HESTER CRAIGMILE RECEIVES HER LETTER
The letters reached their opposite destinations at about the same
time. The one to Amalia closely buttoned in Larry's pocket, and the
short one to himself which he read and reread as his horse slowly
climbed the trail, were halfway up the mountain when the postboy
delivered Hester Craigmile's at the door of the sedate brick house
belonging to the Craigmiles of Aberdeen.
Peter Junior's mother and two elderly women--his grandaunts--were
seated in the dignified parlor, taking afternoon tea, when the
housemaid brought Hester her letter.
"Is it from Peter, maybe?" asked the elder of the two aunts.
"No, Aunt Ellen; I think it is from a friend."
"It's strange now, that Peter's no written before this," said the
younger, leaning forward eagerly. "Will ye read it, dear? We'll be
wantin' to know if there's ae word about him intil't."
"There may be, Aunt Jean." Hester set her cup of tea down untasted,
and began to open her letter.
"But tak' yer tea first, Hester. Jean's an impatient body. That's too
bad of ye, Jean; her toast's gettin' cold."
"Oh, that's no matter at all, Aunt Ellen. I'll take it as soon as I
see if he's home all right. Yes, my friend says my husband has been
home for three days and is well."
"That's good. Noo ye're satisfied, lay it by and tak' yer tea." And
Hester smilingly laid it by and took her tea, for Mary Ballard had
said nothing on the first page to startle her friend's serenity.
Jean Craigmile, however, still looked eagerly at the letter as it lay
on a chair at Hester's side. She was a sweet-faced old lady, alert,
and as young as Peter Junior's father, for all she was his aunt, and
now she apologized for her eagerness by saying, as she often did: "Ye
mind he's mair like my brither than my nephew, for we all used to play
together--Peter, Katherine, and me. We were aye friends. She was like
a sister, and he like a brither. Ah, weel, we're auld noo."
Her sister looked at her fondly. "Ye're no so auld, Jean, but ye might
be aulder. It's like I might have been the mither of her, for I mind
the time when she was laid in my arms and my feyther tell't me I was
to aye care for her like my ain, an' but for her I would na' be livin'
noo."
"And why for no?" asked Jean, quickly.
"I had ye to care for, child. Do ye no' understand?"
Jean laughed merrily. "She's been callin' me child for saxty-five
years," she said.
Both the old ladies wore lace caps, but that of Jean's was a little
braver with ribbons than Ellen's. Small lavender bows were set in the
frill all about her face, and the long ends of the ribbon were not
tied, but fell down on the soft white mull handkerchief that crossed
over her bosom.
"I mind when Peter married ye, Hester," said Ellen. "I was fair wild
to have him bring ye here on his weddin' journey, and he should have
done so, for we'd not seen him since he was a lad, and all these years
I've been waitin' to see ye."
"Weel, 'twas good of him to leave ye bide with us a bit, an' go home
without ye," said Jean.
"It was good of him, but I ought not to have allowed it." Hester's
eyes glistened and her face grew tender and soft. To the world,
the Elder might seem harsh, stubborn, and vindictive, but Hester knew
the tenderness in which none but she believed. Ever since the
disappearance of their son, he had been gentle and most lovingly
watchful of her, and his domination had risen from the old critical
restraint on her thoughts and actions to a solicitous care for her
comfort,--studying her slightest wishes with almost appealing
thoughtfulness to gratify them.
"And why for no allow it? There's naething so good for a man as
lettin' him be kind to ye, even if he is an Elder in the kirk. I'm
thinkin' Peter's ain o' them that such as that is good for--Hester!
What ails ye! Are oot of ye're mind? Gi'e her a drap of whuskey, Jean.
Hester!"
While they were chatting and sipping their tea, Hester had quietly
resumed the reading of her letter, and now she sat staring straight
before her, the pages crushed in her hand, leaning forward, pale, with
her eyes fixed on space as if they looked on some awful sight.
"Hester! Hester! What is it? Is there a bit o' bad news for ye' in the
letter? Here, tak' a sip o' this, dear. Tak' it, Hester; 'twill
hairten ye up for whatever's intil't," cried Jean, holding to Hester's
lips the ever ready Scotch remedy, which she had snatched from a wall
cupboard behind her and poured out in a glass.
