THE SHORE.
It was two days after the longest day of the year, when there is no
night in those regions, only a long twilight, in which many dream and
do not know it. There had been a week of variable weather, with sudden
changes of wind to east and north, and round again by south to west,
and then there had been a calm for several days. But now the little
wind there was blew from the north-east; and the fervour of June was
rendered more delicious by the films of flavouring cold that floated
through the mass of heat. All Portlossie more and less, the Seaton
especially, was in a state of excitement, for its little neighbour,
Scaurnose, was more excited still. There the man most threatened, and
with greatest injustice, was the only one calm amongst the men, and
amongst the women his wife was the only one that was calmer than he.
Blue Peter was resolved to abide the stroke of wrong, and not resist
the powers that were, believing them in some true sense, which he found
it hard to understand when he thought of the factor as the individual
instance, ordained of God. He had a dim perception too that it was
better that one, that one he, should suffer, than that order should be
destroyed and law defied. Suffering, he might still in patience possess
his soul, and all be well with him; but what would become of the
country if everyone wronged were to take the law into his own hands?
Thousands more would be wronged by the lawless in a week than by unjust
powers in a year. But the young men were determined to pursue their
plan of resistance, and those of the older and soberer who saw the
uselessness of it, gave themselves little trouble to change the minds
of the rest.
Peter, although he knew they were not for peace, neither inquired
what their purpose might be, nor allowed any conjecture or suspicion
concerning it to influence him in his preparations for departure. Not
that he had found a new home. Indeed he had not heartily set about
searching for one; in part because, unconsciously to himself he was
buoyed up by the hope he read so clear in the face of his more trusting
wife--that Malcolm would come to deliver them. His plan was to leave
her and his children with certain friends at Port Gordon; he would
not hear of going to the Partans to bring them into trouble. He would
himself set out immediately after for the Lewis fishing.
Few had gone to the Hebrides that year from Scaurnose or Portlossie.
The magnitude of the events that were about to take place, yet more
the excitement and interest they occasioned, kept the most of the men
at home--to content themselves with fishing the waters of the Moray
Frith. And they had notable success. But what was success with such a
tyrant over them as the factor, threatening to harry their nests, and
turn the sea birds and their young out of their heritage of rock and
sand and shingle? They could not keep house on the waves, any more than
the gulls! Those who still held their religious assemblies in the cave
called the Baillies’ Barn, met often, read and sang the comminatory
psalms more than any others, and prayed much against the wiles and
force of their enemies both temporal and spiritual; while Mr Crathie
went every Sunday to Church, grew redder in the nose, and hotter in the
temper.
Miss Horn was growing more and more uncomfortable concerning events,
and dissatisfied with Malcolm. She had not for some time heard from
him, and here was his most important duty unattended to-- she would
not yet say neglected--the well being of his tenantry, namely, left
in the hands of an unsympathetic, self-important underling, who was
fast losing all the good sense he had once possessed! Was the life and
history of all these brave fishermen and their wives and children to be
postponed to the pampered feelings of one girl, and that because she
was what she had no right to be, his half-sister forsooth? said Miss
Horn to herself--that bosom friend to whom some people, and those not
the worst, say oftener what they do not mean than what they do. She had
written to him within the last month a very hot letter indeed, which
had afforded no end of amusement to Mrs Catanach, as she sat in his
old lodging over the curiosity shop, but, I need hardly say, had not
reached Malcolm: and now there was but one night, and the best of all
the fisher-families would have nowhere to lie down! Miss Horn, with
Joseph Mair, thought she did well to be angry with Malcolm.
The blind piper had been very restless all day. Questioned again and
again by Meg Partan as to what was amiss with him, he had always
returned her odd and evasive answers. Every few minutes he got up
--even from cleaning her lamp--to go to the shore. He had but to cross
the threshold, and take a few steps through the _close_, to reach the
road that ran along the sea-front of the village: on the one side were
the cottages, scattered and huddled, on the other the shore and ocean
wide outstretched. He would walk straight across this road until he
felt the sand under his feet; there stand for a few moments facing
the sea, and, with nostrils distended, breathing deep breaths of the
air from the north-east; then turn and walk back to Meg Partan’s
kitchen, to resume his ministration of light. These his sallies were
so frequent, and his absences so short, that a more serene temper than
hers might have been fretted by them. But there was something about
his look and behaviour that, while it perplexed, restrained her; and
instead of breaking out upon him, she eyed him curiously.
She had found that it would not do to stare at him. The instant she
began to do so, he began to fidget, and turned his back to her. It
had made her lose her temper for a moment, and declare aloud as her
conviction that he was after all an impostor, and saw as well as any of
them.
