THE GAMEKEEPER.
The second winter came, and with the first frost Gibbie resumed
his sheepskin coat and the brogues and leggings which he had made
for himself of deer-hide tanned with the hair. It pleased the two
old people to see him so warmly clad. It pleased them also that,
thus dressed, he always reminded them of some sacred personage
undetermined--Jacob, or John the Baptist, or the man who went to meet
the lion and be killed by him--in Robert’s big Bible, that is, in one
or other of the woodcuts of the same. Very soon the stories about him
were all stirred up afresh, and new rumours added. This one and that of
the children declared they had caught sight of the beast-loon, running
about the rocks like a goat; and one day a boy of Angus’s own, who had
been a good way up the mountain, came home nearly dead with terror,
saying the beast-loon had chased him a long way. He did not add that he
had been throwing stones at the sheep, not perceiving any one in charge
of them. So, one fine morning in December, having nothing particular
to attend to, Angus shouldered his double-barrelled gun, and set out
for a walk over Glashgar, in the hope of coming upon the savage that
terrified the children. He must be off. That was settled. Where Angus
was in authority, the outlandish was not to be suffered. The sun shone
bright, and a keen wind was blowing.
About noon he came in sight of a few sheep, in a sheltered spot, where
were little patches of coarse grass among the heather. On a stone, a
few yards above them, sat Gibbie, not reading, as he would be half
the time now, but busied with a Pan’s-pipes--which, under Donal’s
direction, he had made for himself--drawing from them experimental
sounds, and feeling after the possibility of a melody. He was so much
occupied that he did not see Angus approach, who now stood for a moment
or two regarding him. He was hirsute as Esau, his head crowned with its
own plentiful crop--even in winter he wore no cap--his body covered
with the wool of the sheep, and his legs and feet with the hide of the
deer--the hair, as in nature, outward. The deer-skin Angus knew for
what it was from afar, and concluding it the spoil of the only crime
of which he recognized the enormity, whereas it was in truth part of
a skin he had himself sold to a saddler in the next village, to make
sporrans of, boiled over with wrath, and strode nearer, grinding his
teeth. Gibbie looked up, knew him, and starting to his feet, turned
to the hill. Angus, levelling his gun, shouted to him to stop, but
Gibbie only ran the harder, nor once looked round. Idiotic with rage,
Angus fired. One of his barrels was loaded with shot, the other with
ball: meaning to use the shot barrel, he pulled the wrong trigger,
and liberated the bullet. It went through the calf of Gibbie’s right
leg, and he fell. It had, however, passed between two muscles without
injuring either greatly, and had severed no artery. The next moment
he was on his feet again and running, nor did he yet feel pain.
Happily he was not very far from home, and he made for it as fast as
he could--preceded by Oscar, who, having once by accident been shot
himself, had a mortal terror of guns. Maimed as Gibbie was, he could
yet run a good deal faster up hill than the rascal who followed him.
But long before he reached the cottage, the pain had arrived, and
the nearer he got to it the worse it grew. In spite of the anguish,
however, he held on with determination; to be seized by Angus and
dragged down to Glashruach, would be far worse.
Robert Grant was at home that day, suffering from rheumatism. He was
seated in the _ingle-neuk_, with his pipe in his mouth, and Janet was
just taking the potatoes for their dinner off the fire, when the door
flew open, and in stumbled Gibbie, and fell on the floor. The old man
threw his pipe from him, and rose trembling, but Janet was before him.
She dropt down on her knees beside the boy, and put her arm under his
head. He was white and motionless.
“Eh, Robert Grant!” she cried, “he’s bleedin’.”
The same moment they heard quick yet heavy steps approaching. At once
Robert divined the truth, and a great wrath banished rheumatism and age
together. Like a boy he sprang to the _crap o’ the wa’_, whence his
yet powerful hand came back armed with a huge rusty old broad-sword
that had seen service in its day. Two or three fierce tugs at the hilt
proving the blade immovable in the sheath, and the steps being now
almost at the door, he clubbed the weapon, grasping it by the sheathed
blade, and holding it with the edge downward, so that the blow he meant
to deal should fall from the round of the basket hilt. As he heaved it
aloft, the gray old shepherd seemed inspired by the god of battles; the
rage of a hundred ancestors was welling up in his peaceful breast. His
red eye flashed, and the few hairs that were left him stood erect on
his head like the mane of a roused lion. Ere Angus had his second foot
over the threshold, down came the helmet-like hilt with a dull crash on
his head, and he staggered against the wall.