Ellen, who was lame and could not rise from her chair without help,
did not cease her directions and ejaculations, lapsing into the
broader Scotch of her girlhood under excitement, as was the way with
both the women. "Tell us what ails ye, dear; maybe it's no so bad. Gie
me the letter, Jean, an' I'll see what's intil't. Ring the bell for
Tillie an' we'll get her to the couch."
But Hester caught Jean's gown and would not let her go to the bell
cord which hung in the far corner of the room. "No, don't call her.
I'll lie down a moment, and--and--we'll talk--this--over." She clung
to the letter and would not let it out of her hand, but rose and
walked wearily to the couch unassisted and lay down, closing her eyes.
"After a minute, Aunt Ellen, I'll tell you. I must think, I must
think." So she lay quietly, gathering all her force to consider and
meet what she must, as her way was, while Jean sat beside, stroking
her hand and saying sweet, comforting words in her broad Scotch.
"There's neathin' so guid as a drap of whuskey, dear, for strengthnin'
the hairt whan ye hae a bit shock. It's no yer mon, Peter? No? Weel,
thank the Lord for that. Noo, tak ye anither bit sup, for ye ha'e na
tasted it. Wull ye no gie Ellen the letter, love? 'Twill save ye
tellin' her."
Hester passively took the whisky as she was bid, and presently sat up
and finished reading the letter. "Peter has been hiding--something
from me for--three years--and now--"
"Yes, an' noo. It's aye the way wi' them that hides--whan the day
comes they maun reveal--it's only the mair to their shame," exclaimed
Ellen.
"Oh, but it's all mixed up--and my best friend doesn't know the
truth. Yes, take the letter, Aunt Ellen, and read it yourself." She
held out the pages with a shaking hand, and Jean took them over to her
sister, who slowly read them in silence.
"Ah, noo. As I tell't ye, it's no so bad," she said at last.
"Wha's the trouble, Ellen? Don't keep us waitin'."
"Bide ye in patience, child. Ye're always so easily excitet. I maun
read the letter again to get the gist o't, but it's like this. The
Elder's been of the opeenion noo these three years that his son was
most foully murder't, an--"
"He may ha'e been kill't, but he was no' murder't," cried Jean,
excitedly. "I tell ye 'twas purely by accident--" she paused and
suddenly clapped both hands over her mouth and rocked herself back and
forth as if she had made some egregious blunder, then: "Gang on wi'
yer tellin'. It's dour to bide waitin'. Gie me the letter an' lat me
read it for mysel'."
"Lat me tell't as I maun tell't. Ye maun no keep interruptin'. Jean
has no order in her brain. She aye pits the last first an' the first
last. This is a hopefu' letter an' a guid ain from yer friend, an' it
tells ye yer son's leevin' an' no murder't--"
"Thank the Lord! I ha'e aye said it," ejaculated Jean, fervently.
"Ye ha'e aye said it? Child, what mean ye? Ye ha'e kenned naethin'
aboot it."
But Jean would not be set down. She leaned forward with glistening
eyes. "I ha'e aye said it. I ha'e aye said it. Gie me the letter,
Ellen."
But Ellen only turned composedly and resumed her interpretation of
the letter to Hester, who sat looking with dazed expression from one
aunt to the other.
"It all comes about from Peter's bein' a stubborn man, an' he'll no
change the opeenion he's held for three years wi'oot a struggle. Here
comes his boy back an' says, 'I'm Peter Junior, and yer son.' An' his
feyther says till him, 'Ye're no my son, for my son was murder't--an'
ye're Richard Kildene wha' murder't him.' And noo, it's for ye to go
home, Hester, an' bring Peter to his senses, and show him the truth. A
mither knows her ain boy, an' if it's Peter Junior, it's Peter Junior,
and Richard Kildene's died."
"I tell ye he's no dead!" cried Jean, springing to her feet.
"Hush, child. He maun be dead, for ain of them's dead, and this is
Peter Junior."
"Read it again, Aunt Ellen," said Hester, wearily. "You'll see that
the Elder brings a fearful charge against Richard. He thinks Richard
is making a false claim that he is--Peter--my boy."
