AT THE BARN END
In a little while the cows were all milked. Saunders was standing
at the end of the barn, looking down the long valley of the
Grannoch water. There was a sweet coolness in the air, which he
vaguely recognized by taking off his hat.
"Open the yett!" cried Jess, from the byre door. Saunders heard
the clank and jangle of the neck chains of Hornie and Specky and
the rest, as they fell from their necks, loosened by Jess's hand.
The sound grew fainter and fainter as Jess proceeded to the top of
the byre where Marly stood soberly sedate and chewed her evening
cud. Now Marly did not like Jess, therefore Meg always milked her;
she would not, for some special reason of her own, "let doon her
milk" when Jess laid a finger on her. This night she only shook
her head and pushed heavily against Jess as she came.
"Hand up there, ye thrawn randy!" said Jess in byre tones.
And so very sulkily Marly moved out, looking for Meg right and
left as she did so. She had her feelings as well as any one, and
she was not the first who had been annoyed by the sly, mischievous
gipsy with the black eyes, who kept so quiet before folk. As she
went out of the byre door, Jess laid her switch smartly across
Marly's loins, much to the loss of dignity of that stately animal,
who, taking a hasty step, slipped on the threshold, and overtook
her neighbours with a slow resentment gathering in her matronly
breast.
When Saunders Mowdiewort heard the last chain drop in the byre,
and the strident tones of Jess exhorting Marly, he took a few
steps to the gate of the hill pasture. He had to pass along a
short home-made road, and over a low parapetless bridge
constructed simply of four tree-trunks laid parallel and covered
with turf. Then he dropped the bars of the gate into the hill
pasture with a clatter, which came to Winsome's ears as she stood
at her window looking out into the night. She was just thinking at
that moment what a good thing it was that she had sent back Ralph
Peden's poem. So, in order to see whether this were so or not, she
repeated it all over again to herself.
When he came back again to the end of the barn, Saunders found
Jess standing there, with the wistful light in her eyes which that
young woman of many accomplishments could summon into them as
easily as she could smile. For Jess was a minx--there is no
denying the fact. Yet even slow Saunders admitted that, though she
was nothing to Meg, of course, still there was something original
and attractive about her--like original sin.
Jess was standing with her head on one side, putting the scarlet
head of a poppy among her black hair. Jess had strange tastes,
which would be called artistic nowadays in some circles. Her
liking was always BIZARRE and excellent, the taste of the
primitive Galloway Pict from whom she was descended, or of that
picturesque Glenkens warrior, who set a rowan bush on his head on
the morning when he was to lead the van at the battle of the
Standard. Scotland was beaten on that great occasion, it is true;
but have the chroniclers, who complain of the place of Galloway
men in the ranks, thought how much more terribly Scotland might
have been beaten had Galloway not led the charge? But this is
written just because Jess Kissock, a Galloway farm lassie, looked
something like a cast back to the primitive Pict of the south, a
fact which indeed concerns the story not at all, for Saunders
Mowdiewort had not so much as ever heard of a Pict.
Jess did not regard Saunders Mowdiewort highly at any time. He was
one of Meg's admirers, but after all he was a man, and one can
never tell. It was for this reason that she put the scarlet poppy
into her hair.
She meditated "I maybe haena Meg's looks to the notion o' some
folk, but I mak' a heap better use o' the looks that I hae, an'
that is a great maitter!"
"Saunders," said Jess softly, going up to the Cuif and pretending
to pick a bit of heather off his courting coat. She did this with
a caressing touch which soothed the widower, and made him wish
that Meg would do the like. He began to think that he had never
properly valued Jess.
"Is Meg comin' oot again?" Jess inquired casually, the scarlet
poppy set among the blue-black raven's wings, and brushing his
beard in a distracting manner.
Saunders would hare given a good deal to be able to reply in the
affirmative, but Meg had dismissed him curtly after the milking,
with the intimation that it was time he was making manseward. As
for her, she was going within doors to put the old folks to bed.
After being satisfied on this point the manner of Jess was
decidedly soothing. That young woman had a theory which was not
quite complimentary either to the sense or the incorruptibility of
men. It was by showing an interest in them and making them think
that they (or at least the one being operated upon) are the
greatest and most fascinating persons under the sun, almost
anything can be done. This theory has been acted upon with results
good and bad, in other places besides the barn end of Craig
Ronald.
"They're a' weel at the Manse?" said Jess, tentatively.
"On aye," said Saunders, looking round the barn end to see if Meg
could see him. Satisfied that Meg was safe in bed, Saunders put
his hand on Jess's shoulder--the sleek-haired, candle-greased
deceiver that he was.
"Jess, ye're bonny," said he.
"Na, na," said Jess, very demurely, "it's no me that's bonny--its
Meg!"
