however, to give all into unready hands like that poor beggar this
morning who knew no better than to pretend in order to get more
money. No, that would be the gift of a madman. But could not the
rich use their money in trust for the poor, and help and teach them
little by little till they learned how to share their labor and
their wealth? But you know how ignorant am I who speak to you. It is
probable that this is what is already being done even here now in
Venice and all over the world. It would not be left to a little one
like me to think of it. What an idea for the brothers at home to
laugh at!”
“Some people do think these things,” I admitted.
“But do not all?” asked Brother Leo, incredulously.
“No, not all,” I confessed.
“_Andiamo!_” said Leo, rising resolutely. “Let us pray to the
Madonna. What a vexation it must be to her and to all the blessèd
saints to watch the earth! It needs the patience of the Blessèd One
Himself, to bear it.”
In the Palazzo Giovanelli there is one of the loveliest of
Giorgiones. It is called “His Family,” and it represents a beautiful
nude woman with her child and her lover. It seemed to me an outrage
that this young brother should know nothing of the world, of life. I
was determined that he should see this picture. I think I expected
Brother Leo to be shocked when he saw it. I know I was surprised
that he looked at it—at the serene content of earth, its exquisite
ultimate satisfaction—a long time. Then he said in an awed voice:
“It is so beautiful that it is strange any one in all the world can
doubt the love of God who gave it.”
“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful; do you believe there is
anything more beautiful?” I asked rather cruelly.
“Yes,” said Brother Leo, very quietly; “the love of God is more
beautiful, only that cannot be painted.”
After that I showed him no more pictures, nor did I try to make him
understand life. I had an idea that he understood it already rather
better than I did.
When I took him back to the piazza, it was getting on toward sunset,
and we sat at one of the little tables at Florian’s, where I drank
coffee. We heard the band and watched the slow-moving, good-natured
Venetian crowd, and the pigeons winging their perpetual flight.
All the light of the gathered day seemed to fall on the great golden
church at the end of the piazza. Brother Leo did not look at it very
much; his attention was taken up completely in watching the faces of
the crowd, and as he watched them I thought to read in his face what
he had learned in that one day in Venice—whether my mission had been
a success or a failure; but, though I looked long at that simple and
childlike face, I learned nothing.
What is so mysterious as the eyes of a child?
But I was not destined to part from Brother Leo wholly in ignorance.
It was as if, in his open kindliness of nature, he would not leave
me with any unspoken puzzle between us. I had been his friend and he
told me, because it was the way things seemed to him, that I had
been his teacher.
We stood on the piazzetta. I had hired a gondola with two men to row
him back; the water was like beaten gold, and the horizon the
softest shade of pink.
“This day I shall remember all my life,” he said, “and you in my
prayers with all the world—always, always. Only I should like to
tell you that that little idea of mine, which the father told me he
had spoken to you about, I see now that it is too large for me. I am
only a very poor monk. I should think I must be the poorest monk God
has in all His family of monks. If He can be patient, surely I can.
And it came over me while we were looking at all those wonderful
things, that if money had been the way to save the world, Christ
himself would have been rich. It was stupid of me. I did not
remember that when he wanted to feed the multitude, he did not empty
the great granaries that were all his, too; he took only five loaves
and two small fishes; but they were enough.
“We little ones can pray, and God can change His world. _Speriamo!_”
He smiled as he gave me his hand—a smile which seemed to me as
beautiful as anything we had seen that day in Venice. Then the
high-prowed, black gondola glided swiftly out over the golden waters
with the little brown figure seated in the smallest seat. He turned
often to wave to me, but I noticed that he sat with his face away
from Venice.
He had turned back to San Francesco del Deserto, and I knew as I
looked at his face that he carried no single small regret in his
eager heart.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A FIGHT WITH DEATH[10]
By IAN MACLAREN
Footnote 10:
From _Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush_. Copyright, 1894, by Dodd,
Mead & Company.
WHEN Drumsheugh’s grieve was brought to the gates of death by fever,
caught, as was supposed, on an adventurous visit to Glasgow, the
London doctor at Lord Kilspindie’s shooting lodge looked in on his
way from the moor, and declared it impossible for Saunders to live
through the night.
