LIZZY FINDLAY.
Leaving his boat again on the dry sand that sloped steep into the
harbour, Malcolm took his way homeward along the shore. Presently
he spied, at some little distance in front of him, a woman sitting
on the sand, with her head bowed upon her knees. She had no shawl,
though the wind was cold and strong, blowing her hair about wildly.
Her attitude and whole appearance were the very picture of misery.
He drew near and recognized her.
“What on earth’s gane wrang wi’ ye, Lizzy?” he asked.
“Ow naething,” she murmured, without lifting her head. The brief
reply was broken by a sob.
“That canna be,” persisted Malcolm, trouble of whose own had never
yet rendered him indifferent to that of another. “Is ’t onything
’at a body cun stan’ by ye in?”
Another sob was the only answer.
“I’m in a peck o’ troubles mysel’,” said Malcolm. “I wad fain help
a body gien I cud.”
“Naebody can help me,” returned the girl, with an agonized burst,
as if the words were driven from her by a convulsion of her inner
world, and therewith she gave way, weeping and sobbing aloud.--“I
doobt I’ll hae to droon mysel’,” she added with a wail, as he stood
in compassionate silence, until the gust should blow over; and as
she said it she lifted a face tear-stained, and all white, save where
five fingers had branded their shapes in red. Her eyes scarcely
encountered his; again she buried her face in her hands, and rocked
herself to and fro, moaning in fresh agony.
“Yer mither’s been sair upo’ ye, I doobt!” he said. “But it’ll sune
blaw ower. She cuils as fest ’s she heats.”
As he spoke he set himself down on the sand beside her. But Lizzy
started to her feet, crying,
“Dinna come near me, Ma’colm. I’m no fit for honest man to come
nigh me. Stan’ awa’; I hae the plague.”
She laughed, but it was a pitiful laugh, and she looked wildly
about, as if for some place to run to.
“I wadna be sorry to tak it mysel’, Lizzy. At ony rate I’m ower
auld a freen’ to be driven frae ye that gait,” said Malcolm, who
could not bear the thought of leaving her on the border of the
solitary sea, with the waves barking at her all the cold winterly
gloamin’. Who could tell what she might do after the dark came down?
He rose and would have taken her hand to draw it from her face;
but she turned her back quickly, saying in a hard forced voice:
“A man canna help a wuman--’cep it be till her grave.” Then
turning suddenly, she laid her hands on his shoulders, and cried:
“For the love o’ God, Ma’colm, lea’ me this moment! Gien I cud
tell ony man what ailed me, I wad tell you; but I canna, I canna!
Rin laddie; rin’ an’ lea’ me.”
It was impossible to resist her anguished entreaty and agonized
look. Sore at heart and puzzled in brain, Malcolm yielding turned
from her, and with eyes on the ground, thoughtfully pursued his
slow walk towards the Seaton.
At the corner of the first house in the village stood three women,
whom he saluted as he passed. The tone of their reply struck
him a little, but, not having observed how they watched him as he
approached, he presently forgot it. The moment his back was turned
to them, they turned to each other and inter-changed looks.
“Fine feathers mak fine birds,” said one of them.
“Ay, but he luiks booed doon,” said another.
“An’ weel he may! What’ll his leddy-mither say to sic a ploy? She
’ll no sawvour bein’ made a granny o’ efter sic a fashion ’s yon,”
said the third.
“’Deed, lass, there’s feow oucht to think less o’ ’t,” returned
the first.
Although they took little pains to lower their voices, Malcolm was
far too much preoccupied to hear what they said. Perceiving plainly
enough that the girl’s trouble was much greater than a passing
quarrel with her mother would account for, and knowing that any
intercession on his part would only rouse to loftier flames the
coal-pits of maternal wrath, he resolved at length to take counsel
with Blue Peter and his wife, and therefore, passing the sea-gate,
continued his walk along the shore, and up the red path to the
village of Scaurnose.
He found them sitting at their afternoon meal of tea and oat-cake.
