John Splendid looked at me from the corner of an eye as we came out
again and daundered slowly down the town.
“A queer one yon!” said he, as it were feeling his way with a
rapier-point at my mind about his Marquis.
“Do you tell me?” I muttered, giving him parry of low quarte like a good
swordsman, and he came to the recover with a laugh.
“Foil, Elrigmore!” he cried. “But we’re soldiers and lads of the world,
and you need hardly be so canny. You see MacCailein’s points as well as
I do. His one weakness is the old one--books, books,--the curse of the
Highlands and every man of spirit, say I. He has the stuff in him by
nature, for none can deny Clan Diarmaid courage and knightliness; but
for four generations court, closet, and college have been taking the
heart out of our chiefs. Had our lordship in-bye been sent a fostering
in the old style, brought up to the chase and the sword and manly
comportment, he would not have that wan cheek this day, and that
swithering about what he must be at next!”
“You forget that I have had the same ill-training,” I said (in no bad
humour, for I followed his mind). “I had a touch of Glascow College
myself.”
“Yes, yes,” he answered quickly; “you had that, but by all accounts it
did you no harm. You learned little of what they teach there.”
This annoyed me, I confess, and John Splendid was gleg enough to see it
“I mean,” he added, “you caught no fever for paper and ink, though you
may have learned many a quirk I was the better of myself. I could never
even write my name; and I’ve kept compt of wages at the mines with a
pickle chuckie-stones.”
“That’s a pity,” says I, drily.
“Oh, never a bit,” says he, gaily, or at any rate with a way as if to
carry it off vauntingly. “I can do many things as well as most, and a
few others colleges never learned me. I know many winter tales, from
‘Minochag and Morag’ to ‘The Shifty Lad’; I can make passable poetry by
word of mouth; I can speak the English and the French, and I have seen
enough of courtiers to know that half their canons are to please and
witch the eye of women in a way that I could undertake to do by my looks
alone and some good-humour. Show me a beast on hill or in glen I have
not the history of; and if dancing, singing, the sword, the gun, the
pipes--ah, not the pipes,--it’s my one envy in the world to play the
bagpipes with some show of art and delicacy, and I cannot. Queer is
that, indeed, and I so keen on them! I would tramp right gaily a night
and a day on end to hear a scholar fingering ‘The Glen is Mine.’”
There was a witless vanity about my friend that sat on him almost like
a virtue. He made parade of his crafts less, I could see, because he
thought much of them, than because he wanted to keep himself on an
equality with me. In the same way, as I hinted before, he never, in all
the time of our wanderings after, did a thing well before me but he bode
to keep up my self-respect by maintaining that I could do better, or at
least as good.
“Books, I say,” he went on, as we clinked heels on the causeway-stones,
and between my little bit cracks with old friends in the by-going,--
“books, I say, have spoiled Mac-Cailein’s stomach. Ken ye what he told me
once? That a man might readily show more valour in a conclusion come
to in the privacy of his bed-closet than in a victory won on the field.
That’s what they teach by way of manly doctrine down there in the
new English church, under the pastorage of Maister Alexander Gordon,
chaplain to his lordship and minister to his lordship’s people! It must
be the old Cavalier in me, but somehow (in your lug) I have no broo of
those Covenanting cattle from the low country--though Gordon’s a good
soul, there’s no denying.”
“Are you Catholic?” I said, in a surprise.
“What are you yourself?” he asked, and then he flushed, for he saw
a little smile in my face at the transparency of his endeavour to be
always on the pleasing side.
“To tell the truth,” he said, “I’m depending on salvation by reason of a
fairly good heart, and an eagerness to wrong no man, gentle or semple. I
love my fellows, one and all, not offhand as the Catechism enjoins, but
heartily, and I never saw the fellow, carl or king, who, if ordinary
honest and cheerful, I could not lie heads and thraws with at a
camp-fire. In matters of strict ritual, now,--ha--urn!”
“Out with it, man!” I cried, laughing.
