A STIR IN LOWWOOD
"My! Div you ken what has happened?" asked Mrs. Johnstone, bursting in
upon Mrs. Sinclair one day about two weeks later. "My, it's awfu'!" she
continued in breathless excitement, her head wagging and nodding with
every word, as if to emphasize it, her eyes almost jumping out with
excitement, and her whole appearance showing that she had got hold of a
piece of information which was of the first importance. "My, it's
awfu'," she repeated again lifting her hands up to a level with her
breast, and then letting them fall again, "Mysie Maitland has ran away
frae her place, an' naebidy kens where she has gane to. An' Mrs.
Rundell, mind you, has been that guid to her too, givin' her her caps
an' aprons, an' whiles buyin' her a bit dress length forby, an' she
gi'ed her boots and slippers, an' a whole lot o' ither things to tak'
hame for the bairns--things that were owre wee for the weans at Rundell
Hoose but were quite guid to wear. My, it's awfu'! Isn't it?"
"Mysie Maitland!" exclaimed Mrs. Sinclair in astonishment. "When did
this happen? Where has she gane? Are you sure you hinna made a mistake?"
and Mrs. Sinclair was all excitement, hanging in breathless anxiety upon
the tidings her neighbor brought.
"I hae made nae mistake, Nellie Sinclair," returned Leezie, "for it was
her ain mother wha telt me the noo. I was at the store, an' when I was
comin' hame I met Jenny hersel' gaun awa' tae Rundell Hoose. She was
greetin' an' I couldna' get oot o' spierin' at her what was wrang, an'
she telt me her ain self."
"You dinna mean tae tell me that Mysie Maitland has disappeared? In the
name o' a' that's guid, what has happened to bring aboot sic news?"
"Aye, it's true, Nellie," replied Mrs. Johnstone, feeling very important
now that she knew Mrs. Sinclair had not heard the news.
"When did this happen?" asked the latter, still incredulous. "Are you
sure that's true? Dear me! I dinna ken what the world's comin' to at
a'!"
"Ay, it's awfu'! But it's true. You never ken what thae quate kin' o'
modest folk will dae. They look that bashfu' that butter wadna' melt in
their mouths; an' a' the time they are just as like to gang wrang as
ither folk."
"But wha said Mysie Maitland has gang wrang?" enquired Mrs. Sinclair,
flaring up in Mysie's defense. "I wadna' believe it, though you went
down on your bended knees to tell me. A modester, weel-doin' lassie
never lived in this place!"
"Weel, I dinna ken whether she has gane wrang or not; but she has ran
awa', an' it is gey suspeecious conduct that for ony lassie that is
weel-doin'. She is jist like the rest of folk."
"It canna' be true," said Mrs. Sinclair, still unable to believe the
news. "I canna' take it in."
"Ay, but it is true," persisted her neighbor with assurance. "For I tell
you, it was her ain mother what telt me hersel'. It seems she has been
missing since the day afore yesterday. She gaed awa' in the afternoon to
see her mither, an' as she hadna been keepin' very weel for a day or two
an' no comin' back that night, Mrs. Rundell jist thought that Jenny had
keepit her at home for a holiday. But she didna turn up yesterday, an'
thinkin' maybe that the lassie had turned worse, Mrs. Rundell sent owre
word jist the noo, to ask how she was keepin'; an' Jenny was fair
thunder-struck when the man came to the door to ask. Puir body! Jenny's
awfu' puttin' aboot owre the matter. I hope," she added, with the first
show of sympathy, "that naething has happened to the lassie. That wad be
awfu'!"
"Dear keep us!" exclaimed Nellie. "I hope nothing has happened to her."
"God knows!" replied Mrs. Johnstone piously, for want of something else
to say. "It's awfu'!"
"Do they ken naething at a' aboot her at Rundells'?" again enquired Mrs.
Sinclair.
