OF AN ALTRUISTIC SCOT
Despite her wounds, the _True Believer_ made a fair crossing, and the day
was still young when Sir John, stumbling up from the dark and noisome
hole Mr. Nye called his “state-room,” drank deep of the sweet morning air
and hasted to the rail, there to lean and gaze ecstatic upon the Sussex
shore. A coast of fair, green slopes, of snowy cliffs, just now all pink
and gold in the early sunshine, with, above and beyond, the blue swell of
the Downs. A coast that has known much of storm and battle since Roman
armour flashed beneath the resistless eagles, and William the Norman
landed on Pevensey Level to march his eager mercenaries against the
war-worn ranks of Saxon Harold.
And yet it is a gentle coast of white and green and purple distances,
its every rock and headland seeming to beckon the weary, home-returning
traveller, speaking to him of remembered hamlets nestling amid the
green; of familiar roads, tree-shaded, a-wind between flowery banks and
hedgerows; of quiet villages and sleepy, ancient towns backed by the
swelling grandeur of the silent, mysterious Downs.
The peep of clustered homesteads drowsing in sheltered cove, the majesty
of towering white cliffs soaring from boulder-strewn, foam-washed
foreshore; the wide beaches backed by the grey spires and towers of some
town—these are “home,” and their mere sight like the welcoming grip of
some friendly hand.
Thus stood Sir John, scanning remembered hamlet and village glad-eyed:
Shoreham and Brighthelmstone, Rottingdean, Newhaven and Seaford, the
snowy cliffs of Cuckmere Bay, with the dim shape of mighty Beachy Head
afar.
So lost was he in memories conjured up of these well-remembered, boyish
haunts that he started to feel a hand upon his shoulder, and turned to
find Sir Hector beside him; he bore a neatly bandaged arm in a sling
beneath his coat and was smoking the short, clay pipe he affected.
“How are you now, Hector?”
“Gey an’ bonny, thanks tae yon Rose. Faith. John, she’s by ordinar’, I’m
thinkin’!”
“My own idea exactly, Hector——”
“An’ the hand o’ her, John!”
“Ah, so you have noticed them also, Hector? So white and shapely ... and
pretty——”
“Pretty? Hoot awa’, ’tis their gentleness, their quickness——”
“Such slender fingers, Hector, such pink palms——”
“Umph-humph!” snorted Sir Hector, and turned to stare landwards. “A
fair prospect, John lad!” quoth he suddenly in his precise English.
“’Tis better than your perfumed salons in Paris, or the gilded pomp and
pageantry of Versailles. Aye, a sweet and homely prospect—though, mind
ye, ’tis no’ tae be compared wi’ Scotland, whateffer.”
“Why did you leave Scotland, Hector? And how come you, of all men, to be
friends with Mr. Nye and his fellow-smugglers?”
“Egad, ’tis a long story, John! But, briefly, you must know that chancing
to have the better o’ my good cousin Lauchlan—‘the MacLean’—(o’er a point
o’ strategy, if I mind rightly), I left the MacLean country and the hame
o’ my forefaythers, though my heart was sair waefu’, John, an’ became a
roofless wight—a hameless wanderer!”
“And all by reason of a quarrel with your cousin, Hector?”
“Aye, juist that! Ye see, Johnnie, it so happened the man was like tae
dee!”
“To die, Hector? How so?”
“Why, the puir gentleman misjudged his distance, and my Andrew here took
him a ding i’ the wame, Johnnie.”
“Aha, a duel, was it? When was this, Hector?”
“Twa-three years aboot, lad. So, bein’ a lone man and weary wi’ my
wandering, y’ ken, I minded you, Johnnie, an’ cam’ Sussex-wards a-seekin’
ye. But, learnin’ ye were leevin’ in Parus an’ much too fine a gentleman
for Sussex, I bought me a wee bit hoosie ower Alfriston way—an’ there I’m
leevin’ yet, God be thankit.”
“Why, then, Hector, since I intend living at High Dering henceforth, you
must live there too. You shall have your old rooms in the north wing ...
your study, Hector, with so few books and so very many weapons ... ’twas
there you gave me my first lesson in fencing. Do you remember?”
“Aye, I do, lad. And you were ower fond o’ the ‘point’ even then, John.
But as for comin’ back yonder to live—whisht, laddie! Alfriston suits me
fine, an’ ma bit hoosie is nane sae bad for a lonely man, y’ ken!”
“Tush!” exclaimed Sir John, a trifle pettishly. “High Dering won’t seem
home without you. And if you are so lonely——”
“Why, I’m no’ juist solitary, John lad. I hae my company for a crack now
an’ then and to smoke a pipe wi’ of an evening; there’s Geordie Potter
an’ Peter Bunkle, an’ Joe Pursglove an’ Joe Muddle, an’ ane or two mair.
So y’ see I’m no’ juist solitary.”
