THE RIVALS
Eight years passed, and Robert grew into young manhood. One of his
younger brothers had joined him and Andrew Marshall in the partnership.
It had been a long, stiff struggle, and his mother knew all the hardness
and cruelty of it. In after years Robert loved his mother more for the
fight she put up, though it never seemed to him that he himself had done
anything extraordinary. He was always thoughtful, and planned to save
her worry. On "pay-nights," once a fortnight, when other boys of his age
were getting a sixpence, or perhaps even a shilling, as pocket-money, so
that they could spend a few coppers on the things that delight a boy's
heart, Robert resolutely refused to take a penny. For years he continued
thus, always solacing himself with the thought that it was a "shilling's
worth less of worry" his mother would have.
Yet, riches were his in that the enchantment of literature held him
captive, and his imagination gained for him treasures incomparably
greater than the solid wealth prized by worldly minds. His father had
possessed about a dozen good books, among others such familiar Scottish
household favorites as "Wilson's Tales of the Borders," "Mansie Waugh,"
by "Delta," "Scots Worthies," Allan Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," Scott's
"Rob Roy" and "Old Mortality," and the well-thumbed and dog-eared copy
of Robert Burns' Poems.
"Gae awa', man Robin," his mother would say sometimes to him, as he sat
devouring Wilson's "Tales" or weeping over the tragic end of Wallace's
wife Marion as recounted in Jean Porter's entrancing "Scottish Chiefs."
"Gang awa' oot an' tak' a walk. Ither laddies are a' oot playin' at
something, an' forby it's no' healthy to sit too long aye readin'."
"Ach. I canna' be bothered," he would answer. "I'd raither read."
"What is't you're readin' noo?" she would enquire. "Oh, it's the
'Scottish Chiefs,' an' I'm jist at the bit aboot Wallace's wife being
murdered by Hazelrig. My! It's awfu' vexin'."
"Ay, it's a fine book, Robin. Ye might read that bit oot to me."
"A' richt," and he would start to read while Nellie sat down to listen.
Soon both were engrossed in the sad story, so powerfully told, and the
tears would be running from the mother's eyes as her fancy pictured the
sorrows of Wallace, while Robert's voice would break, and a sob come
into his throat, as he proceeded. When finally the passage was reached
where the brutal blow was struck, the book would have to be put down,
while mother and son both cried as if the grief depicted were their own.
"It's an awfu' gran' book, Rob," she would say after a time, while she
strove to subdue the sobs in her breast. "Puir Wallace! It maun ha'e
been an awfu' blow to him, when he heard that Marion was killed. But you
maun read on a bit far'er, for I'm no' gaun tae work ony mair till I see
that dirty beast Hazelrig get his deserts. He has wrocht for it, sae
jist gang on noo till you feenish the bit aboot him gettin' killed wi'
Wallace. He deserves it for killin' a woman."
Thus Robert would have to go on, until the incident in question had been
reached in the story, and as it unfolded itself his voice would grow
firmer and stronger as he became infected with the narrative, while his
mother's eyes would glow, and her body be tense with interest, and an
expectant expression would creep over her face, betraying her
excitement. In the interview between Wallace and Hazelrig in the house
in the Wellgate in Lanark, when Wallace dramatically draws his sword in
answer to the supplication for mercy, and says: "Ay, the same mercy as
you showed my Marion," Robert's voice would thunder forth the words with
terrible sternness, while Nellie would gasp and catch her breath in a
quick little sob of excitement, as the feeling of satisfied justice
filled her heart. And when the blow fell that laid the English governor
low, she would burst out: "Serves him richt, the dirty tyrant. He's got
what he deserved, an' it serves him right!"
On another occasion Robert would suddenly burst out laughing, when
reading Delta's chronicle of the adventures of Mansie Waugh, the
Scottish "Handy Andy."
"What are you laughing at, Robin?" Nellie would enquire, a smile
breaking over her face also.
"Oh, it's Mansie Waugh, mither. Oh, but it's a gran' bit. Listen to
this," and he would begin to read the passage, where Mansie, simple soul
that he was, was described as going into the byre in the morning to
learn if the cow had calved during the night, and finding, on opening
the door, the donkey of a traveling tinker, he turned and ran into the
house, crying: "Mither! Mither! The coo has calved, an' it's a cuddy!"