"No' a thing they ken, ony mair than you or me. She left her bits o'
claes, jist as if she meant to come back. Her new frock was in her
drawer jist as she had put it by efter tryin' it on. An' a braw frock it
is. She has nothing except what she was wearin' at the time she gaed
oot. Her guid boots jist yince on her feet are in her room, a' cleaned
jist as she took them off the last time she had them on. I canna'
believe it yet. My! it's awfu'! It'll be a sair, sair heart her
faither'll hae when he hears about it. He had aye an' awfu' wark wi'
Mysie, an' thought the world o' her. If he got Mysie richt he ay seemed
to think that a' else was richt. I hope nae harm has come to her. I
dinna ken what the world's comin' to at a', I'm sure? My, it's awfu',
isn't it?" and Mrs. Johnstone went out to spread the news, leaving Mrs.
Sinclair more mystified and astonished than ever she had been in her
life.
Mysie missing! She could not understand it, and always she tried to
crush back the suggestion which was plainly evident in Leezie's
statement that Mysie had "gang wrang." It could not be that, for Mysie
was never known to have dealings with anyone likely to betray her like
that. It was a hopeless puzzle altogether, and she could not account for
it.
It was nearing "lousing time" and Mrs. Sinclair was busy getting the
dinner ready, and water boiled to wash the men coming in from the pit,
and she wondered how Robert would take the news.
She knew, having guessed, as most mothers do guess, that Mysie held a
sacred corner in Robert's heart; though noticing the silence during the
last two weeks, and his renewed attention to books and study, she
wondered if anything had come between Mysie and himself. Had he at last
spoken to her and been discouraged? She could hardly harbor that
thought, for she felt also that Mysie's heart enshrined but one man, and
that was Robert. Yet what could be the meaning of all this mystery?
It was true Mysie and Robert had never walked out as young men and
women of their class do; but she knew in their hearts each regarded the
other with very warm affection, and thinking thus she worked about the
house preparing things and running occasionally over to Maitland's
house, to see that the dinner was cooking all right, and giving little
attentions wherever they were needed, in Mrs. Maitland's absence.
She did not mention the news to Robert when he came in, but she watched
him furtively as she worked about the house getting the water into the
tub for him to wash, before placing the dinner on the table; but she
guessed from his face that he must have already heard of it on his way
home.
He was silent as he pulled off his rough blue flannel shirt and stooping
over the well-filled tub of hot water, he began to lave the water over
his arms, and the upper part of his body.
At last, Mrs. Sinclair could hold herself in no longer, and looking
keenly at the half-naked young man as he straightened himself, having
washed the coal-dust from his hands and arms, he began to rub his breast
and as much of his back as he could reach, she said, "Did you hear aboot
Mysie, Rob?"
"Ay," he returned simply, trying to hide his agitation and his blanching
face. "I heard that she had disappeared frae her place, an' that nae
news o' her could be got. Is it true, mither?"
"Ay, it's true, Rob," she replied. "But I hinna got ony richt waye o' it
yet. Jenny's awa' owre to Rundell Hoose, an' we'll no' ken onything till
she comes back. It's an awfu' business, an' will pit her faither an'
mither a guid lot aboot. I wonder what'll hae ta'en her."
"It's hard to ken," he replied in a non-committal voice. "Hae you ony
idea, mither, as to what has brought this aboot?"
"No, Rob, I canna' say; but folks' tongues will soon be busy, I hae nae
doot, an' there will be a lot o' clip-clash, an' everybody kennin'
nothing, will ken the right way o't, an' every yin will hae a different
story to tell."
"Ay, I hae nae doot," he said, again stooping over the tub flinging some
water over his head, and beginning to rub the soap into a fine lather
upon his hair. "Everybody will ken the right wye o' it, and will claver
and gossip, when they wad 'a be better to mind their ain affairs, an'
let ither folk alane."