“I’m like Parson Kilmalieu upbye. You’ve heard of him--easy-going soul,
and God sain him! When it came to the bit, he turned the holy-water font
of Kilcatrine blue-stone upside-down, scooped a hole in the bottom,
and used the new hollow for Protestant baptism. ‘There’s such a throng
about heaven’s gate,’ said he, ‘that it’s only a mercy to open two;’
and he was a good and humour-some Protestant-Papist till the day he went
under the flagstones of his chapel upbye.”
Now here was not a philosophy to my mind. I fought in the German wars
less for the kreutzers than for a belief (never much studied out,
but fervent) that Protestantism was the one good faith, and that
her ladyship of Babylon, that’s ever on the ran-don, cannot
have her downfall one day too soon. You dare not be playing
corners-change-corners with religion as you can with the sword of what
the ill-bred have called a mercenary (when you come to ponder on’t, the
swords of patriot or paid man are both for selfish ends unsheathed); and
if I set down here word for word what John Splendid said, it must not be
thought to be in homologation on my part of such latitudinarianism.
I let him run on in this key till we came to the change-house of a
widow--one Fraser--and as she curtsied at the door, and asked if the
braw gentlemen would favour her poor parlour, we went in and tossed a
quaich or two of aqua, to which end she set before us a little brown
bottle and two most cunningly contrived and carven cups made of the
Coillebhraid silver.
The houses in Inneraora were, and are, built all very much alike, on
a plan I thought somewhat cosy and genteel, ere ever I went abroad and
learned better. I do not even now deny the cosiness of them, but of
the genteelity it were well to say little. They were tall lands or
tenements, three storeys high, with through-going closes, or what the
English might nominate passages, running from front to back, and leading
at their midst to stairs, whereby the occupants got to their domiciles
in the flats above. Curved stairs they were, of the same blue-stone the
castle is built of, and on their landings at each storey they branched
right and left to give access to the single apartments or rooms and
kitchens of the residenters. Throng tenements they are these, even yet,
giving, as I write, clever children to the world. His Grace nowadays
might be granting the poor people a little more room to grow in, some
soil for their kail, and a better prospect from their windows than the
whitewashed wall of the opposite land; but in the matter of air there
was and is no complaint The sea in stormy days came bellowing to the
very doors, salt and stinging, tremendous blue and cold. Staying in town
of a night, I used to lie awake in my relative’s, listening to the
spit of the waves on the window-panes and the grumble of the tide, that
rocked the land I lay in till I could well fancy it was a ship. Through
the closes the wind ever stalked like something fierce and blooded,
rattling the iron snecks with an angry finger, breathing beastily at
the hinge, and running back a bit once in a while to leap all the harder
against groaning lintel and post.
The change-house of the widow was on the ground-flat, a but and ben, the
ceilings arched with stone--a strange device in masonry you’ll seldom
find elsewhere, Highland or Lowland. But she had a garret-room up two
stairs where properly she abode, the close flat being reserved for trade
of vending _uisgebeatha_ and ale. I describe all this old place so fully
because it bears on a little affair that happened therein on that day
John Splendid and I went in to clink glasses.
The widow had seen that neither of us was very keen on her aqua, which,
as it happened, was raw new stuff brewed over at Karnes, Lochow, and she
asked would we prefer some of her brandy.
“After his lordship’s it might be something of a down-come,” said John
Splendid, half to me and half to the woman.
She caught his meaning, though he spoke in the English; and in our own
tongue, laughing toothlessly, she said--
“The same stilling, Barbreck, the same stilling I make no doubt
MacCailein gets his brown brandy by my brother’s cart from French
Foreland; it’s a rough road, and sometimes a bottle or two spills on
the way. I’ve a flagon up in a cupboard in my little garret, and I’ll go
fetch it.”
She was over-old a woman to climb three steep stairs for the sake of
two young men’s drought, and I (having always some regard for the frail)
took the key from her hand and went, as was common enough with her
younger customers, seeking my own liquor up the stair.