“I give him six hours, more or less; it is only a question of time,”
said the oracle, buttoning his gloves and getting into the brake.
“Tell your parish doctor that I was sorry not to have met him.”
Bell heard this verdict from behind the door, and gave way utterly,
but Drumsheugh declined to accept it as final, and devoted himself
to consolation.
“Dinna greet like that, Bell, wumman, sae lang as Saunders is still
livin’; a’ll never give up houp, for ma pairt, till oor ain man says
the word.
“A’ the doctors in the land dinna ken as muckle aboot us as Weelum
MacLure, an’ he’s ill tae beat when he’s tryin’ tae save a man’s
life.”
MacLure, on his coming, would say nothing, either weal or woe, till
he had examined Saunders. Suddenly his face turned into iron before
their eyes, and he looked like one encountering a merciless foe. For
there was a feud between MacLure and a certain mighty power which
had lasted for forty years in Drumtochty.
“The London doctor said that Saunders wud sough awa’ afore mornin’,
did he? Weel, he’s an’ authority on fevers an’ sic like diseases,
an’ ought tae ken.
“It’s may be presumptuous o’ me tae differ frae him, and it wudna be
verra respectfu’ o’ Saunders tae live aifter this opeenion. But
Saunders wes aye thraun an’ ill tae drive, an’ he’s as like as no
tae gang his ain gait.
“A’m no meanin’ tae reflect on sae clever a man, but he didna ken
the seetuation. He can read fevers like a buik, but he never cam’
across sic a thing as the Drumtochty constitution a’ his days.
“Ye see, when onybody gets as low as puir Saunders here, it’s a
juist a hand-to-hand wrastle atween the fever and his constitution,
an’ of coorse, if he hed been a shilpit, stuntit, feckless effeegy
o’ a cratur, fed on tea an’ made dishes and pushioned wi’ bad air,
Saunders wud hae nae chance; he wes boond tae gae oot like the snuff
o’ a candle.
“But Saunders has been fillin’ his lungs for five and thirty year
wi’ strong Drumtochty air, an’ eatin’ naethin’ but kirny aitmeal,
and drinkin’ naethin’ but fresh milk frae the coo, an’ followin’ the
ploo through the new-turned, sweet-smellin’ earth, an’ swingin’ the
scythe in haytime and harvest, till the legs an’ airms o’ him were
iron, an’ his chest wes like the cuttin’ o’ an oak tree.
“He’s a waesome sicht the nicht, but Saunders wes a buirdly man
aince, and wull never lat his life be taken lichtly frae him. Na,
na; he hesna sinned against Nature, and Nature ’ill stand by him noo
in his oor o’ distress.
“A’ daurna say yea, Bell, muckle as a’ wud like, for this is an evil
disease, cunnin’ an’ treacherous as the deevil himsel’, but a’ winna
say nay, sae keep yir hert frae despair.
“It wull be a sair fecht, but it ’ill be settled one wy or anither
by six o’clock the morn’s morn. Nae man can prophecee hoo it ’ill
end, but ae thing is certain, a’ll no see Deith tak a Drumtochty man
afore his time if a’ can help it.
“Noo, Bell, ma wumman, yir near deid wi’ tire, an’ nae wonder. Ye’ve
dune a’ ye cud for yir man an’ ye ’ill lippen (trust) him the nicht
tae Drumsheugh an’ me; we ’ill no fail him or you.
“Lie doon an’ rest, an’ if it be the wull o’ the Almichty a’ll
wauken ye in the mornin’ tae see a livin’, conscious man, an’ if it
be itherwise a’ll come for ye the suner, Bell,” and the big red hand
went out to the anxious wife. “A’ gie ye ma word.”
Bell leant over the bed, and at the sight of Saunders’ face a
superstitious dread seized her.
“See, doctor, the shadow of deith is on him that never lifts. A’ve
seen it afore, on ma father an’ mither. A’ canna leave him; a’ canna
leave him!”
“It’s hoverin’, Bell, but it hesna fallen; please God it never wull.
Gang but and get some sleep, for it’s time we were at oor wark.