“Tak ye that, Angus MacPholp!” panted Robert through his clenched
teeth, following the blow with another from his fist, that prostrated
the enemy. Again he heaved his weapon, and standing over him where he
lay, more than half-stunned, said in a hoarse voice,
“By the great God my maker, Angus MacPholp, gien ye seek to rise, I’ll
come doon on ye again as ye lie!--Here, Oscar!--He’s no ane to haud ony
fair play wi’, mair nor a brute beast.--Watch him, Oscar, and tak him
by the thro’t gien he muv a finger.”
The gun had dropped from Angus’s hand, and Robert, keeping his eye on
him, secured it.
“She’s lodd,” muttered Angus.
“Lie still than,” returned Robert, pointing the weapon at his head.
“It’ll be murder,” said Angus, and made a movement to lay hold of the
barrel.
“Haud him doon, Oscar,” cried Robert. The dog’s paws were instantly on
his chest, and his teeth grinning within an inch of his face. Angus
vowed in his heart he would kill the beast on the first chance. “It wad
be but blude for blude, Angus MacPholp,” he went on. “Yer hoor’s come,
my man. That bairn’s is no the first blude o’ man ye hae shed, an’ it’s
time the Scripture was fulfillt, an’ the han’ o’ man shed yours.”
“Ye’re no gauin’ to kill me, Rob Grant?” growled the fellow in growing
fright.
“I’m gauin’ to see whether the shirra’ winna be perswaudit to hang ye,”
answered the shepherd. “This maun be putten a stap till.--Quaiet! or
I’ll brain ye, an’ save him the trouble.--Here, Janet, fess yer pot o’
pitawtas. I’m gauin’ to toom the man’s gun. Gien he daur to muv, jist
gie him the haill bilin’, bree an a’, i’ the ill face o’ ’im; gien ye
lat him up he’ll kill ’s a’; only tak care an’ haud aff o’ the dog,
puir fallow!--I wad lay the stock o’ yer murderin’ gun i’ the fire gien
’twarna ’at I reckon it’s the laird’s an’ no yours. Ye’re no fit to be
trustit wi’ a gun. Ye’re waur nor a weyver.”
So saying he carried the weapon to the door, and, in terror lest he
might, through wrath or the pressure of dire necessity, use it against
his foe, emptied its second barrel into the earth, and leaned it up
against the wall outside.
Janet obeyed her husband so far as to stand over Angus with the
potato-pot: how far she would have carried her obedience had he
attempted to rise may remain a question. Doubtless a brave man doing
his duty would have scorned to yield himself thus; but right and wrong
had met face to face, and the wrong had a righteous traitor in his
citadel.
When Robert returned and relieved her guard, Janet went back to Gibbie,
whom she had drawn towards the fire. He lay almost insensible, but in
vain Janet attempted to get a teaspoonful of whisky between his lips.
For as he grew older, his horror of it increased; and now, even when he
was faint and but half conscious, his physical nature seemed to recoil
from contact with it. It was with signs of disgust, rubbing his mouth
with the back of each hand alternately, that he first showed returning
vitality. In a minute or two more he was able to crawl to his bed in
the corner, and then Janet proceeded to examine his wound.
By this time his leg was much swollen, but the wound had almost stopped
bleeding, and it was plain there was no bullet in it, for there were
the two orifices. She washed it carefully and bound it up. Then Gibbie
raised his head and looked somewhat anxiously round the room.
“Ye’re luikin’ efter Angus?” said Janet; “he’s yon’er upo’ the flure, a
twa yairds frae ye. Dinna be fleyt; yer father an’ Oscar hae him safe
eneuch, I s’ warran’.”
“Here, Janet!” cried her husband; “gien ye be throu’ wi’ the bairn, I
maun be gauin’.”
“Hoots, Robert! ye’re no surely gauin’ to lea’ me an’ puir Gibbie, ’at
maunna stir, i’ the hoose oor lanes wi’ the murderin’ man!” returned
Janet.