Jess was still looking at him, and interested in getting all the
rough wool off the collar of his homespun coat.
The Samson of the graveyard felt his strength deserting him.
"Davert, Jess lass, but it's a queer thing that it never cam
across me that ye were bonny afore!"
Jess looked down. The Cuif thought that it was because she was
shy, and his easy heart went out to her; but had he seen the smile
that was wasted on a hopping sparrow beneath, and especially the
wicked look in the black eyes, he might have received some
information as to the real sentiments of girls who put red poppies
in their hair in order to meet their sisters' sweethearts at the
barn end.
"Is the young minister aye bidin' at the Manse?" asked Jess.
"Aye, he is that!" said Saunders, "he's a nice chiel' yon. Ye'll
see him whiles ower by here. They say--that is Manse Bell says--
that he's real fond o' yer young mistress here. Ken ye ocht aboot
that, Jess?"
"Hoots, havers, our young mistress is no for penniless students, I
wot weel. There'll be nocht in't, an' sae ye can tell Bell o' the
Manse, gin you an' her is so chief [intimate]."
"Very likely ye're richt. There'll be nocht in't, I'm thinkin'--at
least on her side. But what o' the young man? D'ye think he's sair
ta'en up aboot Mistress Winsome? Meg was sayin' so."
"Meg thinks there's naebody worth lookin' at in the warl' but
hersel' and Mistress Winifred Charteris, as she ca's hersel'; but
there's ithers thinks different."
"What hae ye against her, Jess? I thocht that she's a fell fine
young leddy."
"Oh she's richt eneuch, but there's bonny lasses as weel as her;
an' maybe, gin young Maister Peden comes ower by to Oraig Eonald
to see a lass nnkenned o' a'--what faut wad there be in that?"
"Then it's Meg he comes to see, and no' the young mistress?" said
the alarmed grave-digger.
"Maybes aye an' maybes no--there's bonny lasses forby Meg Kissock
for them that hae gotten een in their heads."
"Wi' Jess! Is't yerself?" said Saunders.
Jess was discreetly silent.
"Ye'll no tell onybody, wull ye, Maister Mowdiewort?" she said
anxiously.
To Saunders this was a great deal better than being called a
"Cuif."
"Na, Jess, lass, I'll no tell a soul--no yin."
"No' even Meg-mind!" repeated Jess, who felt that this was a vital
point.
So Saunders promised, though he had intended to do so on the first
opportunity.
"Mind, if ye do, I'll never gie ye a hand wi' Meg again as lang as
I leeve!" said Jess emphatically.
"Jess, d'ye think she likes me?" asked the widower in a hushed
whisper.
"Saunders, I'm jnist sure o't," replied Jess with great readiness.
"But she's no yin o' the kind to let on."
"Na," groaned Saunders, "I wuss to peace she was. But ye mind me
that I gat a letter frae the young minister that I was to gie to
Meg. But as you're the yin he comes to see, I maun as weel gie't
direct to yoursel'."
"It wad be as weel," said Jess, with a strange sort of sea-fire
like moonshine in her eyes.
Saunders passed over a paper to her readily, and Jess, with her
hand still on his coat-collar, in a way that Meg had never used,
thanked him in her own way.
"Juist bide a wee," she said; "I'll be wi' ye in a minute!"
Jess hurried down into the old square-plotted garden, which ran up
to the orchard trees. She soon found a moss-rose bush from which
she selected a bud, round which the soft feathery envelope was
just beginning to curl back. Then she went round by the edge of
the brook which keeps damp one side of the orchard, where she
found some single stems of forget-me-nots, shining in the dusk
like beaded turquoise. She pulled some from the bottom of the
half-dry ditch, and setting the pale moss-rosebud in the middle,
she bound the whole together with a striped yellow and green
withe. Then snipping the stacks with her pocket scissors, she
brought the posy to Saunders, with instructions to wrap it in a
dock-leaf and never to let his hands touch it the whole way.
Saunders, dazed and fascinated, forgetful even of Meg and loyalty,
promised. The glamour of Jess, the gypsy, was upon him.
"But what am I to say," he asked.
"Say its frae her that he sent the letter to; he'll ken brawly
that Meg hadna the gumption to send him that!" said Jess candidly.
Saunders said his good-night in a manner which would certainly
have destroyed all his chances with Meg had she witnessed the
parting. Then he stolidly tramped away down the loaning.
Jess called after him, struck with a sudden thought. "See that ye
dinna gie it to him afore the minister."
Then she put her hands beneath her apron and walked home
meditating. "To be a man is to be a fool," said Jess Kissock,
putting her whole experience into a sentence. Jess was a daughter
of the cot; put then she was also a daughter of Eve, who had not
even so much as a cot.