“The doctors in the toons hae nurses an’ a’ kinds o’ handy
apparatus,” said MacLure to Drumsheugh when Bell had gone, “but you
an’ me ’ill need tae be nurse the nicht, an’ use sic things as we
hev.
“It ’ill be a lang nicht and anxious wark, but a’ wud raither hae
ye, auld freend, wi’ me than ony man in the Glen. Ye’re no feared
tae gie a hand?”
“Me feared? No likely. Man, Saunders cam’ tae me a haflin, an’ hes
been on Drumsheugh for twenty years, an’ though he be a dour chiel,
he’s a faithfu’ servant as ever lived. It’s waesome tae see him
lyin’ there moanin’ like some dumb animal frae mornin’ to nicht, an’
no able tae answer his ain wife when she speaks.
“Div ye think, Weelum, he hes a chance?”
“That he hes, at ony rate, and it ’ill no be your blame or mine if
he hesna mair.”
While he was speaking, MacLure took off his coat and waistcoat and
hung them on the back of the door. Then he rolled up the sleeves of
his shirt and laid bare two arms that were nothing but bone and
muscle.
“It gar’d ma very blood rin faster tae the end of ma fingers juist
tae look at him,” Drumsheugh expatiated afterwards to Hillocks, “for
a’ saw noo that there was tae be a stand-up fecht atween him an’
Deith for Saunders, and when a’ thocht o’ Bell an’ her bairns, a’
kent wha wud win.
“‘Aff wi’ yir coat, Drumsheugh,’ said MacLure; ‘ye ’ill need tae
bend yir back the nicht; gither a’ the pails in the hoose and fill
them at the spring, an’ a’ll come doon tae help ye wi’ the
carryin’.’”
It was a wonderful ascent up the steep pathway from the spring to
the cottage on its little knoll, the two men in single file,
bareheaded, silent, solemn, each with a pail of water in either
hand, MacLure limping painfully in front, Drumsheugh blowing behind;
and when they laid down their burden in the sick room, where the
bits of furniture had been put to a side and a large tub held the
centre, Drumsheugh looked curiously at the doctor.
“No, a’m no daft; ye needna be feared; but yir tae get yir first
lesson in medicine the nicht, an’ if we win the battle ye can set up
for yersel’ in the Glen.
“There’s twa dangers—that Saunders’ strength fails, an’ that the
force o’ the fever grows; and we have juist twa weapons.
“Yon milk on the drawers’ head an’ the bottle of whisky is tae keep
up the strength, and this cool caller water is tae keep doon the
fever.
“We ’ill cast oot the fever by the virtue o’ the earth an’ the
water.”
“Div ye mean tae pit Saunders in the tub?”
“Ye hiv it noo, Drumsheugh, and that’s hoo a’ need yir help.”
“Man, Hillocks,” Drumsheugh used to moralise, as often as he
remembered that critical night, “it wes humblin’ tae see how low
sickness can bring a pooerfu’ man, an’ ocht tae keep us frae pride.
“A month syne there wesna a stronger man in the Glen than Saunders,
an’ noo he wes juist a bundle o’ skin and bone, that naither saw nor
heard, nor moved nor felt, that kent naethin’ that was dune tae him.
“Hillocks, a’ wudna hae wished ony man tae hev seen Saunders—for it
wull never pass frae before ma een as long as a’ live—but a’ wish a’
the Glen hed stude by MacLure kneelin’ on the floor wi’ his sleeves
up tae his oxters and waitin’ on Saunders.
“Yon big man wes as pitifu’ an’ gentle as a wumman, and when he laid
the puir fallow in his bed again, he happit him ower as a mither dis
her bairn.”
Thrice it was done, Drumsheugh ever bringing up colder water from
the spring, and twice MacLure was silent; but after the third time
there was a gleam in his eye.
“We’re haudin’ oor ain; we’re no bein’ maistered, at ony rate; mair
a’ canna say for three oors.
“We ’ill no need the water again, Drumsheugh; gae oot and tak a
breath o’ air; a’m on gaird masel’.”