“’Deed am I, lass! Jist rin and fess the bit tow ’at ye hing yer duds
upo’ at the washin’, an’ we’ll bin’ the feet an’ the han’s o’ ’im.”
Janet obeyed and went. Angus, who had been quiet enough for the last
ten minutes, meditating and watching, began to swear furiously, but
Robert paid no more heed than if he had not heard him--stood calm and
grim at his head, with the clubbed sword heaved over his shoulder.
When she came back, by her husband’s directions, she passed the rope
repeatedly round the keeper’s ankles, then several times between them,
drawing the bouts tightly together, so that, instead of the two sharing
one ring, each ankle had now, as it were, a close-fitting one for
itself. Again and again, as she tied it, did Angus meditate a sudden
spring, but the determined look of Robert, and his feeling memory of
the blows he had so unsparingly delivered upon him, as well as the
weakening effect of that he had received on his head, caused him to
hesitate until it was altogether too late. When they began to bind his
hands, however, he turned desperate, and struck at both, cursing and
raging.
“Gien ye binna quaiet, ye s’ taste the dog’s teeth,” said
Robert.--Angus reflected that he would have a better chance when he
was left alone with Janet, and yielded.--“Troth!” Robert went on, as
he continued his task, “I hae no pity left for ye, Angus MacPholp; an’
gien ye tyauve ony mair, I’ll lat at ye. I wad care no more to caw oot
yer harns nor I wad to kill a tod (_fox_). To be hangt for ’t, I wad be
but prood. It’s a fine thing to be hangt for a guid cause, but ye’ll
be hangt for an ill ane.--Noo, Janet, fess a bun’le o’ brackens frae
the byre, an’ lay aneth ’s heid. We maunna be sairer upo’ him, nor the
needcessity laid upo’ his. I s’ jist trail him aff o’ the door, an’
a bit on to the fire, for he’ll be caul’ whan he’s quaitet doon, an’
syne I’ll awa an’ get word o’ the shirra’. Scotlan’s come till a pretty
pass, whan they shot men wi’ guns, as gien they war wull craturs to be
peelt an’ aiten. Care what set him! He may weel be a keeper o’ ghem,
for he’s as ill a keeper o’ ’s brither as auld Cain himsel’. But,” he
concluded, tying the last knot hard, “we’ll e’en dee what we can to
keep the keeper.”
It was seldom Robert spoke at such length, but the provocation, the
wrath, the conflict, and the victory, had sent the blood rushing
through his brain, and loosed his tongue like strong drink.
“Ye’ll tak yer denner afore ye gang, Robert,” said his wife.
“Na, I can ait naething; I’ll tak a bannock i’ my pooch. Ye can gie my
denner to Angus: he’ll want hertenin’ for the wuddie (_gallows_).”
So saying he put the bannock in his pocket, flung his broad blue bonnet
upon his head, took his stick, and ordering Oscar to remain at home
and watch the prisoner, set out for a walk of five miles, as if he had
never known such a thing as rheumatism. He must find another magistrate
than the laird; he would not trust him where his own gamekeeper, Angus
MacPholp, was concerned.
“Keep yer ee upo’ him, Janet,” he said, turning in the doorway. “Dinna
lowse sicht o’ him afore I come back wi’ the constable. Dinna lippen. I
s’ be back in three hoors like.”
With these words he turned finally, and disappeared.
The mortification of Angus as he lay thus trapped in the den of the
beast-loon, at being taken and bound by an old man, a woman, and a
collie dog, was extreme. He went over the whole affair again and
again in his mind, ever with a fresh burst of fury. It was in vain
he excused himself on the ground that the attack had been so sudden
and treacherous, and the precautions taken so complete. He had proved
himself an ass, and the whole country would ring with mockery of him!
He had sense enough, too, to know that he was in a serious as well as
ludicrous predicament: he had scarcely courage enough to contemplate
the possible result. If he could but get his hands free, it would be
easy to kill Oscar and disable Janet. For the idiot, he counted him
nothing. He had better wait, however, until there should be no boiling
liquid ready to her hand.
Janet set out the dinner, peeled some potatoes, and approaching Angus,
would have fed him. In place of accepting her ministration, he fell to
abusing her with the worst language he could find. She withdrew without
a word, and sat down to her own dinner; but, finding the torrent of
vituperation kept flowing, rose again, and going to the door, fetched
a great jug of cold water from the pail that always stood there, and
coming behind her prisoner, emptied it over his face. He gave a horrid
yell taking the douche for a boiling one.
