THAT GIPSY JESS.
Saunders took Ralph's letter to Craig Ronald with him earlier that
night than usual, as Ralph had desired him. At the high hill gate,
standing directing the dogs to gather the cows off the hill for
milking, he met Jess.
"Hae ye ouy news, Saunders?" she asked, running down to the little
foot-bridge to meet him. Saunders took it as a compliment; and,
indeed, it was done with a kind of elfish grace, which cast a
glamour over his eyes. But Jess, who never did anything without a
motive, really ran down to be out of sight of Ebie Farrish, who
stood looking at her from within the stable door.
"Here's a letter for ye, Jess," Saunders said, importantly,
handing her Ralph's letter. "He seemed rale agitatit when he
brocht it in to me, but I cheered him up by tellin' him how ye wad
dreel him wi' the besom-shank gin he waur to gang to the Black
Bull i' the forenichts."
"Gang to the Black Bull!--what div ye mean, ye gomeril?--Saunders
I mean; ye ken weel that Maister Peden wadna gang to ony Black
Bull."
"Weel, na, I ken that; it was but a mainner o' speakin'; but I can
see that he's fair daft ower ye, Jess. I ken the signs o' love as
weel as onybody. But hoo's Meg--an' do ye think she likes me ony
better?"
"She was speakin' aboot ye only this mornin'," answered Jess
pleasantly, "she said that ye waur a rale solid, sensible man, no
a young ne'er-do-weel that naebody kens whaur he'll be by the
Martinmas term."
"Did Meg say that!" cried Saunders in high delight, "Ye see what
it is to be a sensible woman. An' whaur micht she be noo?"
Now Jess knew that Meg was churning the butter, with Jock Forrest
to help her, in the milk-house, but it did not suit her to say so.
Jess always told the truth when it suited as well as anything
else; if not, then it was a pity.
"Meg's ben the hoose wi' the auld fowk the noo," she said, "but
she'll soon be oot. Juist bide a wee an' bind the kye for me."
Down the brae face from the green meadowlets that fringed the moor
came the long procession of cows. Swinging a little from side to
side, they came--black Galloways, and the red and white breed of
Ayrshire in single file--the wavering piebald line following the
intricacies of the path. Each full-fed, heavy-uddered mother of
the herd came marching full matronly with stately tread, blowing
her flower-perfumed breath from dewy nostrils. The older and
staider animals--Marly, and Dumple, and Flecky--came stolidly
homeward, their heads swinging low, absorbed in meditative
digestion, and soberly retasting the sweetly succulent grass of
the hollows, and the crisper and tastier acidity of the sorrel-
mixed grass of the knolls. Behind them came Spotty and Speckly,
young and frisky matrons of but a year's standing, who yet knew no
better than to run with futile head at Roger, and so encourage
that short-haired and short-tempered collie to snap at their
heels. Here also, skirmishing on flank and rear, was Winsome's pet
sheep, "Zachary Macaulay"--so called because he was a living
memorial to the emancipation of the blacks. Zachary had been named
by John Dusticoat, who was the politician of Cairn Edward, and
"took in" a paper. He was an animal of much independence of mind.
He utterly refused to company with the sheep of his kind and
degree, and would only occasionally condescend to accompany the
cows to their hill pasture. Often he could not be induced to quit
poking his head into every pot and dish about the farm-yard. On
these occasions he would wander uninvited with a little pleading,
broken-backed bleat through every room in the house, looking for
his mistress to let him suck her thumb or to feed him on oatcake
or potato parings.
To-night he came down in the rear of the procession. Now and then
he paused to take a random crop at the herbage, not so much from
any desire for wayside refreshment, as to irritate Roger into
attacking him. But Roger knew better. There was a certain
imperiousness about Zachary such as became an emancipated black.
Zachary rejoiced when Speckly or any of the younger or livelier
kine approached to push him away from a succulent patch of
herbage. Then he would tuck his belligerent head between his legs,
and drive fore-and-aft in among the legs of the larger animals,
often bringing them down full broadside with the whole of their
extensive systems ignominiously shaken up.
By the time that Saunders had the cows safe into the byre, Jess
had the letter opened, read, and resealed. She had resolved, for
reasons of her own, on this occasion to give the letter to
Winsome. Jess ran into the house, and finding Winsome reading in
the parlour, gave her the letter in haste.
"There's a man waiting for the answer," she said, "but he can easy
bide a while if it is not ready."
