THE LAST OF RORY OF THE SHELTIES--DR. PETER ON THE SCENT.
‘He’s gane, and nae mistake, puir lad, said Sandy Macnab, respectful for
once, and also for once deficient in his constitutional volubility.
He stood with Dr. Peter Murray by a box-bed far from tidy, but not
deficient in the ordinary comforts of a bed of its class, while over the
rest of the bedclothes was thrown a tartan plaid. Beneath the covering,
with the head and chest exposed, lay the worn, breathless body of Rory
of the Shelties, from which life had just departed.
The locality was no remote shieling in North Uist, but Bawby Sed’s
house in a street off the Gallowgate of Glasgow. Bawby herself, with the
effusiveness of her nature and race, was rocking to and fro, and
wailing, with an apron thrown over her head, as if it were her man Andry
and her whole numerous family that had been taken from her, instead of a
half-witted Highland ‘gangrel’ (tramp)--who was nobody’s body, with whom
she had been accidentally and temporarily associated, not greatly to her
profit or pleasure.
The time was yet so early in the morning that the November daylight was
still only struggling with a tallow candle burning down and guttering in
the socket. The fact that the daily life of Glasgow was not far advanced
accounted for the comparative privacy and stillness of Bawby’s dwelling.
The husband and elder children had set forth to their work, and the
younger fry had not begun to stir. No visitor was yet ready to drop in,
while the old woman who had shared with the mistress of the house the
last night-watch by the sick man, had gone out for more assistance to
perform with due ceremony, such as Bawby would not on any account have
neglected, the office of ‘straiking the corp.’
‘There’s nothing to be done, as you say, Sandy,’ remarked Dr. Peter,
failing to reproach Sir James Semple’s man, who had rushed out to Barley
Riggs in the small hours for the doctor, and dragged him in to Glasgow,
where medical men abounded, and there was a special practitioner told
off for the wants of the poor in the parish in question.
‘I thocht, as he had been your patient aince, doctor, you would like to
see the last of him,’ said Sandy confidentially.
‘Well, if it is any comfort to you and the honest woman that I am here,
that is something, since I can be of no use to him,’ said Dr. Peter
resignedly. ‘But what was the poor creature doing here, Macnab? I
thought he went back to his part of the country, after he was put out
of Gartnavel--three--no, I’ll be bound it is nearer five months ago.’
‘That’s just the way of it, sir,’ said Sandy, a little confused, but
without proceeding to explain how the contradiction came about. Then he
turned with some impatience to his lamenting countrywoman. ‘I wish you
would hand your wheest, Bawby; you will be enough to drive a man doited,
with your bubblin’ and greetin’!’
‘Oh, the puir lad!’ went on Bawby, with unabated energy, behind her
apron; ‘and I thocht when I saw him first that he would bring me word of
the auld man--M‘Leish, you ken--that befriended me when I was a
motherless bairn, and, instead, the lad’s ain friends will be wondering
what has become of him this day--ochone! ochone!’
‘If you would only listen to reason, woman, before you’re in the ecsties
[hysterics],’ remonstrated Sandy; ‘what friends is he likely to have, a
wasp of a natural--that I should say sic a word and him no cauld--weel
on for forty? They will think theirsel’s weel quit o’ him, I doubtna;
forbye, he spoke of no friends save his granny--and she, if she were to
the fore, would be weel on to a hunder, ower auld and cauld to care for
ocht but the keepin’ in o’ her ain wee glimmer of life and heat. He
cared mair for his bit boxie, when it had the papers intil’t, than for
a’ the friends that ever had the misfortune to own him. As for
Ballachulish and auld M‘Leish--are you as daft as he was? How could a
man from the islands bring you word of what was done on the main-land?’
‘Why did he not go back to his island, and where is the box that he set
such store on?’ inquired Dr. Peter.
He was not a suspicious man, nor was he inclined to believe that a man
in Sandy Macnab’s position, with a place and a character to lose, would
be likely to risk them for what, after all, must have been a small
temptation. Still the listener did not quite like the aspect of affairs.
‘That’s just what it is, sir,’ Sandy repeated his vague formula, looking
yet more embarrassed. Then the man seemed to take a sudden
determination, and resolve on a free confession. ‘Losh! I’ll tell you a’
about it. I havena been so far to blame, nor has Bawby here, that we
should beat about the buss [bush], and think shame, and maybe called in
question for what we never did or thocht to do. It was not my blame that
Mr. Drysdale wouldna give me speech o’ him, or he micht have kenned lang
syne that the puir sorry Rory was not aff the carpet, but was lying here
getting waur and waur, and failing ilka day, till he was as gude as in
the death-thraw [death-struggle]. Nicol Macnicol would have naething to
say to sic a cargy on board his boat. It would have turned the stamachs
of all the fine gentry to see or hear tell of a deeing beggar on the
same planks with them.’
‘It was to give the craytur a bit treat out of his notie that we keepit
him at first,’ mourned the more ingenuous Bawby. ‘He had never seen
Glasgy afore; and then, when he took a turn and fell ill again, and
couldna be lifted, I couldna cast him out like a dug, you ken. I’m sure
I’ve had fash [trouble] enough wi’ my man Andry--wha’s that dour,
dornach [strong cloth] is naething to him. He threepit I micht as weel
keep beggars’ ludgins at aince. And wha’s to bury the puir silly chap
that’s stiffening fast, I canna just say. Sandy Macnab’s willing to
help. I’ve some savings in the fit of a stocking that Andry’s never
seen, or he would have them awa’ to put into a society in a jiffy--Andry
is an awfu’ hand at societies. But I’m willing to waur [spend] a pickle
on a Hielantman, and I hope the pariss will do the rest.’