Whenever he reached this part of the story, his mother would go off into
a fit of uncontrollable laughter which left her helpless and crumpled up
in a heap upon the nearest chair. Her laugh was very infectious; it
began with a low, mirthful ripple, well down in the throat, and rose in
rapid leaps of musical joy till it had traveled a whole octave of
bubbling happy sounds, when it culminated in a peal of double forte
shakes and trills, that made it a joy to hear, and finally it died out
in an "Oh, dear me! What a callan Mansie was!"
As Robert approached manhood, he took more and more to the moors,
wandering alone among the haunts of the whaup and other moor birds,
wrestling with problems to which older heads never gave a thought,
trying to understand life and to build from his heart and experience
something that would be satisfying. Silent, thoughtful, "strange" to the
neighbors, a problem to everyone, but a bigger one to himself, life
staggered him and appalled his soul.
Earnestly he worked and tested his thought against the thought of
others, sturdily refusing everything which did not ring true and meet
his standard. Old religious conceptions, the orthodoxy of his kith and
kin, were fast tested in the crucible of his mind and flung aside as
worthless. The idea of Hell and the old Morrisonian notion of the
Hereafter appeared crude and barbarous. His father's fate and the
condition of the family left to welter in poverty, the cruelty of life
as it presented itself to the great mass of the working class, could not
be reconciled with the Church's teaching of an all-loving and omniscient
Father.
With the audacity of youth, he felt that he could easily have
constructed a better universe. He felt that Hell could have no terrors
for people condemned to such hardship and suffering as he saw around
him. Life was colorless for them; stinted of pleasure and beauty, with
merely the joys of the "gill-stoup" on a Saturday night at the local
"store" to look forward to, there was in it no real satisfaction either
for the body or the mind. Would he, indeed, have to wait till after
death before knowing anything of real happiness or comfort? His mind
refused to accept this doctrine so frequently expounded to working class
congregations by ministers, who were themselves comparatively well
endowed with "treasures upon earth."
Life was good, life was glorious if only it could be made as he dreamed
it. This fair earth need be no vale of tears. There were the blue skies,
the white tapestry of cloudland ever varying; there was the wind upon
his face and the sweet rain; there was the purl of mountain brook, the
graceful sweep of the river, the smile of the flowers, the songs of the
birds; the golden splendor of the day and the silver radiance of the
night.
But above and beyond all there was an ever-increasing love of his
fellows, there were noble women like his mother to reverence, and there
were sweet children to cherish. Surely life was good, and never was
meant to be the mean, sordid thing that too often was the lot of people
like himself. Heaven could and should be realized here and now. At
twenty, he finished by accepting Humanity as it is, to be understood and
loved, to be served, and, if necessary, to die for it.
Though thus naturally reserved and meditative, yet he was not unloved.
There was no more popular lad in the village. Everyone in a tight corner
came to him for help and advice. He was private secretary to half the
village and father confessor to the other half. He served everyone, and
in return all loved him more or less. In the course of time he came to
occupy the place his father had held before him as president of the
local branch of the Union, which had been recently revived. His duties
as a Union official forced him more and more into mixing with others,
and into taking a larger interest in the affairs of the locality.
Gradually with the activities of public life his moodiness gave place to
a healthy cheerfulness, and his enthusiasm soon led him into taking part
in nearly every form of sport which gave life more zest. His interest
being roused, he was wholehearted in his application, whether as a
member of the executive of any local sports association, or as a
participant in the game itself. He was elected to the committee
responsible for organizing the Lowwood Annual Games, but resigned
because having taken up racing as his pet pastime for the time being, he
wanted to compete in some of the items.
At last the "Sports" day arrived. The pits were idle, for this was one
of the recognized holidays. Everyone looked forward eagerly to this day,
and prepared for it, each in his or her own way. For weeks before it the
children practiced racing, and trained themselves in jumping, football,
quoiting and such sports. Young men stole away to secret places in the
moor to train and harden themselves, timing their performances and
concentrating on the strenuous day ahead when they would compete with
one another in fair tests of speed, strength, skill and endurance.