“She has told you so, Mistress Partan, one hundred thousand times,”
replied Duncan with an odd smile: “and perhaps she will pe see a little
petter as any of you, no matter.”
Thereupon she murmured to herself, “The cratur ’ill be seein’
something!” and with mingled awe and curiosity sought to lay restraint
upon her unwelcome observation of him.
Thus it went on the whole day, and as the evening approached, he grew
still more excited. The sun went down, and the twilight began; and,
as the twilight deepened, still his excitement grew. Straightway it
seemed as if the whole Seaton had come to share in it. Men and women
were all out of doors; and, late as it was when the sun set, to judge
by the number of red legs and feet that trotted in and out with a
little shadowy flash, with a dull patter-pat on earthen floor and hard
road, and a scratching and hustling among the pebbles, there could
not have been one older than a baby in bed; while of the babies even
not a few were awake in their mothers’ arms, and out with them on the
sea front. The men, with their hands in their trouser-pockets, were
lazily smoking pigtail, in short-clay pipes with tin covers fastened
to the stems by little chains, and some of the women, in short blue
petticoats and worsted stockings, doing the same. Some stood in their
doors, talking with neighbours standing in their doors; but these were
mostly the elder women: the younger ones-- all but Lizzy Findlay--were
out in the road. One man half leaned, half sat on the window sill of
Duncan’s former abode, and round him were two or three more, and some
women, talking about Scaurnose, and the factor, and what the lads would
do to-morrow; while the hush of the sea on the pebbles mingled with
their talk, like an unknown tongue of the infinite--never articulating,
only suggesting-- uttering in song and not in speech--dealing not with
thoughts, but with feelings and foretastes. No one listened: what to
them was the Infinite with Scaurnose in the near distance! It was now
almost as dark as it would be throughout the night if it kept as clear.
Once more there was Duncan, standing as if looking out to sea, and
shading his brows with his hand as if to protect his eyes from the
glare of the sun, and enable his sight!
“There’s the auld piper again!” said one of the group, a young woman.
“He’s unco fule like to be stan’in that gait (_way_), makin’ as gien he
cudna weel see for the sun in ’s e’en.”
“Haud ye yer tongue, lass,” rejoined an elderly woman beside her.
“There’s mair things nor ye ken, as the Beuk says. There’s een ’at can
see an’ een ’at canna, an’ een ’at can see twise ower, an’ een ’at can
see steikit what nane can see open.”
“Ta poat! ta poat of my chief!” cried the seer. “She is coming like a
tream of ta night, put one tat will not tepart with ta morning.”
He spoke as one suppressing a wild joy.
“Wha’ll that be, lucky-deddy (_grandfather_)?” inquired, in a
respectful voice, the woman who had last spoken, while those within
hearing hushed each other and stood in silence. And all the time the
ghost of the day was creeping round from west to east to put on its
resurrection body, and rise new born. It gleamed faint like a cold ashy
fire in the north.
“And who will it pe than her own son, Mistress Reekie?” answered the
piper, calling her by her husband’s nickname, as was usual, but, as was
his sole wont, prefixing the title of respect, where custom would have
employed but her Christian name.
“Who’ll should it pe put her own Malcolm?” he went on. “I see his poat
come round ta Tead Head. She flits over the water like a pale ghost
over Morven. But it’s ta young and ta strong she is pringing home to
Tuncan. O m’anam, beannuich!”
Involuntarily all eyes turned towards the point called the Death’s
Head, which bounded the bay on the east.
“It’s ower dark to see onything,” said the man on the window sill.
“There’s a bit haar (_fog_) come up.”
“Yes,” said Duncan, “it’ll pe too tark for you who haf cot no eyes
only to speak of. Put your’ll wait a few, and you’ll pe seeing as well
as herself. Och, her poy! her poy! O m’anam! Ta Lort pe praised! and
she’ll tie in peace, for he’ll pe only ta one half of him a Cam’ell,
and he’ll pe safed at last, as sure as there’s a heafen to co to and a
hell to co from. For ta half tat’s not a Cam’ell must pe ta strong half
and it will trag ta other half into heafen-- where it will not pe ta
welcome, howefer.”
As if to get rid of the unpleasant thought that his Malcolm could not
enter heaven without taking half a Campbell with him, he turned from
the sea and hurried into the house--but only to catch up his pipes and
hasten out again, filling the bag as he went. Arrived once more on the
verge of the sand, he stood again facing the north-east, and began to
blow a pibroch loud and clear.