Jean sat back in her chair crying silently and shrinking into herself
as if she were afraid to say more, and Ellen went on. "Listen, now,
what yer frien' says. 'The Elder is wrong, for Bertrand'--that's her
husband, I'm thinkin'--?"
"Yes."
"'Bertrand and Betty,--' Who's Betty, noo?"
"Betty is their daughter. She was to--have--married my son."
"Good. So she would know her lover. 'Betty and I have seen him,' she
says, 'and have talked with him, and we know he is Peter Junior,' she
says. 'Richard Kildene has disappeared,' she says, 'and yet we know
he is living somewhere and he must be found. We fear the Elder will
not withdraw the charge until Richard is located'--An' that will be
like Peter, too--'and meanwhile your son Peter will have to lie in
jail, where he is now, unless you can clear matters up here by coming
home and identifying him, and that you can surely do.'--An' that's all
vera weel. There's neathin' to go distraught over in the like o' that.
An' here she says, 'He's a noble, fine-looking man, and you'll be
proud of him when you see him.' Oh, 'tis a fine letter, an' it's Peter
wi' his stubbornness has been makin' a boggle o' things. If I were na
lame, I'd go back wi' ye an' gie Peter a piece o' my mind."
"An' I'll locate Richard for ye!" cried Jean, rising to her feet and
wiping away the fast-falling tears, laughing and weeping all in the
same moment. "Whish't, Ellen, it's ye'rsel' that kens neathin' aboot
it, an' I'll tell ye the truth the noo--that I've kept to mysel' this
lang time till my conscience has nigh whupped me intil my grave."
"Tak' a drap o' whuskey, Jean, ye're flyin' oot o' yer heid. It's the
hystiricks she's takin'."
"Ah, no! What is it, Aunt Jean? What is it?" cried Hester, eagerly,
drawing her to the seat by her side again.
"It's no the hystiricks," cried Jean, rocking back and forth and
patting her hands on her knees and speaking between laughing and
crying. "It's the truth at last, that I've been lyin' aboot these
three lang years, thank the Lord!"
"Jean, is it thankin' the Lord ye are, for lyin'?"
"Ellen, ye mind whan ye broke ye'r leg an' lay in the south chamber
that lang sax months?"
"Aye, weel do I mind it."
"Lat be wi' ye're interruptin' while I tell't. He came here."
"Who came here?"
"Richard--the poor lad! He tell't me all aboot it. How he had a mad
anger on him, an' kill't his cousin Peter Junior whan they'd been like
brithers all their lives, an' hoo he pushed him over the brink o' a
gre't precipice to his death, an' hoo he must forever flee fra' the
law an' his uncle's wrath. Noo it's--"
"Oh, Aunt Jean!" cried Hester, despairingly. "Don't you see that what
you say only goes to prove my husband right? Yet how could he claim to
be Peter--it--it's not like the boy. Richard never, never would--"
"He may ha' been oot o' his heid thinkin' he pushed him over the
brink. I ha'e na much opeenion o' the judgment o' a man ony way. They
never know whan to be set, an' whan to gie in. Think shame to yersel',
Jean, to be hidin' things fra me the like o' that an' then lyin' to
me."
"He was repentit, Ellen. Ye can na' tak the power o' the Lord in yer
ain han's an' gie a man up to the law whan he's repentit. If ye'd seen
him an' heard the words o' him and seen him greet, ye would ha' hid
him in yer hairt an' covered wi' the mantle o' charity, as I did.
Moreover, I saved ye from dour lyin' yersel'. Ye mind whan that man
that Peter sent here to find Richard came, hoo ye said till him that
Richard had never been here? Ye never knew why for that man wanted
Richard, but I knew an' I never tell't ye. An' if ye had known what I
knew, ye never could ha' tell't him what ye did so roundly an' sent
him aboot his business wi' a straight face."
"An' noo whaur is Richard?"
"He's awa' in Paris pentin' pictures. He went there to learn to be a
penter."
"An' whaur gat he the money to go wi'? There's whaur the new black
silk dress went ye should ha' bought yersel' that year. Ye lat me
think it went to the doctor. Child! Child!"