One event was always a special attraction, even to professional racers
all over the country. This was known as the "Red Hose Race," about which
many legends were told. The most popular of these was to the effect that
the stockings were knitted each year by the Laird's wife, and if no one
entered for the race, the Laird must run it himself, or forfeit his
extensive estate to the Crown. In addition to the Red Hose, there was a
substantial money prize. To win the race was looked upon as the greatest
achievement of the year, for it was one of the oldest sporting events
and had been run for so many years that its origin seemed lost in the
mists of antiquity. Robert made up his mind to win the Red Hose in this
particular year. Mrs. Graydon, of Graydon House, had intimated that she
herself would be present and would hand over the stockings to the proud
winner in person, but it was not by any means on this account that
Robert was so keen to win. It was the older lure that brought every year
athletes of fame to run in the historic race.
"So you are going to run in the Red Hose," said a voice behind Robert
while the people were all gathering to watch the preliminary races of
the boys and girls. Robert turned from the group of young men who had
been discussing the event with him, and met the smiling face of Peter
Rundell, dressed in immaculate style and looking as fresh and fine a
specimen of young manhood as anyone could wish to see.
"Yes," he said with a smile, "and I intend to win it."
"Do you?" returned Peter light-heartedly. "I have also entered for it,
though I had no intention of doing so when I came over; but Mr. Walker,
who, as you know, is on the committee, pressed me to go in, and so I
consented."
"Oh!" said Robert, in surprise, "I thought after last year's success you
were not going to run again." Then, in a bantering tone, and with a
smile upon his lips, "I suppose we'll be rivals in this, then; but I
gi'e you fair warning that I'm gaun to lift the Red Hose if I get a
decent chance at all."
"Well, I have set my mind on winning it, too," replied Peter. "I'd like
to lift it, just to be able to say in after years that I had done so."
"That's just hoo I feel aboot the matter too," lightly answered Robert.
"I'd like jist to be able to say that I had won the Red Hose. I feel in
good form for it, so you'd better be on your mettle."
"Well, I shall give you the race of your life for it," said Peter,
entering into the same light spirited boasting. "I hear Mair and Todd
and Semple are also entered, but with a decent handicap I won't mind
these, even with their international reputation."
"All right," said Robert. "I suppose I shall have the greater pleasure
in romping home before you all. Are the handicaps out yet?"
"Yes, I saw the list just before I spoke to you. Semple and Mair are
scratch, with Todd at five yards. You start at twenty-five, and I get
off at the limit forty.'
"Oh!" said Robert, a note of surprise in his voice. "Walker has surely
forgotten who are the runners! Why, last year you won nearly all the
confined events, and you were second in the Red Hose with twenty-five
yards. He means you to romp home this year!" and there was heat in
Robert's voice as he finished.
"Well, I daresay it is a decent handicap," said Peter, "and even though
Semple is among the crowd, I should manage, I think, to pull it off with
anything like luck."
"I should think so," said Robert. "Walker has just made you a present of
the race. But I suppose it can't be helped, though it isn't fair.
Anyhow, I'll give you a chase for it."
"All right. Half an hour and we shall be on," and Peter went on round
the field, exchanging greetings with most of the villagers.
He was finishing his education at a Technical College in Edinburgh, and
at present was home on holidays. He was a well set up young man, and
though popular with most people, yet he brought with him an air of
another world among the villagers, which made them feel uncomfortable.
They recognized that his life was very different from their own, and
while they talked to him when he spoke to them, and were agreeable
enough to him, they felt awed and could not break down the natural
reserve they always had towards people of another station of life. He
was perhaps a little too thoughtless and impulsive, though
generous-hearted enough. He drifted into things, rather than shaped them
to his own ideas, and was often not sufficiently careful of the
positions in which he found himself as a consequence of thoughtless
acts.
The week before he had caught and kissed Mysie Maitland, who was now
serving at Rundell House, merely because he was taken with her pretty
face. From that Peter already believed himself in love with her,
because she had not resented his action. He had even walked over with
her from the village, when she had been home visiting her parents one
night, and had felt more and more the witchery of her pretty face and
the lure of her fine little figure.