“Ye needna cry oot like that at guid caul’ watter,” said Janet. “But
ye’ll jist absteen frae ony mair sic words i’ my hearin’, or ye s’ get
the like ilka time ye brak oot.” As she spoke, she knelt, and wiped his
face and head with her apron.
A fresh oath rushed to Angus’s lips, but the fear of a second jugful
made him suppress it, and Janet sat down again to her dinner. She could
scarcely eat a mouthful, however, for pity of the rascal beside her,
at whom she kept looking wistfully without daring again to offer him
anything.
While she sat thus, she caught a swift investigating look he cast on
the cords that bound his hands, and then at the fire. She perceived
at once what was passing in his mind. Rising, she went quickly to the
byre, and returned immediately with a chain they used for tethering the
cow. The end of it she slipt deftly round his neck, and made it fast,
putting the little bar through a link.
“Ir ye gauin’ to hang me, ye she-deevil?” he cried, making a futile
attempt to grasp the chain with his bound hands.
“Ye’ll be wantin’ a drappy mair caul’ watter, I’m thinkin’,” said Janet.
She stretched the chain to its length, and with a great stone drove the
sharp iron stake at the other end of it, into the clay-floor. Fearing
next that, bound as his hands were, he might get a hold of the chain
and drag out the stake, or might even contrive to remove the rope from
his feet with them, or that he might indeed with his teeth undo the
knot that confined his hands themselves--she got a piece of rope, and
made a loop at the end of it, then watching her opportunity passed the
loop between his hands, noosed the other end through it, and drew the
noose tight. The free end of the rope she put through the staple that
received the bolt of the cottage-door, and gradually, as he grew weary
in pulling against her, tightened the rope until she had his arms at
their stretch beyond his head. Not quite satisfied yet, she lastly
contrived, in part by setting Oscar to occupy his attention, to do
the same with his feet, securing them to a heavy chest in the corner
opposite the door, upon which chest she heaped a pile of stones. If
it pleased the Lord to deliver them from this man, she would have her
honest part in the salvation! And now at last she believed she had him
safe.
Gibbie had fallen asleep, but he now woke and she gave him his dinner;
then _redd up_, and took her Bible. Gibbie had lain down again, and she
thought he was asleep.
Angus grew more and more uncomfortable, both in body and in mind. He
knew he was hated throughout the country, and had hitherto rather
enjoyed the knowledge; but now he judged that the popular feeling, by
no means a mere prejudice, would tell against him committed for trial.
He knew also that the magistrate to whom Robert had betaken himself,
was not over friendly with his master, and certainly would not listen
to any intercession from him. At length, what with pain, hunger, and
fear, his pride began to yield, and, after an hour had passed in utter
silence, he condescended to parley.
“Janet Grant,” he said, “lat me gang, an’ I’ll trouble you or yours no
more.”
“Wadna ye think me some fule to hearken till ye?” suggested Janet.
“I’ll sweir ony lawfu’ aith ’at ye like to lay upo’ me,” protested
Angus, “’at I’ll dee whatever ye please to require o’ me.”
“I dinna doobt ye wad sweir; but what neist?” said Janet.
“What neist but ye’ll lowse my han’s?” rejoined Angus.
“It’s no mainner o’ use mentionin’ ’t,” replied Janet; “for, as ye
ken, I’m un’er authority, an’ yersel’ h’ard my man tell me to tak unco
percaution no to lat ye gang; for verily, Angus, ye hae conduckit
yersel’ this day more like ane possessed wi’ a legion, than the douce
faimily man ’at ye’re supposit by the laird, yer maister, to be.”
“Was ever man,” protested Angus “made sic a fule o’, an’ sae misguidit,
by a pair o’ auld cottars like you an’ Robert Grant!”
“Wi’ the help o’ the Lord, by means o’ the dog,” supplemented Janet. “I
wuss frae my hert I hed the great reid draigon i’ yer place, an’ I wad
watch him bonnie, I can tell ye, Angus MacPholp. I wadna be clear aboot
giein’ _him_ his denner, Angus.”