Meantime the Partan had joined the same group, and they were talking in
a low tone about the piper’s claim to the second sight, for, although
all were more or less inclined to put faith in Duncan, there was
here no such unquestioning belief in the marvel as would have been
found on the west coast in every glen from the Mull of Cantyre to
Loch Eribol--when suddenly Meg Partan, almost the only one hitherto
remaining in the house, appeared rushing from the close.
“Hech, sirs!” she cried, addressing the Seaton in general, “gien the
auld man be i’ the richt,----”
“She’ll pe aal in ta right, Mistress Partan, and tat you’ll pe seeing,”
said Duncan, who, hearing her first cry, had stopped his drone, and
played softly, listening.
But Meg went on without heeding him any more than was implied in the
repetition of her exordium.
“Gien the auld man be i’ the richt, it’ll be the marchioness hersel’
’at’s h’ard o’ the ill duin’s o’ her factor, an’s comin’ to see efter
her fowk! An’ it’ll be Ma’colm’s duin’, an’ that’ll be seen. But the
bonny laad winna ken the state o’ the herbour, an’ he’ll be makin’ for
the moo’ o’ ’t, an’ he’ll jist rin ’s bonny boatie agrun’ ’atween the
twa piers, an’ that’ll no be a richt hame-comin’ for the leddy o’ the
lan’, an’ what’s mair, Ma’colm ’ill get the wyte (_blame_) o’ ’t, an’
that’ll be seen. Sae ye maun some o’ ye to the pier-heid, an’ luik oot
to gie ’im warnin’.”
Her own husband was the first to start, proud of the foresight of his
wife.
“Haith, Meg!” he cried, “ye’re maist as guid at the lang sicht as the
piper himsel’!”
Several followed him, and as they ran, Meg cried after them, giving her
orders as if she had been vice-admiral of the red, in a voice shrill
enough to pierce the worst gale that ever blew on northern shore.
“Ye’ll jist tell the bonnie laad to haud wast a bit an’ rin her ashore,
an’ we’ll a’ be there an’ hae her as dry ’s Noah’s ark in a jiffie.
Tell her leddyship we’ll cairry the boat, an’ her intill ’t, to the tap
o’ the Boar’s Tail, gien she’ll gie ’s her orders.-- Winna we, laads?”
“We can but try!” said one. “--But the Fisky ’ill be waur to get a grip
o’ nor Nancy here,” he added, turning suddenly upon the plumpest girl
in the place, who stood next to him. She foiled him however of the kiss
he had thought to snatch, and turned the laugh from herself upon him,
so cleverly avoiding his clutch that he staggered into the road, and
nearly fell upon his nose.
By the time the Partan and his companions reached the pier-head,
something was dawning in the vague of sea and sky that might be a
sloop and standing for the harbour. Thereupon the Partan and Jamie
Ladle jumped into a small boat and pulled out. Dubs, who had come from
Scaurnose on the business of the conjuration, had stepped into the
stern, not to steer but to show a white ensign--somebody’s Sunday shirt
he had gathered, as they ran, from a furze-bush, where it hung to dry,
between the Seaton and the harbour.
“Hoots! ye’ll affront the marchioness,” objected the Partan.
“Man, i’ the gloamin’ she’ll no ken ’t frae buntin’,” said Dubs, and at
once displayed it, holding it by the two sleeves.
The wind had now fallen to the softest breath, and the little vessel
came on slowly. The men rowed hard, shouting, and waving their flag,
and soon heard a hail which none of them could mistake for other
than Malcolm’s. In a few minutes they were on board, greeting their
old friend with jubilation, but talking in a subdued tone, for they
perceived by Malcolm’s that the cutter bore their lady.
Briefly the Partan communicated the state of the harbour, and
recommended porting his helm, and running the Fisky ashore about
opposite the brass swivel.
“A’ the men an’ women i’ the Seaton,” he said, “’ill be there to haul
her up.”
Malcolm took the helm, gave his orders, and steered further westward.
By this time the people on shore had caught sight of the cutter. They
saw her come stealing out of the thin dark like a thought half thought,
and go gliding along the shore like a sea-ghost over the dusky water,
faint, uncertain, noiseless, glimmering. It could be no other than
the Fisky! Both their lady and their friend Malcolm must be on board,
they were certain, for how could the one of them come without the
other? and doubtless the marchioness, whom they all remembered as a
good-humoured handsome young lady, never shy of speaking to anybody,
had come to deliver them from the hateful red-nosed ogre, her factor!