In those windy flights in the fishing season there is often the close
smell of herring-scale, of bow tar and the bark-tan of the fishing nets;
but this stair I climbed for the wherewithal was unusually sweet-odoured
and clean, because on the first floor was the house of Provost Brown--a
Campbell and a Gael, but burdened by accident with a Lowland-sounding
cognomen. He had the whole flat to himself--half-a-dozen snug apartments
with windows facing the street or the sea as he wanted. I was just at
the head of the first flight when out of a door came a girl, and I clean
forgot all about the widow’s flask of French brandy.
Little more than twelve years syne the Provost’s daughter had been a
child at the grammar-school, whose one annoyance in life was that the
dominie called her Betsy instead of Betty, her real own name: here she
was, in the flat of her father’s house in Inneraora town, a full-grown
woman, who gave me check in my stride and set my face flaming. I took
in her whole appearance at one glance--a way we have in foreign armies.
Between my toe on the last step of the stair and the landing I read
the picture: a well-bred woman, from her carriage, the neatness of her
apparel, the composure of her pause to let me bye in the narrow passage
to the next stair; not very tall (I have ever had a preference for
such as come no higher than neck and oxter); very dark brown hair, eyes
sparkling, a face rather pale than ruddy, soft skinned, full of a keen
nervousness.
In this matter of a woman’s eyes--if I may quit the thread of my
history--I am a trifle fastidious, and I make bold to say that
the finest eyes in the world are those of the Highland girls of
Argile--burgh or landward--the best bred and gentlest of them, I mean:
There is in them a full and melting friendliness, a mixture to my
sometimes notion of poetry and of calm--a memory, as I’ve thought
before, of the deep misty glens and their sights and secrets. I have
seen more of the warm heart and merriment in a simple Loch Finne girl’s
eyes than in all the faces of all the grand dames ever I looked on,
Lowland or foreign.
What pleased me first and foremost about this girl Betty, daughter
of Provost Brown, were her eyes, then, that showed, even in yon dusky
passage, a humoursome interest in young Elrigmore in a kilt coming
up-stairs swinging on a finger the key of Lucky Fraser’s garret. She
hung back doubtfully, though she knew me (I could see) for her old
school-fellow and sometime boy-lover, but I saw something of a welcome
in the blush at her face, and I gave her no time to chill to me.
“Betty lass, ‘tis you,” said I, putting out a hand and shaking her
soft fingers. “What think you of my ceremony in calling at the earliest
chance to pay my devoirs to the Provost of this burgh and his daughter?”
I put the key behind my back to give colour a little to my words; but
my lady saw it and jumped at my real errand on the stair, with that
quickness ever accompanying eyes of the kind I have mentioned.
“Ceremony here, devoir there!” said she, smiling, “there was surely no
need for a key to our door, Elrigmore---”
“Colin, Mistress Brown, plain Colin, if you please.”
“Colin, if you will, though it seems daftlike to be so free with a
soldier of twelve years’ fortune. You were for the widow’s garret Does
some one wait on you below?”
“John Splendid.”
“My mother’s in-bye. She will be pleased to see you back again if you
and your friend call. After you’ve paid the lawing,” she added, smiling
like a rogue.
“That will we,” said I; but I hung on the stair-head, and she leaned on
the inner sill of the stair window.
We got into a discourse upon old days, that brought a glow to my heart
the brandy I forgot had never brought to my head. We talked of school,
and the gay days in wood and field, of our childish wanderings on the
shore, making sand-keps and stone houses, herding the crabs of God--so
little that bairns dare not be killing them, of venturings to sea many
ells out in the fishermen’s coracles, of journeys into the brave deep
woods that lie far and wide round Inneraora, seeking the branch for the
Beltane fire; of nutting in the hazels of the glens, and feasts upon
the berry on the brae. Later, the harvest-home and the dance in green or
barn when I was at almost my man’s height, with the pluck to put a bare
lip to its apprenticeship on a woman’s cheek; the songs at _ceilidh_
fires, the telling of _sgeulachdan_ and fairy tales up on the mountain
sheiling----
“Let me see,” said I; “when I went abroad, were not you and one of the
Glenaora Campbells chief?”
I said it as if the recollection had but sprung to me, while the truth
is I had thought on it often in camp and field, with a regret that the
girl should throw herself off on so poor a partner.