“Lat me gang, wuman, wi’ yer reid draigons! I’ll hairm naebody. The
puir idiot’s no muckle the waur, an’ I’ll tak mair tent whan I fire
anither time.”
“Wiser fowk nor me maun see to that,” answered Janet.
“Hoots, wuman! it was naething but an accident.”
“I kenna; but it’ll be seen what Gibbie says.”
“Awva! his word’s guid for naething.”
“For a penny, or a thoosan’ poun’.”
“My wife ’ll be oot o’ her wuts,” pleaded Angus.
“Wad ye like a drink o’ milk?” asked Janet, rising.
“I wad that,” he answered.
She filled her little teapot with milk, and he drank it from the spout,
hoping she was on the point of giving way.
“Noo,” she said, when he had finished his draught, “ye maun jist mak
the best o’ it, Angus. Ony gait, it’s a guid lesson in patience to ye,
an’ that ye haena had ower aften, I’m thinkin’--Robert’ll be here er
lang.”
With these words she set down the teapot, and went out: it was time to
milk her cow.
In a little while Gibbie rose, tried to walk, but failed, and getting
down on his hands and knees, crawled out after her. Angus caught a
glimpse of his face as he crept past him, and then first recognized
the boy he had lashed. Not compunction, but an occasional pang of
dread lest he should have been the cause of his death, and might come
upon his body in one of his walks, had served so to fix his face in
his memory, that, now he had a near view of him, pale with suffering
and loss of blood and therefore more like his former self, he knew him
beyond a doubt. With a great shoot of terror he concluded that the
idiot had been lying there silently gloating over his revenge, waiting
only till Janet should be out of sight, and was now gone after some
instrument wherewith to take it. He pulled and tugged at his bonds, but
only to find escape absolutely hopeless. In gathering horror, he lay
moveless at last, but strained his hearing towards every sound.
Not only did Janet often pray with Gibbie, but sometimes as she
read, her heart would grow so full, her soul be so pervaded with the
conviction, perhaps the consciousness, of the presence of the man who
had said he would be always with his friends, that, sitting there on
her stool, she would begin talking to him out of the very depth of
her life, just as if she saw him in Robert’s chair in the ingle-neuk,
at home in her cottage as in the house where Mary sat at his feet and
heard his word. Then would Gibbie listen indeed, awed by very gladness.
He never doubted that Jesus was there, or that Janet saw him all the
time although he could not.
This custom of praying aloud, she had grown into so long before Gibbie
came to her, and he was so much and such a child, that his presence
was no check upon the habit. It came in part from the intense reality
of her belief, and was in part a willed fostering of its intensity.
She never imagined that words were necessary; she believed that God
knew her every thought, and that the moment she lifted up her heart,
it entered into communion with him; but the very sound of the words
she spoke seemed to make her feel nearer to the man who, being the
eternal Son of the Father, yet had ears to hear and lips to speak, like
herself. To talk to him aloud, also kept her thoughts together, helped
her to feel the fact of the things she contemplated, as well as the
reality of his presence.
Now the byre was just on the other side of the turf wall against which
was the head of Gibbie’s bed, and through the wall Gibbie had heard her
voice, with that something in the tone of it which let him understand
she was not talking to Crummie, but to Crummie’s maker; and it was
therefore he had got up and gone after her. For there was no reason, so
far as he knew or imagined, why he should not hear, as so many times
before, what she was saying to the Master. He supposed that as she
could not well speak to him in the presence of a man like Angus, she
had gone out to the byre to have her talk with him there. He crawled
to the end of the cottage so silently that she heard no sound of his
approach. He would not go into the byre, for that might disturb her,
for she would have to look up to know that it was only Gibbie; he
would listen at the door. He found it wide open, and peeping in, saw
Crummie chewing away, and Janet on her knees with her forehead leaning
against the cow and her hands thrown up over her shoulder. She spoke
in such a voice of troubled entreaty as he had never heard from her
before, but which yet woke a strange vibration of memory in his deepest
heart.--Yes, it was his father’s voice it reminded him of! So had he
cried in prayer the last time he ever heard him speak. What she said
was nearly this:
“O Lord, gien ye wad but say what ye wad hae deen! Whan a body disna
ken yer wull, she’s jist driven to distraction. Thoo knows, my Maister,
as weel ’s I can tell ye, ’at gien ye said till me, ‘That man’s gauin’
to cut yer thro’t: tak the tows frae him, an’ lat him up,’ I wad rin
to dee ’t. It’s no revenge, Lord; it’s jist ’at I dinna ken. The man’s
dune me no ill, ’cep as he’s sair hurtit yer bonnie Gibbie. It’s Gibbie
’at has to forgie ’im, an’ syne me. But my man tellt me no to lat him
up, an’ hoo am I to be a wife sic as ye wad hae, O Lord, gien I dinna
dee as my man tellt me! It wad ill befit me to lat my auld Robert gang
sae far wantin’ his denner, a’ for naething. What wad he think whan
he cam hame! Of coorse, Lord, gien ye tellt me, that wad mak a’ the
differ, for ye’re Robert’s maister as weel ’s mine, an’ your wull wad
saitisfee him jist as weel ’s me. I wad fain lat him gang, puir chiel!