His mother did not speak for a little, but went on with her work. There
was something on her mind about which she wanted to speak, and she
bustled about and washed, and clattered the dishes; and every plate and
spoon, as they were laid dripping from the basin of warm water, plainly
indicated that something troubled her.
Finally, when the last steaming dish had been laid upon the table, and
she had begun to wipe them dry, she cleared her throat, and in a
somewhat strained sort of voice asked, "Dae you ken, Rob, onything aboot
Mysie?"
"No, mither," he replied at once, as he ceased rubbing the white foaming
lather on his hair, and again straightened himself up to look at her, as
she spoke; his head looking as if a three inch fall of snow had settled
upon it, giving the black dirty face and the clean eyes shining through
the dust, a weird strange appearance. "What makes you ask that?"
"Oh, I dinna ken, Rob, but jist thought you micht hae kent something,"
she answered evasively.
"No, I dinna ken onything at all aboot her, mither," he said. "If I had
kent onything, dae you think I'd hae kept quiet?"
"Oh, I dinna mean that, Rob," she replied with relief in her voice, "but
I thought that you might hae heard something. That Leezie Johnstone was
in here the day, an' you ken hoo she talks. She was makin' oot that
Mysie had gane wrang, and had ran awa' tae hide it."
"Leezie Johnstone had little to do sayin' onything o' the kind," he said
with some heat in his voice. "There never was a dirty coo in the byre
but it liket a neighbor. I suppose she'll be thinkin' that a' lasses
were like her. These kind of folk hae dam'd strange ideas aboot things.
They get it into their heads it is wrang to do certain things when folk
are no married, but the cloak of marriage flung aboot them mak's the
same things richt. They hinna the brains o' a sewer rat in their
noddles, the dam'd hypocrites that they are!"
"Dinna swear, Rob!" said Mrs. Sinclair, interrupting him. "Do you ken,"
she went on, her astonishment plainly evident in her face and voice,
"that is the first time I ever heard you swear in a' my life!"
"Well, mither, I am sorry; but I couldna' help it. Folk like that get my
temper up gey quick; because they get it into their heids that marriage
makes them virtuous, even though they may be guilty o' greater excesses
after than they were before marriage."
"Ay, that's true, Rob!" she agreed. "But it is a sad business a'
thegether. I wonder what has come owre the bit lassie. God knows where
she may be?"
But Robert was silent, and no matter how much she tried to get him to
speak, he would not be drawn into conversation, but answered merely in
short grunts; but she could see that he was very much disturbed at what
had happened. After a few days the sensation seemed to pass from the
minds of most of the villagers, who soon found something new to occupy
them, in connection with their own affairs.
About this time much interest was being manifested in mining circles.
The labor movement was beginning to shape itself into solidarity towards
political as well as industrial activity. Robert Smillie and the late J.
Keir Hardie, and many other tireless spirits, had succeeded in molding
together the newly created labor party, infecting it with an idealism
which had hitherto not been so apparent, and this work was making a deep
impression upon the minds of the workers, especially among the younger
men.
The Miners' Union had been linked up into national organizations; and a
consolidating influence was at work molding the workers generally, and
the miners particularly, imbuing them with a newer hope, a greater
enthusiasm and a wider vision.
About a fortnight after the news of Mysie's disappearance, Keir Hardie
paid a visit to Lowwood, and a large crowd gathered to hear him in the
village hall. Smillie also was advertised to speak, and great interest
was manifested, and much criticism passed by the miners.
"I don't give in wi' this dam'd political business," said Tam Donaldson,
who was frankly critical. "I've aye stood up for Smillie, but I dinna'
like being dragged intae this Socialist movement. A dam'd fine nest o'
robbers an' work-shy vermin. Trade Union officials should attend tae
Trade Union affairs. That's what we pay them for. But it looks to me as
if they were a' that dam'd busy trying to get intae Parliament, thet
they hinna time to look after oor affairs."