She laughed merrily with her whole soul in the business, and her face
without art or pretence--a fashion most wholesome to behold.
“He married some one nearer him in years long syne,” said she. “You
forget I was but a bairn when we romped in the hay-dash.” And we
buckled to the crack again, I more keen on it than ever. She was a most
marvellous fine girl, and I thought her (well I mind me now) like the
blue harebell that nods upon our heather hills.
We might, for all I dreamt of the widow’s brandy, have been conversing
on the stair-head yet, and my story had a different conclusion, had
not a step sounded on the stair, and up banged John Splendid, his
sword-scabbard clinking against the wall of the stair with the haste of
him.
“Set a cavalier at the side of an anker of brandy,” he cried, “an----”
Then he saw he was in company. He took off his bonnet with a sweep I’ll
warrant he never learned anywhere out of France, and plunged into the
thick of our discourse with a query.
“At your service, Mistress Brown,” said he. “Half my errand to town
to-day was to find if young MacLach-lan, your relative, is to be at the
market here to-morrow. If so----”
“He is,” said Betty.
“Will he be intending to put up here all night, then?”
“He comes to supper at least,” said she, “and his biding overnight is
yet to be settled.”
John Splendid toyed with the switch in his hand in seeming abstraction,
and yet as who was pondering on how to put an unwelcome message in
plausible language.
“Do you know,” said he at last to the girl, in a low voice, for fear his
words should reach the ears of her mother in-bye, “I would as well see
MacLachlan out of town the morn’s night. There’s a waft of cold airs
about this place not particularly wholesome for any of his clan or name.
So much I would hardly care to say to himself; but he might take it
from you, madam, that the other side of the loch is the safest place for
sound sleep for some time to come.”
“Is it the MacNicolls you’re thinking of?” asked the girl.
“That same, my dear.”
“You ken,” he went on, turning fuller round to me, to tell a story he
guessed a new-comer was unlikely to know the ins and outs of--“you ken
that one of the MacLachlans, a cousin-german of old Lachie the chief,
came over in a boat to Braleckan a few weeks syne on an old feud, and
put a bullet into a Mac Nicoll, a peaceable lad who was at work in a
field. Gay times, gay times, aren’t they? From behind a dyke wall too--a
far from gentlemanly escapade even in a MacLa---- Pardon, mistress;
I forgot your relationship, but this was surely a very low dog of his
kind. Now from that day to this the murtherer is to find; there are some
to say old Lachie could put his hand on him at an hour’s notice if he
had the notion. But his lordship, Justiciar-General, upbye, has sent his
provost-marshal with letters of arrest to the place in vain. Now here’s
my story. The MacNicolls of Elrig have joined cause with their cousins
and namesakes of Braleckan; there’s a wheen of both to be in the town
at the market to-morrow, and if young Mac-Lachlan bides in this house of
yours overnight, Mistress Betty Brown, you’ll maybe have broken delf and
worse ere the day daw.”
Mistress Brown took it very coolly; and as for me, I was thinking of a
tiny brown mole-spot she used to have low on the white of her neck when
I put daisy-links on her on the summers we played on the green, and
wondering if it was still to the fore and hid below her collar. In by
the window came the saucy breeze and kissed her on a curl that danced
above her ear.
“I hope there will be no lawlessness here,” said she: “whether he goes
or bides, surely the burghers of Inner-aora will not quietly see their
Provost’s domicile invaded by brawlers.”
“Exactly so,” said John Splendid, drily. “Nothing may come of it, but
you might mention the affair to MacLachlan if you have the chance. For
me to tell him would be to put him in the humour for staying--dour fool
that he is--out of pure bravado and defiance. To tell the truth, I would
bide myself in such a case. ‘Thole feud’ is my motto. My granddad writ
it on his sword-blade in clear round print letters I’ve often marvelled
at the skill of. If it’s your will, Elrigmore, we may be doing without
the brandy, and give the house-dame a call now.”
We went in and paid our duties to the goodwife--a silver-haired dame
with a look of Betty in every smile.