Out at once they all set, along the shore to greet her arrival, each
running regardless of the rest, so that from the Seaton to the middle
of the Boar’s Tail there was a long, straggling broken string of
hurrying fisher-folk, men and women, old and young, followed by all the
current children, tapering to one or two toddlers, who felt themselves
neglected and wept their way along. The piper, too asthmatic to run,
but not too asthmatic to walk and play his bagpipes, delighting the
heart of Malcolm, who could not mistake the style, believed he brought
up the rear, but was wrong; for the very last came Mrs Findlay and
Lizzy, carrying between them their little deal kitchen-table, for her
ladyship to step out of the boat upon, and Lizzy’s child fast asleep on
the top of it.
The foremost ran and ran until they saw that the Psyche had chosen
her couch, and was turning her head to the shore, when they stopped
and stood ready with greased planks and ropes to draw her up. In a
few moments the whole population was gathered, darkening, in the June
midnight, the yellow sands between the tide and dune. The Psyche was
well manned now with a crew of six. On she came under full sail till
within a few yards of the beach, when, in one and the same moment,
every sheet was let go, and she swept softly up like a summer wave,
and lay still on the shore. The butterfly was asleep. But ere she came
to rest, the instant indeed that her canvas went fluttering away,
thirty strong men had rushed into the water and laid hold of the now
broken-winged thing. In a few minutes she was high and dry.
Malcolm leaped on the sand just as the Partaness came bustling up with
her kitchen-table between her two hands like a tray. She set it down,
and across it shook hands with him violently; then caught it up and
deposited it firm on its four legs beneath the cutter’s waist.
“Noo, my leddy,” said Meg, looking up at the marchioness, “set ye yer
bit fut upo’ my table, an’ we’ll think the mair o’ ’t efter, whan we
tak oor denner aff o’ ’t.”
Florimel thanked her, stepped lightly upon it, and sprang to the sand,
where she was received with words of welcome from many, and shouts
which rendered them inaudible from the rest. The men, their bonnets in
their hands, and the women courtesying, made a lane for her to pass
through, while the young fellows would gladly have begged leave to
carry her, could they have extemporised any suitable sort of palanquin
or triumphal litter.
Followed by Malcolm, she led the way over the Boar’s Tail--nor would
accept any help in climbing it--straight for the tunnel: Malcolm had
never laid aside the key to the private doors his father had given
him while he was yet a servant. They crossed by the embrasure of the
brass swivel. That implement had now long been silent, but they had
not gone many paces from the bottom of the dune when it went off with
a roar. The shouts of the people drowned the startled cry with which
Florimel, involuntarily mindful of old and for her better times,
turned to Malcolm. She had not looked for such a reception, and was
both flattered and touched by it. For a brief space the spirit of
her girlhood came back. Possibly, had she then understood that hope
rather than faith or love was at the heart of their enthusiasm, that
her tenants looked upon her as their saviour from the factor, and
sorely needed the exercise of her sovereignty, she might have better
understood her position, and her duty towards them.
Malcolm unlocked the door of the tunnel, and she entered, followed by
Rose, who felt as if she were walking in a dream. As he stepped in
after them, he was seized from behind, and clasped close in an embrace
he knew at once.
“Daddy, daddy!” he said, and turning threw his arms round the piper.
“My poy! my poy! Her nain son Malcolm!” cried the old man in a whisper
of intense satisfaction and suppression. “You’ll must pe forgifing her
for coming pack to you. She cannot help lofing you, and you must forget
tat you are a Cam’ell.”
Malcolm kissed his cheek, and said, also in a whisper:
“My ain daddy! I ha’e a heap to tell ye, but I maun see my leddy hame
first.”
“Co, co, this moment co,” cried the old man, pushing him away. “To your
tuties to my leddyship first, and then come to her old daddy.”
“I’ll be wi’ ye in half an hoor or less.”
“Coot poy! coot poy! Come to Mistress Partan’s.”
“Ay, ay, daddy!” said Malcolm, and hurried through the tunnel.
As Florimel approached the ancient dwelling of her race, now her own to
do with as she would, her pleasure grew. Whether it was the twilight,
or the breach in dulling custom, everything looked strange, the
grounds wider, the trees larger, the house grander and more anciently
venerable. And all the way the burn sang in the hollow. The spirit of
her father seemed to hover about the place, and while the thought that
her father’s voice would not greet her when she entered the hall, cast
a solemn funereal state over her simple return, her heart yet swelled
with satisfaction and far-derived pride. All this was hers to work her
pleasure with, to confer as she pleased! No thought of her tenants,
fishers or farmers, who did their strong part in supporting the ancient
dignity of her house, had even an associated share in the bliss of the
moment. She had forgotten her reception already, or regarded it only as
the natural homage to such a position and power as hers. As to owing
anything in return, the idea had indeed been presented to her when with
Clementina and Malcolm she talked over “St Ronan’s Well,” but it had
never entered her mind.