but I daurna. Lord, convert him to the trowth. Lord, lat him ken what
hate is.--But eh, Lord! I wuss ye wad tell me what to du. Thy wull’s
the beginnin’ an’ mids an’ en’ o’ a’ thing to me. I’m wullin’ eneuch
to lat him gang, but he’s Robert’s pris’ner an’ Gibbie’s enemy; he’s
no my pris’ner an’ no my enemy, an’ I dinna think I hae the richt. An’
wha kens but he micht gang shottin’ mair fowk yet, ’cause I loot him
gang!--But he canna shot a hare wantin’ thy wull, O Jesus, the Saviour
o’ man an’ beast; an’ ill wad I like to hae a han’ i’ the hangin’ o’
’im. He may deserve ’t, Lord, I dinna ken; but I’m thinkin’ ye made him
no sae weel tempered--as my Robert, for enstance.”
Here her voice ceased, and she fell a moaning.
Her trouble was echoed in dim pain from Gibbie’s soul. That the
prophetess who knew everything, the priestess who was at home in the
very treasure-house of the great king, should be thus abandoned to
dire perplexity, was a dreadful, a bewildering fact. But now first he
understood the real state of the affair in the purport of the old man’s
absence; also how he was himself potently concerned in the business:
if the offence had been committed against Gibbie, then with Gibbie lay
the power, therefore the duty of forgiveness. But verily Gibbie’s merit
and his grace were in inverse ratio. Few things were easier to him
than to love his enemies, and his merit in obeying the commandment was
small indeed. No enemy had as yet done him, in his immediate person,
the wrong he could even imagine it hard to forgive. No sooner had Janet
ceased than he was on his way back to the cottage: on its floor lay one
who had to be waited upon with forgiveness.
Wearied with futile struggles, Angus found himself compelled to abide
his fate, and was lying quite still when Gibbie re-entered. The boy
thought he was asleep, but on the contrary he was watching his every
motion, full of dread. Gibbie went hopping upon one foot to the hole
in the wall where Janet kept the only knife she had. It was not there.
He glanced round, but could not see it. There was no time to lose.
Robert’s returning steps might be heard any moment, and poor Angus
might be hanged--only for shooting Gibbie! He hopped up to him and
examined the knots that tied his hands: they were drawn so tight--in
great measure by his own struggles--and so difficult to reach from
their position, that he saw it would take him a long time to undo them.
Angus thought, with fresh horror, he was examining them to make sure
they would hold, and was so absorbed in watching his movements that
he even forgot to curse, which was the only thing left him. Gibbie
looked round again for a moment, as if in doubt, then darted upon the
tongs--there was no poker--and thrust them into the fire, caught up the
asthmatic old bellows, and began to blow the peats. Angus saw the first
action, heard the second, and a hideous dismay clutched his very heart:
the savage fool was about to take his revenge in pinches with the
red hot tongs! He looked for no mercy--perhaps felt that he deserved
none. Manhood held him silent until he saw him take the implement of
torture from the fire, glowing, not red but white hot, when he uttered
such a terrific yell, that Gibbie dropped the tongs--happily not the
hot ends--on his own bare foot, but caught them up again instantly,
and made a great hop to Angus: if Janet had heard that yell and came
in, all would be spoilt. But the faithless keeper began to struggle
so fiercely, writhing with every contortion, and kicking with every
inch, left possible to him, that Gibbie hardly dared attempt anything
for dread of burning him, while he sent yell after yell “as fast as
mill-wheels strike.” With a sudden thought Gibbie sprang to the door
and locked it, so that Janet should not get in, and Angus, hearing the
bolt, was the more convinced that his purpose was cruel, and struggled
and yelled, with his eyes fixed on the glowing tongs, now fast cooling
in Gibbie’s hand. If instead of glowering at the tongs, he had but
lent one steadfast regard to the face of the boy whom he took for a
demoniacal idiot, he would have seen his supposed devil smile the
sweetest of human, troubled, pitiful smiles. Even then, I suspect,
however, his eye being evil, he would have beheld in the smile only the
joy of malice in the near prospect of a glut of revenge.