A peat fire smouldered hot upon the hearth; a large kettle hung
from a chain over it--fountain of plenty, whence the great china
teapot, splendid in red flowers and green leaves, had just been
filled; the mantelpiece was crowded with the gayest of crockery,
including the never-absent half-shaved poodles, and the rarer
Gothic castle, from the topmost story of whose keep bloomed a few
late autumn flowers. Phemy too was at the table: she rose as if to
leave the room, but apparently changed her mind, for she sat down
again instantly.
“Man ye’re unco braw the day--i’ yer kilt an’ tartan hose!”
remarked Mair as he welcomed him.
“I pat them on to please my daddy an’ the markis,” said Malcolm,
with a half shamed-faced laugh.
“Are na ye some cauld aboot the k-nees?” asked the guidwife.
“Nae that cauld! I ken ’at they’re there; but I’ll sune be used
till ’t.”
“Weel, sit ye doon an’ tak a cup o’ tay wi’ ’s”
“I haena muckle time to spare,” said Malcolm; “but I’ll tak a cup
o’ tay wi’ ye. Gien ’t warna for wee bit luggies (_small ears_) I
wad fain spier yer advice aboot ane ’at wants a wuman-freen’, I’m
thinkin’.”
Phemy, who had been regarding him with compressed lips and suspended
operations, deposited her bread and butter on the table, and slipped
from her chair.
“Whaur are ye gaein’, Phemy?” said her mother.
“Takin’ awa’ my lugs,” returned Phemy.
“Ye cratur!” exclaimed Malcolm, “ye’re ower wise. Wha wad hae
thoucht ye sae gleg at the uptak!”
“Whan fowk winna lippen to me--” said Phemy and ceased.
“What can ye expec’,” returned Malcolm, while father and mother
listened with amused faces--“whan ye winna lippen to fowk?--Phemy,
whaur’s the mad laird?”
A light flush rose to her cheeks, but whether from embarrassment
or anger could not be told from her reply.
“I ken nane o’ that name,” she said.
“Whaur’s the laird o’ Kirkbyres, than?”
“Whar ye s’ never lay han’ upo’ ’im!” returned the child, her cheeks
now rosy-red, and her eyes flashing.
“_Me_ lay han’ upo’ ’im!” cried Malcolm, surprised at her behaviour.
“Gien ’t hadna been for you, naebody wad hae fun’ oot the w’y
intill the cave,” she rejoined, her gray eyes, blue with the fire
of anger, looking straight into his.
“Phemy! Phemy!” said her mother. “For shame!”
“There’s nae shame intill ’t,” protested the child indignantly.
“But there _is_ shame intill ’t,” said Malcolm quietly, “for ye wrang
an honest man.”
“Weel, ye canna deny,” persisted Phemy, in mood to brave the evil
one himself, “’at ye was ower at Kirkbyres on ane o’ the markis’s
mears, an’ heild a lang confab wi’ the laird’s mither!”
“I gaed upo’ my maister’s eeran’,” answered Malcolm.
“Ow, ay! I daursay!--But wha kens--wi’ sic a mither!”
She burst out crying, and ran into the street.
Malcolm understood it now.
“She’s like a’ the lave (_rest_)!” he said sadly, turning to her
mother.
“I’m jist affrontit wi’ the bairn!” she replied, with manifest
annoyance in her flushed face.
“She’s true to _him_,” said Malcolm, “gien she binna fair to _me_.
Sayna a word to the lassie. she’ll ken me better or lang. An’ noo
for my story.”
Mrs Mair said nothing while he told how he had come upon Lizzy,
the state she was in, and what had passed between them; but he had
scarcely finished, when she rose, leaving a cup of tea untasted,
and took her bonnet and shawl from a nail in the back of the door.
Her husband rose also.
“I’ll jist gang as far ’s the Boar’s Craig wi’ ye mysel’, Annie,”
he said.
“I’m thinkin’ ye’ll fin’ the puir lassie whaur I left her,” remarked
Malcolm. “I doobt she dauredna gang hame.”
That night it was all over the town, that Lizzy Findlay was in a
woman’s worst trouble, and that Malcolm was the cause of it.