It was the hour before daybreak, and Drumsheugh wandered through the
fields he had trodden since childhood. The cattle lay sleeping in
the pastures; their shadowy forms, with a patch of whiteness here
and there, having a weird suggestion of death. He heard the burn
running over the stones; fifty years ago he had made a dam that
lasted till winter. The hooting of an owl made him start; one had
frightened him as a boy so that he ran home to his mother—she died
thirty years ago. The smell of ripe corn filled the air; it would
soon be cut and garnered. He could see the dim outlines of his
house, all dark and cold; no one he loved was beneath the roof. The
lighted window in Saunders’ cottage told where a man hung between
life and death, but love was in that home. The futility of life
arose before this lonely man, and overcame his heart with an
indescribable sadness. What a vanity was all human labor; what a
mystery all human life!
But while he stood, a subtle change came over the night, and the air
trembled round him as if one had whispered. Drumsheugh lifted his
head and looked eastward. A faint gray stole over the distant
horizon, and suddenly a cloud reddened before his eyes. The sun was
not in sight, but was rising, and sending forerunners before his
face. The cattle began to stir, a blackbird burst into song, and
before Drumsheugh crossed the threshold of Saunders’ house, the
first ray of the sun had broken on a peak of the Grampians.
MacLure left the bedside, and as the light of the candle fell on the
doctor’s face, Drumsheugh could see that it was going well with
Saunders.
“He’s nae waur; an’ it’s half six noo; it’s ower sune tae say mair,
but a’m houpin’ for the best. Sit doon and take a sleep, for ye’re
needin’ ’t, Drumsheugh, an’, man, ye hae worked for it.”
As he dozed off, the last thing Drumsheugh saw was the doctor
sitting erect in his chair, a clenched fist resting on the bed, and
his eyes already bright with the vision of victory.
He awoke with a start to find the room flooded with the morning
sunshine, and every trace of last night’s work removed.
The doctor was bending over the bed, and speaking to Saunders.
“It’s me, Saunders; Doctor MacLure, ye ken; dinna try tae speak or
move; juist let this drap milk slip ower—ye ’ill be needin’ yir
breakfast, lad—and gang tae sleep again.”
Five minutes, and Saunders had fallen into a deep, healthy sleep,
all tossing and moaning come to an end. Then MacLure stepped softly
across the floor, picked up his coat and waistcoat, and went out at
the door.
Drumsheugh arose and followed him without a word. They passed
through the little garden, sparkling with dew, and beside the byre,
where Hawkie rattled her chain, impatient for Bell’s coming, and by
Saunders’ little strip of corn ready for the scythe, till they
reached an open field. There they came to a halt, and Dr. MacLure
for once allowed himself to go.
His coat he flung east and his waistcoat west, as far as he could
hurl them, and it was plain he would have shouted had he been a
complete mile from Saunders’ room. Any less distance was useless for
adequate expression. He struck Drumsheugh a mighty blow that
well-nigh levelled that substantial man in the dust, and then the
doctor of Drumtochty issued his bulletin.
“Saunders wesna tae live through the nicht, but he’s livin’ this
meenut, an’ like to live.
“He’s got by the warst clean and fair, and wi’ him that’s as good as
cure.
“It ’ill be a graund waukenin’ for Bell; she ’ill no be a weedow
yet, nor the bairnies fatherless.
“There’s nae use glowerin’ at me, Drumsheugh, for a body’s daft at a
time, an’ a’ canna contain masel’, and a’m no gaein’ tae try.”
Then it dawned upon Drumsheugh that the doctor was attempting the
Highland fling.
“He’s ill made, tae begin wi’,” Drumsheugh explained in the kirkyard
next Sabbath, “and ye ken he’s been terrible mishannelled by
accidents, sae ye may think what like it wes, but, as sure as deith,
o’ a’ the Hielan’ flings a’ ever saw yon wes the bonniest.
“A’ hevna shaken ma ain legs for thirty years, but a’ confess tae a
turn masel’. Ye may lauch an’ ye like, neeburs, but the thocht o’
Bell an’ the news that wes waitin’ her got the better o’ me.”
Drumtochty did not laugh. Drumtochty looked as if it could have done
quite otherwise for joy.
“A’ wud hae made a third gin a’ hed been there,” announced Hillocks
aggressively.