The drawing-room and the hall were lighted. Mrs Courthope was at
the door as if she expected her, and Florimel was careful to take
everything as a matter of course.
“When will your ladyship please to want me?” asked Malcolm.
“At the usual hour, Malcolm,” she answered.
He turned, and ran to the Seaton.
His first business was the accommodation of Travers and Davy, but he
found them already housed at the Salmon, with Jamie Ladle teaching
Travers to drink toddy. They had left the Psyche snug: she was high
above high-water mark, and there were no tramps about; they had furled
her sails, locked the companion-door, and left her.
Mrs Findlay rejoiced over Malcolm as if he had been her own son from a
far country; but the poor piper between politeness and gratitude on the
one hand, and the urging of his heart on the other, was sorely tried
by her loquacity: he could hardly get in a word. Malcolm perceived his
suffering, and, as soon as seemed prudent, proposed that he should walk
with him to Miss Horn’s, where he was going to sleep, he said, that
night. Mrs Partan snuffed, but held her peace. For the third or fourth
time that day, wonderful to tell, she restrained herself!
As soon as they were out of the house, Malcolm assured Duncan, to the
old man’s great satisfaction, that, had he not found him there, he
would, within another month, have set out to roam Scotland in search of
him.
Miss Horn had heard of their arrival, and was wandering about the
house, unable even to sit down until she saw the marquis. To herself
she always called him the marquis; to his face he was always _Ma’colm_.
If he had not come, she declared she could not have gone to bed--yet
she received him with an edge to her welcome: he had to answer for
his behaviour. They sat down, and Duncan told a long sad story; which
finished, with the toddy that had sustained him during the telling, the
old man thought it better, for fear of annoying his Mistress Partan, to
go home. As it was past one o’clock, they both agreed.
“And if she’ll tie to-night, my poy,” said Duncan, “she’ll pe lie awake
in her crave all ta long tarkness, to pe waiting to hear ta voice of
your worrts in ta morning. And nefer you mind, Malcolm, she’ll has
learned to forgife you for peing only ta one half of yourself a cursed
Cam’ell.”
Miss Horn gave Malcolm a wink, as much as to say, “Let the old
man talk. It will hurt no Campbell,” and showed him out with much
attention. And then at last Malcolm poured forth his whole story,
and his heart with it, to Miss Horn, who heard and received it with
understanding, and a sympathy which grew ever as she listened. At
length she declared herself perfectly satisfied, for not only had he
done his best, but she did not see what else he could have done. She
hoped, however, that now he would contrive to get this part over as
quickly as possible, for which, in the morning, she would, she said,
show him cogent reasons.
“I ha’e no feelin’s mysel’, as ye weel ken, laddie,” she remarked in
conclusion, “an’ I doobt, gien I had been i’ your place, I wadna hae
luikit to a’ sides o’ the thing at ance as ye hae dune.-- An’ it was a
man like you ’at sae near lost yer life for the hizzy!” she exclaimed.
“I maunna think aboot it, or I winna sleep a wink. But we maun get that
deevil Catanach (an’ cat eneuch!) hangt. Weel, my man, ye may haud
up yer heid afore the father o’ ye, for ye’re the first o’ the race,
I’m thinkin’, ’at ever was near-han’ deein’ for anither. But mak ye a
speedy en’ till ’t noo, laad, an’ fa’ to the lave o’ yer wark. There’s
a terrible heap to be dune. But I maun haud my tongue the nicht, for
I wad fain ye had a guid sleep, an’ I’m needin’ ane sair mysel’, for
I’m no sae yoong as I ance was, an’ I ha’e been that anxious aboot
ye, Ma’colm, ’at though I never hed ony feelin’s, yet, noo ’at a’ ’s
gaein’ richt, an’ ye’re a’ richt, and like to be richt for ever mair,
my heid’s jist like to split. Gang yer wa’s to yer bed, and soon may
ye sleep. It’s the bed yer bonny mither got a soon’ sleep in at last,
and muckle was she i’ the need o’ ’t! An’ jist tak tent the morn what
ye say whan Jean’s i’ the room, or maybe o’ the ither side o’ the door,
for she’s no mowse. I dinna ken what gars me keep the jaud. I believe
’at gien the verra deevil himsel’ had been wi’ me sae lang, I wadna
ha’e the hert to turn him aboot his ill business. That’s what comes o’
haein’ no feelin’s. Ither fowk wad ha’e gotten rid o’ her half a score
years sin’ syne.”