“But you live alone, I suppose?”
“Aye, I dae that—leastways, there’s Wully Tamson sleeps i’ my kitchen
on account o’ his wife when he’s fu’—which is frequent.... But,
Johnnie”—here Sir Hector paused to stare very hard at his short clay
pipe—“I’ve lately had an idea—very lately! I’ve juist the noo come tae
a fixed determination.... ’Tis like enough I shall be a lonely man nae
longer, y’ ken.”
“’S death, Hector man, you never think of marrying?”
“Marryin’—me? Losh, man, dae I look like it? Dinna be sic a fule! I’m
fair amazed at ye! No, John,” continued Sir Hector, his English suddenly
precise, “I have, upon due consideration, determined to adopt the girl
Rose——”
“Aha!” exclaimed Sir John, with sudden laugh, but meeting Sir Hector’s
glare of angered amazement, contrived to regain his gravity. “So you have
determined to ... to adopt my Rose child, have you, Hector?”
“I hae that!”
“Have you put the matter to her?”
“I hae so!”
“And what said she?”
“The puir, preety soul fair turned her back an’ weepit, John.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Sir John again. “Hum! Wept, did she, Hector?”
“She did that!”
“And you saw her tears down-distilling all crystalline woe, Hector?”
“She had her back tae me, I’m tellin’ ye!”
“Well, did she embrace your offer in humble, grateful thankfulness?”
“She’s tae gi’e me her answer when she’s conseedered the matter.”
“So, Hector, you offer her the comfort and shelter of a home, the secure
protection of your care ... merely because she tended the hurt in your
arm?”
Sir Hector seemed to find some difficulty with the drawing of his pipe;
he examined it, tapped it, grew red in the face blowing down it, and
finally, giving it up in despair, spoke.
“John, ye’ve a shrewd eye for a bonny lass. I’ll no’ deny she’s an unco’
handsome creature. But, wha’s better, lad, she’s a gude lass, sweet an’
pure, John ... and here’s mysel’, an auld sojer as kens little o’ women
except—t’other sort; here’s me, John, wad keep her gude and pure as she
is. Gin she’ll but trust tae my care, here’s me will shield her from
onything and onybody, aye, even from—from——”
“Me, Hector?”
“Aye—juist yersel’, John.”
“Ha!” sighed Sir John, and turned to stare at the shore again, its sandy
bays and snowy cliffs much nearer now, while Sir Hector, eyeing him
a little askance, began to worry at his pipe again. And then she who
was the subject of their talk stepped out upon deck and stood gazing
shorewards beneath her hand.
“You are quite sure, then, that I mean her evil?” inquired Sir John
softly, his glance upon her unconscious form.
“Why, Jock ... why, Jock lad, ... ye see ... there’s y’r reputation!”
“My reputation!” he repeated. “Ever and always my reputation. Aye, to
be sure, Hector, to be sure—my reputation dogs me and will do all my
days.... I am no fit companion for Innocence; my reputation forbids....
It goes beside me like a shadow, and yet for the moment I had forgot
it. Rose!” he called suddenly. “Rose child, pray come hither!” Mutely
obedient she came and stood, glancing quick-eyed from one to the other.
“Rose,” he continued, “my old and most honoured friend, Sir Hector
MacLean, tells me he hath offered you the shelter of a father’s care?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“I have known and loved Sir Hector from my earliest years, and tell you
that in him you would find the most honourable, kindest, most generous
friend and guardian in all this big world——”
“Hoot, John lad!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Ha’ done; ye fair mak’ me
blush!” And away he strode, incontinent.
“Knowing you as I do, child,” continued Sir John, his keen gaze upon her
down-bent face, “I fear that Sir Hector’s so altruistic offer may seem to
you a matter for laughter——”
“Laughter?” she repeated in hot anger. “Oh, indeed, sir! Be this another
o’ your honour’s clever guesses?”
“And so, Rose,” he went on placidly, “if you must laugh indeed, laugh
behind his back; do not let him see, for ’twould wound him deeply——”
“And d’ye think I don’t know it!” she exclaimed furiously. “Do you think
I don’t see in him all that is lacking in yourself, Sir John Dering?
Simplicity, unselfishness, a noble innocence—the child in the man,
thinking no evil. And think you I shall laugh at such? Oh, by heaven, I
scorn you for so thinking——”
“And by heaven, child, you swear as trippingly as any fine lady——”
“Indeed, sir, my mistress is a pretty swearer, I’ve heard say!”
“Howbeit, Rose, when you shall refuse Sir Hector’s generous and most
ridiculous offer, as you surely will——”
“Oh, shall I, sir?”
“Beyond doubt!”
“You are sure, sir?”
“Positive!”
“And pray why is your honour so very certain?”