Up to this time Mysie had always believed herself in love with
Robert--Robert who was always so strange from the rest of young men. He
had always been her hero, her protector; but there was something about
him for which she could not account and which she could not have
defined. Such was her admiration that she believed it was in his power
to do anything he cared to attempt; it was just possible that it was
this strange sense of unknown power which fascinated her. They had never
been lovers in the accepted sense of the word. They had never "walked
out" as young people in their social station usually do, but yet had
always felt that they were meant for one another.
Only once had Robert kissed her, and that moment ever lived with her a
glowing memory. She had been home and was returning through a moorland
pass, when she came across him lying upon the rough heather, his
thoughts doubtless full of her, for he had seen her in the village, and
knew she must return that way.
"Oh, Rob!" she cried, her face flushing with excitement as she saw him.
"Ye nearly frichted me oot o' my wits the noo."
"Did I, Mysie?" he answered, springing to his feet. "I didna mean to dae
that. Ye'll be getting back, I suppose."
"Ay," she returned simply, and a silence fell upon them, in which both
seemed to lose the power of speaking.
Robert looked at her as she stood there, her full, curved breasts rising
and falling with the excitement of the unexpected meeting, the long
lashes of her eyes sweeping her flushed cheeks, as she stood with
downcast eyes before him. The last rays of the setting sun falling upon
her brown hair touched it with a rare strange beauty. Her red lips like
dew-drenched roses--luscious, pure, alluring, were parted a little in a
half smile. But it was the fascinating movement of the breast, full,
round and sensuous, that stirred and made an overpowering appeal to
every pulse within him. It seemed so soft, so tender, so wonderfully
alluring. At the moment he could not understand himself or her. There
was a strange, surging impetus raging through him that he felt
absolutely powerless to subdue, and he swayed a little as he stood.
"Oh, Mysie!" he cried, leaping forward and clasping her in his strong,
young arms, and crushing her against him, holding her there, gasping,
powerless but happy.
"You are mine, Mysie. Mine!" and he kissed her budded lips in an ecstasy
of passion and warm-blooded feeling, while a thousand fevers seemed to
course through him as he felt the contact of her body and her warm,
eager lips on his. Blinded and delirious, he kissed her again and again
in an impassioned burst of fervor, passion scorching his blood and
filling his whole heart with the enjoyment of possession. She closed her
eyes, and her head touched his shoulder, while the faint scent of her
hair and its soft caressing touch upon his cheek maddened him to a fury
of love.
"Say you are mine, Mysie! Say you are mine!" he cried, and his voice was
strange and hoarse and dry with the desire within him. He felt her body
yielding as it relaxed in his arms, as if in answer to some unspoken
demand, and in a moment he realized himself and started back, hot shame
surging over his face and conquering the passion in his blood. In that
strange mad moment he had felt capable of anything--powerful,
overmastering, relentless in his desires; and now--weak, shame-stricken
and helpless. Ere he could say anything, Mysie had come to herself with
a shock, and started away over the moor as if possessed by something
that was mysterious and terrible.
That had happened a year ago, and though Robert sought to learn when she
was in the village, and often watched her from a safe place where he was
not seen, delighting his eyes with the sight of her figure, and feeling
again the same hot shame come over him, as he had known that day on the
moor, yet he had never met her near enough to speak to her, but had
worshiped her at a distance and grown to love and desire her more and
more with every day that passed.
He dreamed dreams around her, but was afraid to encounter her again.
This strange mad love burned in his blood, until at times he was almost
sick with desire and love. Every moor-bird called her name; every flower
held the shyness of her face; the clouds of peaceful sunsets showed the
glory of her hair, and the quiet, steadfast stars possessed the wonder
of her eyes. The madness of the passionate moment of possession on the
moor was at once his most treasured memory and his intensest shame.
As for Mysie, since she had not heard any more from Robert nor even seen
him for almost a year, she felt quite flattered by the attentions of
Peter Rundell. It was not that she was in love with either of the young
men. Her nature was of the kind that is in love with love itself, and
was not perhaps capable of a great love, such as had frightened her,
when Robert, taken off his guard, had let her glimpse a strong,
overmastering passion and a soul capable of great things. Already she
dreamed of a grand house of which she would be mistress as Peter's wife,
as she stood in the silence of her own room, pirouetting and smirking,
and drawing pictures of herself in fine garments and stately carriage,
playing the Lady Bountiful of the district.