"Yes, sister; I lee'd to ye. It's been a heavy sin on my soul an' ye
may well thank the Lord it's no been on yer ain. But hark ye noo. It's
all come back to me. Here's the twenty pun' I gave him. It's come back
wi' interest." Proudly Jean drew from her bosom an envelope containing
forty pounds in bank notes. "Look ye, hoo he's doubl't it?" Again she
laughed through her tears.
"And you know where he is--and can find him?"
"Yes, Hester, dear, I know. He took a new name. It was Robert Kater he
called himsel'. So, there he's been pentin' pictures. Go, Hester, an'
find yer son, an' I'll find Richard. Ellen, ye'll have to do wi'
Tillie for a week an' a bit,--I'm going to Paris to find Richard."
"Ye'll do nae sic' thing. Ye'll find him by post."
"I'll trust to nae letter the noo, Ellen. Letters aften gang astray,
but I'll no gang astray."
"Oh, child, child! It's a sorrowful thing I'm lame an' can na' gang
wi' ye. What are ye doin', Hester?"
"I'm hunting for the newspaper. Don't they put the railroad
time-tables in the paper over here, or must I go to the station to
inquire about trains?"
"Ye'd better ask at the station. I'll go wi' ye. Ye might boggle it by
yersel'. Ring for Tillie, Jean. She can help me oot o' my chair an'
get me dressed, while ye're lookin' after yer ain packin', Jean."
So the masterful old lady immediately began to superintend the
hasty departure of both Hester and Jean. The whole procedure was
unprecedented and wholly out of the normal course of things, but if
duty called, they must go, whether she liked the thought of their
going or not. So she sent Tillie to call a cab, and contented
herself with bewailing the stubbornness of Peter, her nephew.
"It was aye so, whan he was a lad playin' wi' Jean an' Katherine,
whiles whan his feyther lat his mither bring Katherine and him back to
Scotland on a veesit. Jean and Katherine maun gie in til him if they
liket it or no. I've watched them mony's the time, when he would haud
them up in their play by the hour together, arguyin' which should be
horse an' which should be driver, an' it was always Peter that won his
way wi' them. Is the cab there, Tillie? Then gie me my crutch. Hester,
are you ready? Jean, I'll find oot for ye all aboot the trains for
Dover. Ye maun gang direc' an' no loiter by the way. Come, Hester. I
doot she ought not to be goin' aboot alone. Paris is an' awfu' like
place for a woman body to be goin' aboot alone. But it canna' be
helpit. What's an old woman like me wi' only one sound leg and a pair
o' crutches, to go on sic' like a journey?"
"If I could, I'd take you home with me, Aunt Ellen; if I were only
sure of the outcome of this trouble, I would anyway--but to take you
there to a home of sorrow--"
"There, Hester, dear. Don't ye greet. It's my opeenion ye're goin' to
find yer son an' tak him in yer arms ance mair. Ye were never the
right wife for Peter. I can see that. Ye're too saft an' gentle."
"I'm thinking how Peter has borne this trouble alone, all these
years, and suffered, trying to keep the sorrow from me."
"Yes, dear, yes. Peter told us all aboot it whan he was here, an' he
bade us not to lat ye ken a word aboot it, but to keep from ye all
knowledge of it. Noo it's come to ye by way of this letter fra yer
frien', an' I'm thinkin' it's the best way; for noo, at last ye ha'e
it in ye're power to go an' maybe save an innocent man, for it's no
like a son of our Katherine would be sic' like a base coward as to try
to win oot from justice by lyin' himsel' intil his victim's own home.
I'll no think it."
"Nor I, Aunt Ellen. It's unbelievable! And of Richard--no. I loved
Richard. He was like my own son to me--and Peter Junior loved him,
too. They may have quarreled--and even he might--in a moment of anger,
he might have killed my boy,--but surely he would never do a thing
like this. They are making some horrible mistake, or Mary Ballard
would never have written me."
"Noo ye're talkin' sense. Keep up courage an' never tak an' affliction
upo' yersel' until it's thrust upo' ye by Providence."
Thus good Aunt Ellen in her neat black bonnet and shawl and black
mits, seated at Hester's side in the cab holding to her crutches,
comforted and admonished her niece all the way to the station and
back, and the next day she bravely bade Jean and Hester both good-by
and settled herself in her armchair to wait patiently for news from
them.