“Come on, Drumsheugh,” said Jamie Soutar, “gie’s the end o’t; it wes
a michty mornin’.”
“‘We’re twa auld fules,’ says MacLure tae me, as he gaithers up his
claithes. ‘It wud set us better tae be tellin’ Bell.’
“She was sleepin’ on the top o’ her bed wrapped in a plaid, fair
worn oot wi’ three weeks’ nursin’ o’ Saunders, but at the first
touch she was oot upon the floor.
“‘Is Saunders deein’, doctor?’ she cries. ‘Ye promised tae wauken
me; dinna tell me it’s a’ ower.’
“There’s nae deein’ aboot him, Bell; ye’re no tae lose yir man this
time, sae far as a’ can see. Come ben an’ jidge for yersel’."
“Bell lookit at Saunders, and the tears of joy fell on the bed like
rain.
“‘The shadow’s lifted,’ she said; ‘he’s come back frae the mooth o’
the tomb.
“‘A’ prayed last nicht that the Lord wud leave Saunders till the
laddies cud dae for themselves, an’ thae words came intae ma mind,
“Weepin’ may endure for a nicht, but joy cometh in the mornin’.”
“‘The Lord heard ma prayer, and joy hes come in the mornin’,’ an’
she gripped the doctor’s hand.
“‘Ye’ve been the instrument, Doctor MacLure. Ye wudna gie him up,
and ye did what nae ither cud for him, an’ a’ve ma man the day, and
the bairns hae their father.’
“An’ afore MacLure kent what she was daein’, Bell lifted his hand to
her lips an’ kissed it.”
“Did she, though?” cried Jamie. “Wha wud hae thocht there wes as
muckle spunk in Bell?”
“MacLure, of coorse, was clean scandalised,” continued Drumsheugh,
“an’ pooed awa’ his hand as if it hed been burned.
“Nae man can thole that kind o’ fraikin’, and a’ never heard o’ sic
a thing in the parish, but we maun excuse Bell, neeburs; it wes an
occasion by ordinar,” and Drumsheugh made Bell’s apology to
Drumtochty for such an excess of feeling.
“A’ see naethin’ tae excuse,” insisted Jamie, who was in great
fettle that Sabbath; “the doctor hes never been burdened wi’ fees,
and a’m judgin’ he coonted a wumman’s gratitude that he saved frae
weedowhood the best he ever got.”
“A’ gaed up tae the Manse last nicht,” concluded Drumsheugh, “an’
telt the minister hoo the doctor focht aucht oors for Saunders’
life, an’ won, an’ ye never saw a man sae carried. He walkit up an’
doon the room a’ the time, and every other meenut he blew his nose
like a trumpet.
“‘I’ve a cold in my head to-night, Drumsheugh,’ says he; ‘never mind
me.’”
“A’ve hed the same masel’ in sic circumstances; they come on
sudden,” said Jamie.
“A’ wager there ’ill be a new bit in the laist prayer the day, an’
somethin’ worth hearin’.”
And the fathers went into kirk in great expectation.
“We beseech Thee for such as be sick, that Thy hand may be on them
for good, and that Thou wouldst restore them again to health and
strength,” was the familiar petition of every Sabbath.
The congregation waited in a silence that might be heard, and were
not disappointed that morning, for the minister continued:
“Especially we tender Thee hearty thanks that Thou didst spare Thy
servant who was brought down into the dust of death, and hast given
him back to his wife and children, and unto that end didst
wonderfully bless the skill of him who goes out and in amongst us,
the beloved physician of this parish and adjacent districts.”
“Didna a’ tell ye, neeburs?” said Jamie, as they stood at the
kirkyard gate before dispersing, “there’s no a man in the coonty cud
hae dune it better. ‘Beloved physician,’ an’ his ‘skill,’ tae, an’
bringing in ‘adjacent districts’; that’s Glen Urtach; it wes
handsome, and the doctor earned it, ay, every word.
“It’s an awfu’ peety he didna hear yon; but dear knows whar he is
the day, maist likely up——”
Jamie stopped suddenly at the sound of a horse’s feet, and there,
coming down the avenue of beech trees that made a long vista from
the kirk gate, they saw the doctor and Jess.