In the mean time Janet, in her perplexity, had, quite forgetful of the
poor cow’s necessities, abandoned Crummie, and wandered down the path
as far as the shoulder her husband must cross ascending from the other
side: thither, a great rock intervening, so little of Angus’s cries
reached, that she heard nothing through the deafness of her absorbing
appeal for direction to her shepherd, the master of men.
Gibbie thrust the tongs again into the fire, and while blowing it,
bethought him that it might give Angus confidence if he removed the
chain from his neck. He laid down the bellows, and did so. But to Angus
the action seemed only preparatory to taking him by the throat with
the horrible implement. In his agony and wild endeavour to frustrate
the supposed intent, he struggled harder than ever. But now Gibbie was
undoing the rope fastened round the chest. This Angus did not perceive,
and when it came suddenly loose in the midst of one of his fierce
straining contortions, the result was that he threw his body right over
his head, and lay on his face for a moment confused. Gibbie saw his
advantage. He snatched his clumsy tool out of the fire, seated himself
on the corresponding part of Angus’s person, and seizing with the tongs
the rope between his feet, held on to both, in spite of his heaves and
kicks. In the few moments that passed while Gibbie burned through a
round of the rope, Angus imagined a considerable number of pangs; but
when Gibbie rose and hopped away, he discovered that his feet were at
liberty, and scrambled up, his head dizzy, and his body reeling. But
such was then the sunshine of delight in Gibbie’s countenance that
even Angus stared at him for a moment--only, however, with a vague
reflection on the inconsequentiality of idiots, to which succeeded the
impulse to take vengeance upon him for his sufferings. But Gibbie still
had the tongs, and Angus’s hands were still tied. He held them out to
him. Gibbie pounced upon the knots with hands and teeth. They occupied
him some little time, during which Angus was almost compelled to take
better cognizance of the face of the savage; and dull as he was to the
good things of human nature, he was yet in a measure subdued by what
he there looked upon rather than perceived; while he could scarcely
mistake the hearty ministration of his teeth and nails! The moment his
hands were free, Gibbie looked up at him with a smile, and Angus did
not even box his ears. Holding by the wall, Gibbie limped to the door
and opened it. With a nod meant for thanks, the gamekeeper stepped out,
took up his gun from where it leaned against the wall, and hurried away
down the hill. A moment sooner and he would have met Janet; but she had
just entered the byre again to milk poor Crummie.
When she came into the cottage, she stared with astonishment to see
no Angus on the floor. Gibbie, who had lain down again in much pain,
made signs that he had let him go: whereupon such a look of relief came
over her countenance that he was filled with fresh gladness, and was if
possible more satisfied still with what he had done.
It was late before Robert returned--alone, weary, and disappointed. The
magistrate was from home; he had waited for him as long as he dared;
but at length, both because of his wife’s unpleasant position, and the
danger to himself if he longer delayed his journey across the mountain,
seeing it threatened a storm, and there was no moon, he set out. That
he too was relieved to find no Angus there, he did not attempt to
conceal. The next day he went to see him, and told him that, to please
Gibbie, he had consented to say nothing more about the affair. Angus
could not help being sullen, but he judged it wise to behave as well as
he could, kept his temper therefore, and said he was sorry he had been
so hasty, but that Robert had punished him pretty well, for it would
be weeks before he recovered the blow on the head he had given him. So
they parted on tolerable terms, and there was no further persecution of
Gibbie from that quarter.
It was some time before he was able to be out again, but no hour spent
with Janet was lost.