“Because you could never mother an old man in a cottage—or any other
man, for that matter. The Spirit of Motherliness which is the true glory
of woman is not within you, Rose, or ... perchance it sleepeth. Who can
imagine you bringing a man his slippers, lighting his pipe, scheming out
and cooking some dish for the joy of seeing him eat, making his comfort
your happiness? Not I! For these are but everyday, small duties—very
humble things in themselves which yet, in the sum, make up that divine
Spirit of Motherhood, that self-sacrificing, patient, unwearying, humble
service that lifteth woman very nigh the angels.”
“Faith, sir,” she exclaimed contemptuously, “you talk finer than any
parson and sound more sanctimonious than any good book that ever sent me
to sleep! And remembering your honour’s reputation, what d’you know of
angels, pray?”
“Naught i’ the world, child! Yet even I have my dreams. Now as to
yourself——”
“Oh, I’m all body an’ no soul!” she exclaimed bitterly.
“You have a fine, shapely body, girl——”
“Oh, your honour flatters me!”
“But your soul, Rose, your soul is—let us say asleep, and its place
usurped by a wild spirit a-tiptoe for adventure, heedless of restraint,
passionate, unreasoning and apt to plunge you into all manner o’ follies
and dangers——”
“And doth all this go to prove I shall refuse Sir Hector’s kind offer?”
“And when you do, child, let your refusal be gentle; put on for him your
tenderest air, act for him your sweetest, most innocent self——”
“Oh, thank’ee kindly, Sir John Dering, your honour!” she broke out
fiercely. “But when I give him my answer I shall speak, and act, and
think, and look exactly how I please!”
He was regarding my lady’s retreating back somewhat wistfully when Sir
Hector joined him.
“What hae ye done t’ offend th’ lassie, John?” he demanded.
“I have been making up her mind to accept your offer, Hector.”
“Eh—eh? You have, ye say, John—you?”
“Myself, Hector! And yet, have I done right to influence the child, I
wonder? Are you sufficiently old and reverend with years to become the
guardian of a young and handsome girl?”
“Old enough!” exclaimed Sir Hector indignantly. “Losh, man, am I no’ a
person full o’ years ... aye, and an elder o’ the kirk, forbye? Am I no’
a puir auld sojer-man wi’ ane fut i’ the grave? Am I no’?”
“Faith and indeed, Hector, you are the youngest old man in Christendom.”
“John, juist what are ye suggestin’?”
“Well, among other things, that you be duly prepared to eat more than is
good for you, to have your slippers brought to you o’ nights, your pipe
lighted, and, in fine, to be mothered morning, noon and night.”
“Whisht, Johnnie man, ye’re talkin’ wild-like, I’m thinkin’, and——”
“Axing y’r pardons, honours both,” said Captain Sharkie Nye, stepping
forward at this juncture to knuckle a bristly eyebrow at each in turn and
jerk a thumb shorewards, “but yonder lays Noohaven, an’ the ‘Anchor’ be
a fair, good inn. Y’ see, sirs, George Potter ain’t signalled us, which
do mean as us must stand off an’ on till it be dark. So if it be arl the
same to ye, sirs, we’ll set ye ashore so soon as you be ready.”
Sir Hector assenting forthwith, the boat was got alongside, and they
prepared to descend.
“Lord love us, Sir ’Ector, your honour!” exclaimed Captain Nye as they
shook hands, “’twas a woundy good shot o’ yourn, a shot as will be minded
an’ talked on fur many a day, aye—long arter we be dry bones, I reckon.
’Tidn’t often a King’s ship be ’andled so rough, an’ ’tis for arl on
us to keep tight mouths, I reckon. I’ll be into Alfriston one o’ these
nights in the dark o’ the moon to smoke a pipe wi’ your honour, ’cording
to custom.”
And so, having got into the pitching boat with no small difficulty,
they were rowed ashore (discreetly outside the harbour), and were soon
tramping up the slope of pebbly beach, beyond which lay the town.
Presently they paused, as by mutual consent, and glanced back to see the
boat hauled aboard the lugger, whose sails were smartly trimmed, and
away foamed the _True Believer_ seawards, with Captain Sharkie Nye waving
his red cap to them from her rail.
“And now,” sighed Sir John, “as regards that promised herring——”
“Herring!” snorted Sir Hector. “My puir lass—are ye no’ hungry—famishing?”
“Too hungry to tell, sir!” she answered.
“After all, Hector,” quoth Sir John, “though undoubtedly nourishing,
perhaps a herring is not——”
“Tae the de’il wi’ y’r herrin’, man! Tam Levitt at the ‘Anchor’ yonder
hath ay a ham tae cut at, wi’ a prime roast o’ beef ... by Andrew, the
thocht nigh unmans me! Gi’e’s y’r hand, Rose, an’ let’s rin for ’t!”
And off they raced forthwith, until my lady checked and bade Sir Hector
“remember his poor arm!”
“And your hoary age, Hector!” added Sir John.