"I'm kind o' suspeecious aboot it mysel', Tam," said Robert quietly, as
they made their way to the hall that night. "I'm no' sure jist yet as to
what this Socialism is, it looks frae the papers to be a rotten kind o'
thing an' I'm no' on wi' it. But I'll wait an' hear what Hardie an'
Smillie say aboot it, afore a' make up my mind."
"To hell wi' them an' their Socialism," said Tam with some heat. "I want
a shillin' or twa on my day. It's a' yin damn to me hoo mony wives they
gie me. I canna' keep the yin I hae. What the hell wad a workin' man dae
wi' three wives? An' they tell me they're goin' to abolish religion too.
Not that I'm a religious man mysel', but I'm damn'd if I'd let them
interfere wi' it. If I want religion I've a guid richt to hae it; an'
forby, if they abolish religion, hoo wad folk do wi' the funerals? I can
see hoo they'll do wi' marriages, for there's to be nane. You've to get
your wife changed every two-three years, an' the weans brought up by the
State as they call it. But the puirhouse is a dam'd cauld step-mother,
an' I'd be up against that."
Thus discussing the subject, they reached the hall to find it packed,
everyone being keen to see and hear this man, who was making such an
uproar in the country with his advocacy of Socialism.
Robert was chairman, and had labored hard to prepare a few remarks with
which to open the meeting. He wanted to be non-committal, and his
reading and self-teaching had been of immense service to him. His
mother's influence in the molding of his character, unconsciously to
himself, had made his mind just the sort of soil for the quick rooting
of the seed to be sown that night.
It was certainly a great occasion. Robert thought as he looked at this
man, that he had never seen anyone who so typefied the spirit of
independence in his bearing. His figure was straight, the eyes fearless,
yet kindly and gentle; but the proud erect head, the straight stiff back
which seemed to say "I bend to no one" impressed Robert more than
anything else in all his make up.
Yet there was nothing aggressive about him with it all; but on the
contrary, an atmosphere of kindliness exuded from him, creating a
wonderful effect upon those with whom he came in contact. The wild
stories of this turbulent agitator, which everyone seemed to hear, and
be acquainted with, made the audience hostile to begin with. It was not
a demonstrable hostility; but one felt it was there, ready to break out,
and overwhelm this stormy petrel of the political world.
Yet they patiently waited for Hardie to begin, tolerating Smillie, and
even applauding his ringing denunciations of the wrongs they suffered,
but critically waiting on his attempts to switch them on to Socialism.
Then came Hardie, halting and stammering a little as he began his
address. The audience thinking this was due to his searching for a way
to delude them, became more suspicious and critical, and ready to stop
him, if he tried any tricks upon them; but broad-minded enough and fair
enough to give him a hearing, until he trespassed upon them too much.
So it was in this atmosphere that Socialism first was heard in Lowwood;
but soon the speaker became less halting as he warmed to his subject,
until not only was he fluent, but eloquent, and powerful, winning his
audience in spite of themselves.
They sat and listened, and were soon under his sway, watching his every
gesture and thawing under his spell, as they watched the fine head
thrown back with its inimitable poise, the back straight and stiff, the
eyes aglow with the light of the seer, and the hands gracefully rising
and falling to emphasize some point.
What a change soon came over them! Gradually as the speaker developed
his subject the faces changed, and they were soon responsive to his
every demand upon them. The clear ringing voice, insistent, strong, yet
catching a cadence of gentleness and winsomeness that moved them to
approval of everything he said.
There was deep humanity about him, that was strangely in contrast with
the monster he had been to their fancy before they saw and heard him.
This was not the politics of the vulgar kind, of which the newspapers
had told; on the contrary, every man in the hall felt this was the
politics to which every reasonable man subscribed. It was the politics
of the fireside, of sweetness and light, of justice and truth, of
humanity and God.