One thought flashed through the minds of the fathers of the
commonwealth.
It ought to be done as he passed, and it would be done if it were
not Sabbath. Of course it was out of the question on Sabbath.
The doctor is now distinctly visible, riding after his fashion.
There was never such a chance, if it were only Saturday; and each
man read his own regret in his neighbour’s face.
The doctor is nearing them rapidly; they can imagine the shepherd’s
tartan.
Sabbath or no Sabbath, the Glen cannot let him pass without some
tribute of their pride.
Jess has recognised friends, and the doctor is drawing rein.
“It hes tae be dune,” said Jamie desperately, “say what ye like.”
Then they all looked towards him, and Jamie led.
“Hurrah!” swinging his Sabbath hat in the air, “hurrah!” and once
more, “hurrah!” Whinnie Knowe, Drumsheugh, and Hillocks joining
lustily, but Tammas Mitchell carrying all before him, for he had
found at last an expression for his feelings that rendered speech
unnecessary.
It was a solitary experience for horse and rider, and Jess bolted
without delay. But the sound followed and surrounded them, and as
they passed the corner of the kirkyard, a figure waved his college
cap over the wall and gave a cheer on his own account.
“God bless you, doctor, and well done!”
“If it isna the minister,” cried Drumsheugh, “in his goon an’ bans;
tae think o’ that; but a’ respeck him for it.”
Then Drumtochty became self-conscious and went home in confusion of
face and unbroken silence, except Jamie Soutar, who faced his
neighbours at the parting of the ways without shame.
“A’ wud dae it a’ ower again if a’ hed the chance; he got naethin’
but his due.”
It was two miles before Jess composed her mind, and the doctor and
she could discuss it quietly together.
“A’ can hardly believe me ears, Jess, an’ the Sabbath tae; their
verra jidgment hes gane frae the fouk o’ Drumtochty.
“They’ve heard about Saunders, a’m thinkin’, wumman, and they’re
pleased we brocht him roond; he’s fairly on the mend, ye ken, noo.
“A’ never expeckit the like o’ this, though, and it wes juist a wee
thingie mair than a’ cud hae stude.
“Ye hev yir share in’t tae, lass; we’ve hed mony a hard nicht and
day thegither, an’ yon wes oor reward. No mony men in this warld
’ill ever get a better, for it cam’ from the hert o’ honest fouk.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE DÀN-NAN-RÒN[11]
By FIONA MACLEOD
Footnote 11:
From _The Dominion of Dreams, Under the Dark Star_. By permission
of Mrs. William Sharp. Copyright, 1910, by Duffield & Company.
WHEN Anne Gillespie, that was my friend in Eilanmore, left the
island after the death of her uncle, the old man Robert Achanna, it
was to go far west.
Among the men of the Outer Isles who for three summers past had been
at the fishing off Eilanmore there was one named Mànus MacCodrum. He
was a fine lad to see, but though most of the fisher-folk of the
Lews and North Uist are fair, either with reddish hair and grey
eyes, or blue-eyed and yellow-haired, he was of a brown skin with
dark hair and dusky brown eyes. He was, however, as unlike to the
dark Celts of Arran and the Inner Hebrides as to the northmen. He
came of his people, sure enough. All the MacCodrums of North Uist
had been brown-skinned and brown-haired and brown-eyed: and herein
may have lain the reason why, in by-gone days, this small clan of
Uist was known throughout the Western Isles as the _Sliochd non
Ròn_, the offspring of the Seals.
Not so tall as most of the men of North Uist and the Lews, Mànus
MacCodrum was of a fair height, and supple and strong. No man was a
better fisherman than he, and he was well liked of his fellows, for
all the morose gloom that was upon him at times. He had a voice as
sweet as a woman’s when he sang, and he sang often, and knew all the
old runes of the islands, from the Obb of Harris to the Head of
Mingulay. Often, too, he chanted the beautiful _orain spioradail_ of
the Catholic priests and Christian Brothers of South Uist and Barra,
though where he lived in North Uist he was the sole man who adhered
to the ancient faith.