‘I’ll see to that, Mrs. Seth,’ promised Dr. Peter, ‘and I’ll give you a
certificate for the registrar. But you’ve never told me where the poor
fellow got the note on which he was to have had the treat, or where the
box is that he valued so highly. Perhaps its contents may be of some
consequence to his friends, or may help to defray the expenses of the
funeral.’
‘Very like!’ said Sandy Macnab, not aware of displaying any want of
feeling by speaking in a tone of unmistakable derision. ‘Yonder the
kistie is;’ and he pointed to the wayfarer’s battered knapsack kicked
below a table. ‘When it was fu’, its valuables consisted, if you’ll
believe me, sir, of a wheen papers, an auld will of are Drysdale, and
the purpose of marriage of ane Mackinnon, baith of them, I’m creditably
informed, dead and buried mair than a score of years syne. I cannot tell
what maggot came into Rory’s head, but I did the best for him. I got him
speech of Mr. Drysdale up at Drysdale Hall, and it was him that,
sensible gentleman though he is, gifted Rory with the note in exchange
for the papers. I was to see him aff the Broomielaw,’ acknowledged
Sandy reluctantly, with a slight deepening of his ruddy colour; ‘but
you see, sir, as Bawby said, it seemed but richt that the craytur should
have a treat afore he gaed back to the hills--the mair so that he hadna
taken in a particle of what he had seen, but was brodent on some
miserable cruivie in North Uist. It seemed an awfu’ shame to send him
back where he cam’ from, with no more notion of the world than that. But
for all the gude that it has done to him, and considering what has
happened,’ said Sandy candidly, as he looked down regretfully on his
unfortunate countryman, lying for ever prostrate, ‘we micht have left
him in ignorance to daunder [saunter] hame in time to dee there.’
Dr. Peter’s whole aspect had undergone a change while Sandy spoke. First
a startled and then a troubled look came into the thoughtful eyes, until
the whole face fell indescribably. At last his mouth set with a rueful
determination, and he turned away.
By the time Dr. Peter had ridden out to Barley Riggs he had composed his
countenance and rid himself of every trace of disturbance. But it was a
very grave, sobered-looking man who presented himself at Athole’s
breakfast-table, instead of the cheery philosopher who was wont to take
his place there, and be the light of the morning and of the meal.
Athole, who had parted from her father overnight in his usual spirits,
did not know what to make of the change. She inquired in turn for every
patient she could remember, and received no information which could
explain Dr. Peter’s mood. She investigated into his own health, and was
told, with the impatience of a man to whom it was a contemptible trifle
at that moment, that he was perfectly well. What should ail him?
‘Then I wish, father, people would not call you out during the night
when they might do it to as much purpose during the day,’ she said
discontentedly, looking at the kidney he had hardly touched. ‘You may
be as strong as Hercules, but facing the darkness and cold at your age
does not seem to improve your appetite.’
She expected him to shake himself up and ask jestingly how old she
thought him, and whether he was not as good yet for night-work as any
young ‘swankie’ among them. Instead, he muttered gloomily, ‘What did it
matter? And it had happened to be the morning and not the night--a fine
enough morning for the season of the year--but though it had been mirk
midnight or in the thick of a snowstorm or a thunderstorm, sickness and
sorrow, misery and shame, did not wait for daylight and fine weather.’
Then it struck her that she had never seen him look like that before
since she was a child, when she had a dim recollection of the arrival of
a letter which had caused her father’s face first to flush purple and
then to pale to an ashen-grey, and he had drooped his head and not
raised it, but gone softly for many a day. She had heard, years
afterwards, when the penalty had been paid twice over, and she was old
enough to understand, that one of her brothers abroad had got into
disgrace, and their father had discharged the debt.
‘What is it, father?’ Athole now asked plainly, putting her hand in his,
and looking wistfully into his face. ‘I am old enough now to know,
whatever it is. Let me bear it with you!’
He put her gently from him this time. ‘It is not what you think, lassie.
It is nothing with which we have to do, thank God! Walter is all right
now, and so I trust are Sandy, and Mary and Lizzie’s husbands. It is no
secret of mine, else I dare say I might tell it to you; for, as you say,
you are old enough, and you have a woman’s wit to help a man in a strait
what to do next. But the tale is not mine to tell, as I said before, and
you’re likely to hear it soon enough,’ he ended, with a quick sigh.
Athole was dying to hear at once, but she could not force the confidence
which was not his, but some other person’s; she could only beg him not
to vex himself too much by taking other people’s trials upon him. They
were not his; he was not called upon to suffer heavily for them, any
more than he was answerable for other people’s errors.
‘Ay,’ he said sorrowfully, ‘but lookers-on have painful duties to
perform sometimes. Do you know, Athie, I have had ere now to go to a
friend--one of the oldest and best I had--and tell him something of
which he had not the faintest suspicion, that he had a deadly disease
upon him and his hours were numbered. If he wanted to settle his worldly
affairs and arrange for his family, or to make his peace with his Maker,
the present moment was the time, for the obligations of the case
admitted of no delay. I have had to go to another friend and give him
his choice--a doubtful operation, against which flesh and blood
recoiled, or his life lost for a certainty. Yet I would rather undertake
either of these commissions twice over, than face what I have to do
to-day.’
Her face paled in sympathy with his. Her great grey eyes opened widely;
she did not protest further or ply him with remonstrances which would
have been so many subtle questions; she stooped and kissed him, but said
no more. She watched him go, and went about her ordinary household
duties. But all the time she was praying silently for souls in trouble,
and that every hair of the heads of all the family at Drysdale Hall
might be kept in safety, though the name had never been mentioned in the
conversation, and she could not tell what evil one or all of them had
compassed, or what harm might befall old or young in the household.