In burning words he denounced the wrongs under which the people
suffered, winning them by his warm-blooded championship of their cause,
appealing to them to forsake the other parties, form an independent
party for themselves; and sketching in glowing words the picture of the
world as it might be, if only a saner and more human view were taken by
those who ruled.
It made an indelible impression on Robert's mind. The way was so simple,
so clear, so sure, that if only men like Hardie could go round every
town and village in the land, he believed that a Utopia might be brought
into being in a very few years; that even the rich people, the usurpers,
would agree that this state of affairs might be brought about, and that
they'd gladly give up all they had of power over the lives of others, to
work cooperatively for the good of all; and already he was deciding in
youth's way, he would give his life, every moment of it, to help Hardie
and Smillie, and all those other great spirits to win the world to this
state of affairs. Body and soul he would devote to it, and so help to
make the world a brighter and happier place for all human beings.
His was the temperament that having found an ideal would storm the gates
of Heaven to realize it; or wade through hell, suffering all its
penalties to gaze upon the face of that he sought.
So the meeting ended in great enthusiasm, and the audience was amazed
and pleased to find that this man Hardie was not the vulgar-minded,
loud-mouthed ignorant agitator of which the press had told them; but was
just one of themselves, burning with a sense of their wrongs, with
ability to express their thoughts in their own words, and with an
uncompromising hatred of the system which bred these wrongs in their
lives.
Tam Donaldson and Robert compared notes after the meeting was over in
the following conversation:
"What do you think o' it, Tam?"
"Christ! but it was great," was the reply.
"What aboot the three wives noo, Tam?"
"Oh, for ony sake, dinna rub it in, Rob. I feel that small that I could
hide myself in the hole of my back tooth. Man, do you ken, I jist felt
as if we were a' back in the Bible times again, wi' auld Isaiah
thundering oot his charges and tellin' the oppressors o' the people what
he thought of them. The white heid o' Hardie maun hae been gey like
Isaiah's. Or sometimes it was like John the Baptist, comin' to tell us
o' the new world that was ready to dawn for the folk! Man, it was
hellish guid, and frae this day I'm a Socialist. I've always been
fightin' the oppressors o' the workers, an' only wish I had a tongue
like Hardie, so that I could gang roon' the hale country tellin' folk
the rale God's truth aboot things. Guid God! Rob, it was better than
goin' to the kirk!"
"Ay, it was gran', Tam. I'm goin' to read up this Socialism; for it
seems to me to be worth it."
"So will I. I hae got twa or three bits o' books that I bought, an' I'll
swallow them as quick as I can. Lod! It seems as if a new world had
opened up a' thegether the night. I'm that dam'd happy, I could rin
roon' an' tell everybody aboot it! But I suppose we maun gang awa' hame
to bed; for we'll hae to gang to oor work the morn, though it's dam'd
cauld comfort to think o' gaun oot to the pit, when we could hae better
conditions to work in if only folk had the sense to do right."
Thus they parted, full of the subject which had stirred them so much
that night.
Robert went home, full of vision of an emancipated world, his whole
heart kindled and aglow with the desire to be a spokesman like Hardie on
behalf of the workers, and thoroughly determined to devote the rest of
his life to it.
"There's nae word o' Mysie yet," said Nellie, when he came in, and her
words seemed to shock him with their unexpectedness.
"Is there no'?" he replied, trying hard to bring his mind back to the
realities. "What kind o' word did Jenny get frae the polis?"
"Oh, they ken naething aboot her," said Nellie. "A' that is kenned is
jist what we heard already. The polis hae been searchin' noo for a
fortnight an' nae trace o' her can be got. Mr. Rundell has pit it in the
papers; but I hae my doots aboot ever seeing her again. Mysie wasna' the
lassie that wad keep her folk in suspense. She wad ken fine that they'd
be anxious. Matthew an' Jenny are in an awfu' way."
"Ay. I believe they will," he replied, and a deep silence followed.
