was wrang
but what ye did wrang yersel’, or wadna pit richt whan ye had a chance.
I ha’e him nae mair to gang till, Joseph, an’ sae I’m come to you. Come
doon by, an’ i’ the scoug o’ a rock, I’ll tell ye a’ aboot it.”
“Ye wadna ha’e the mistress no ken o’ ’t?” said his friend. “I dinna
jist like haein’ secrets frae _her_.”
“Ye sall jeedge for yersel’, man, an’ tell her or no jist as ye like.
Only she maun haud her tongue, or the black dog’ll ha’e a’ the butter.”
“She can haud her tongue like the tae-stane o’ a grave,” said Peter.
As they spoke they reached the cliff that hung over the shattered
shore. It was a clear, cold night. Snow, the remnants of the last
storm, which frost had preserved in every shadowy spot, lay all about
them. The sky was clear, and full of stars, for the wind that blew
cold from the north-west had dispelled the snowy clouds. The waves
rushed into countless gulfs and crannies and straits on the ruggedest
of shores, and the sounds of waves and wind kept calling like voices
from the unseen. By a path, seemingly fitter for goats than men, they
descended half-way to the beach, and under a great projection of rock
stood sheltered from the wind. Then Malcolm turned to Joseph Mair,
commonly called Blue Peter, because he had been a man-of-war’s man, and
laying his hand on his arm said:
“Blue Peter, did ever I tell ye a lee?”
“No, never,” answered Peter. “What gars ye speir sic a thing?”
“Cause I want ye to believe me noo, an’ it winna be easy.”
“I’ll believe onything ye tell me--’at _can_ be believed.”
“Weel, I ha’e come to the knowledge ’at my name’s no MacPhail: it’s
Colonsay. Man, I’m the Markis o’ Lossie.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, without a single stare of unbelief
or even astonishment, Blue Peter pulled off his bonnet, and stood
bareheaded before the companion of his toils.
“Peter!” cried Malcolm, “dinna brak my hert: put on yer bonnet.”
“The Lord o’ lords be thankit, my lord!” said Blue Peter: “the puir man
has a freen’ this day.”
Then replacing his bonnet he said--
“An’ what’ll be yer lordship’s wull?”
“First and foremost, Peter, that my best freen’, efter my auld daddy
and the schulemaister, ’s no to turn again’ me ’cause I hed a markis
an’ neither piper nor fisher to my father.”
“It’s no like it, my lord,” returned Blue Peter, “whan the first thing
I say is--what wad ye ha’e o’ me? Here I am--no speirin’ a queston!”
“Weel, I wad ha’e ye hear the story o’ ’t a’.”
“Say on, my lord,” said Peter.
But Malcolm was silent for a few moments.
“I was thinkin’, Peter,” he said at last, “whether I cud bide to hear
you say _my lord_ to me. Dootless, as it’ll ha’e to come to that, it
wad be better to grow used till ’t while we’re thegither, sae ’at whan
it maun be, it mayna ha’e the luik o’ cheenge intil it, for cheenge is
jist the thing I canna bide. I’ the meantime, hooever, we canna gi’e in
till ’t, ’cause it wad set fowk jaloosin’. But I wad be obleeged till
ye, Peter, gien you wad say _my lord_ whiles, whan we’re oor lanes,
for I wad fain grow sae used till ’t ’at I never kent ye said it, for
’atween you an’ me, I dinna like it. An’ noo I s’ tell ye a’ ’at I ken.”
When he had ended the tale of what had come to his knowledge, and how
it had come, and paused:
“Gie ’s a grup o’ yer han’, my lord,” said Blue Peter, “an’ may God
haud ye lang in life an’ honour to reule ower us. Noo, gien ye please,
what are ye gauin’ to du?”
“Tell ye me, Peter, what ye think I oucht to du.”
“That wad tak a heap o’ thinkin’,” returned the fisherman; “but ae
thing seems aboot plain: ye ha’e no richt to lat yer sister gang
exposed to temptations ye cud haud frae her. That’s no, as ye promised,
to be kin’ till her. I canna believe that’s hoo yer father expeckit
o’ ye. I ken weel ’at fowk in his poseetion ha’ena the preevileeges
o’ the like o’ hiz--they ha’ena the win, an’ the watter, an’ whiles a
lee shore to gar them know they are but men, an’ sen’ them rattlin’
at the wicket of h’aven; but still I dinna think, by yer ain accoont,
specially noo ’at I houp he’s forgi’en an’ latten in--God grant
it!--I div _not_ think he wad like my leddy Florimel to be oon’er the
influences o’ sic a ane as that Leddy Bellair. Ye maun gang till her.
Ye ha’e nae ch’ice, my lord.”
“But what am I to do, whan I div gang?”
“That’s what ye hev to gang an’ see.”
“An’ that’s what I ha’e been tellin’ mysel’, an’ what Miss Horn’s
been tellin’ me tu. But it’s a gran’ thing to get yer ain thouchts
corroborat. Ye see I’m feart for wrangin’ her for pride, and bringin’
her doon to set mysel’ up.”
“My lord,” said Blue Peter, solemnly, “ye ken the life o’ puir
fisher-fowk; ye ken hoo it micht be lichtened, sae lang as it laists,
an’ mony a hole steikit ’at the cauld deith creeps in at the noo: coont
ye them naething, my lord? Coont ye the wull o’ Providence, ’at sets
ye ower them, naething? What for could the Lord ha’e gie ye sic an
upbringin’ as no markis’s son ever hed afore ye, or maybe ever wull
ha’e efter ye, gien it bena ’at ye sud tak them in han’ to du yer pairt
by them? Gien ye forsak them noo, ye’ll be forgettin’ him ’at made them
an’ you, an’ the sea, an’ the herrin’ to be taen intill ’t. Gien ye
forget them, there’s nae houp for them, but the same deith ’ill keep on
swallowin’ at them upo’ sea an’ shore.”
“Ye speyk the trowth as I ha’e spoken ’t till mysel’, Peter. Noo,
hearken: will ye sail wi’ me the nicht for Lon’on toon?”
The fisherman was silent a moment--then answered, “I wull, my lord; but
I maun tell my wife.”
“Rin, an’ fess her here than, for I’m fleyed at yer sister, honest
wuman, an’ little Phemy. It wad blaud a’ thing gien I was hurried to du
something afore I kenned what.”
“I s’ ha’e her oot in a meenute,” said Joseph, and scrambled up the
cliff.