Winsome, seeing it was the handwriting she knew so well, that of
the note-book and the poem, went into her own room to read her
first love-letter. It seemed very natural that he should write to
her, and her heart beat within her quickly and strongly as she
opened it. As she unfolded it her eye seemed to take in the whole
of the writing at once as if it were a picture. She knew, before
she had read a word, that "beloved" occurred twice and "Winsome
dear" twice, nor had she any fault to find, unless it were that
they did not occur oftener.
So, without a moment's hesitation, she sat down and wrote only a
line, knowing that it would be all-sufficient. It was her first
love-tryst. Yet if it had been her twentieth she could not have
been readier.
"I shall be at the gate of the hill pasture," so she wrote, "at
ten o'clock to-night."
It was with a very tumultuous heart that she closed this missive,
and went out quickly to give it to Jess lest she should repent. A
day before, even, it had never entered her mind that by any
possibility she could write such a note to a young man whom she
had only known so short a time. But then she reflected that
certainly Ralph Peden was not like any other young man; so that in
this case it was not only right but also commendable. He was so
kind and good, and so fond of her grandmother, that she could not
let him go so far away without a word. She ought at least to go
and tell him that he must never do the like again. But she would
forgive him this time, after being severe with him for breaking
his word, of course. She sighed when she thought of what it is to
be young and foolish. Once the letter in Jess's hands, these
doubts and fears came oftener to her. After a few minutes of
remorse, she ran out in order to reclaim her letter, but Jess was
nowhere to be seen. She was, in fact, at her mother's cottage up
on the green, where she was that moment employed in coercing her
brother Andra to run on a message for her. "When she went out of
the kitchen with Winsome's reply in her pocket she made it her
first duty to read it. This there was no difficulty in doing, for
opening letters was one of Jess's simplest accomplishments. Then
Jess knitted her black brows, and thought dark and Pictish
thoughts. In a few moments she had made her dispositions. She was
not going to let Winsome have Ralph without a struggle. She felt
that she had the rude primogeniture of first sight. Besides, since
she had no one to scheme for her, she resolved that she would
scheme for herself. Shut in her mother's room she achieved a fair
imitation of Winsome's letter, guiding herself by the genuine
document spread out before her. She had thought of sending only a
verbal message, but reflecting that Ralph Peden had probably never
seen Winsome's handwriting, she considered it safer, choosing
between two dangers, to send a written line.
"Meet me by the waterside bridge at ten o'clock," she wrote. No
word more. Then arose the question of messengers. She went out to
find Saunders Mowdiewort; she got him standing at the byre door,
looking wistfully about for Meg. "Saunders," she said, "you are to
take back this answer instantly to the young Master Peden."
"Na, na, Jess, what's the hurry? I dinna gang a fit till I hae
seen Meg," said Saunders doggedly. "Your affairs are dootless
verra important, but sae are mine. Your lad maun een wait wi'
patience till I gang hame, the same as I hae had mony a day to
wait. It's for his guid."
Jess stamped her foot. It was too irritating that her combinations
should fail because of a Cuif whom she had thought to rule with a
word, and upon whom she had counted without a thought.
She could not say that it was on Winsome's business, though she
knew that in that case he would have gone at once on the chance of
indirectly pleasuring Meg. She had made him believe that she
herself was the object of Ralph Peden's affections. But Jess was
not to be beaten, for in less than a quarter of an hour she had
overcome the scruples of Andra, and despatched Jock Gordon on
another message in another direction. Jess believed that where
there is a will there are several ways: the will was her own, but
she generally made the way some one else's. Then Jess went into
the byre, lifting up her house gown and covering it with the dust-
coloured milking overall, in which she attended to Speckly and
Crummy. She had done her best--her best, that is, for Jess
Kissock--and it was with a conscience void of offence that she set
herself to do well her next duty, which happened to be the milking
of the cows. She did not mean to milk cows any longer than she
could help, but in the meantime she meant to be the best milker in
the parish. Moreover, it was quite in accordance with her
character that, in her byre flirtations with Ebie Farrish, she
should take pleasure in his rough compliments, smacking of the
field and the stable. Jess had an appetite for compliments
perfectly eclectic and cosmopolitan. Though well aware that she
was playing this night with the sharpest of edged tools, till her
messengers should return and her combinations should close, Jess
was perfectly able and willing to give herself up to the game of
conversational give-and-take with Ebie Farrish. She was a girl of
few genteel accomplishments, but with her gipsy charm and her
frankly pagan nature she was fitted to go far.