After a time, as the silence seemed to become oppressive, and for the
sake of saying something, Mrs. Sinclair said: "What kin o' a meetin' had
you the night?"
"My! we had an awfu' meeting, mither," he said in reply, his eyes
kindling with enthusiasm at the memory of it. "Smillie was askin' for
you, an' he's comin' owre to see you the morn afore he goes awa'."
"Oh, he had mind o' me then," she said, pleased at this information.
"Ay, an' he talked rale kindly aboot my faither to Hardie, mither.
Smillie's a fine man, an' I like him," he said with simple enthusiasm.
"He is that, Rob. I've aye liked Bob for the way he has had to fecht.
Lod, I dinna ken hoo he has managed to come through it a'. He's been a
gran' frien' to the miners. What kin' o' a man is Hardie?"
"He's yin o' the finest men I ever met," he answered in quick
enthusiasm. "You would hae enjoyed hearin' him, mither. It's an awfu'
peety that the weemin dinna gang to the meetin's. I'm shair there's no'
a woman in the place but wad hae liket him. My! if you had jist heard
him, strong, sturdy, and independent. Efter hearin' him, it fair knocked
the stories on the heid aboot him bein' oot to smash the hame, an'
religion an' sic like. He's clean and staunch, an' a rale man. Nae sham
aboot him, but a rale human bein', an' after listenin' to him tellin'
what Socialism is, it mak's you feel ashamed that you ever believed
things that you did believe aboot it. It's that simple an' Tam Donaldson
is fair carried awa' wi' it the night."
"I'm glad you had a guid meetin'," she said, her interest kindled too.
"Tell me a' aboot it," and Robert told her, sketching the fine picture
which Hardie had given to his memory to carry, as long as life lasted
for him.
"I've been appointed delegate to the Miners' Council," he said after a
while. "I'll hae to gang to Hamilton once a month to attend the
conferences."
"Oh!" she said in surprise, and with pride in her voice. "What way hae
they sent you?"
"I don't ken," he answered, "but I was a wee bit feart to take it. It's
only the very best men that should be sent there to represent the
branches, an' I thought they might hae sent an older man, wi' mair kind
o' thought about him, an' mair experience."
"Oh, weel, Rob," she said with pride, "ye are maybe as guid as ony o'
them, and a hantle better than some o' them. I hope you'll dae well and
aye act fair."
"I'll dae my best," he said simply. "Mony a time we hae been selt wi'
place-seekers, an' maybe there are some still at it," he went on, "but I
can say this, mither, if ever I get an inklin' o' it, I'll expose them
to every honest man. We want men who can look at things withoot seem'
themsel's as the center o' a' things. My, if you had only seen Hardie,"
he broke off. "He was grand."
Thus they talked for an hour before retiring, but all the time Robert's
mind occasionally kept wondering about Mysie, and he went to bed, his
heart troubled and aching to know the fate that had overtaken the girl
he had loved and lost.
All night long he tossed unable to sleep, as he tried to think what had
happened to her, his mind and heart pained at the thought of something
that boded no good to her.
He again lived over in his mind all that had happened that night upon
the moor, when he saw the man going to meet her after his own meeting
with Mysie.
He was pained and puzzled what to do. Had the stranger any connection
with her disappearance, he asked himself? Should he tell of that? And
yet she had been to her father's house since then, so that it would be
of little value to mention it, he thought.
Perhaps she had run away with the man. That was quite a likely thing to
happen, and if Mysie wanted him no one else had anything to do with it.
Still, she might have told her people, he thought. But perhaps she might
do that later on.
But Mysie and her fate would not be banished from his mind, and he lay
and tumbled and tossed, a terrible anxiety within him, for youth is apt
to pity its own sufferings, and give them a heroic touch under the spell
of unrequited love.
Thus the night passed and morning came, and he had not slept, and he
went to his work debating as to whether he should inform the police or
not about the man he had seen in the company of Mysie. But no decision
was ever come to.