There had been three hours of light on Christmas Day when Robin
Greenlaw appeared at Glenfernie House and would see the laird.
"He's in his ain room in the keep," said Davie, and went with the
message.
Alexander came down the stair and out into the flagged court. The
weather had been unwontedly clement, melting the earlier snows,
letting the brown earth forth again for one look about her. To-day
there was pale sunlight. Greenlaw sat his big gray. The laird came to
him.
"Get down, man, and come in for Christmas cheer!"
"Send Davie away," said Greenlaw.
Alexander's gray eyes glanced. "You're bringing something that is not
Christmas cheer!--Davie, tell Dandie Saunderson to saddle Black Alan
at once.--Now, Robin!"
"Yesterday," said Greenlaw, "Elspeth Barrow vanished from White Farm.
They wanted to send Christmas fare to old Skene the cotter. She said
she would take a basket there, and so she went away, down the
stream--about ten of the morning they think it was. It was not for
hours that they grew at all anxious. She's never come back. She did
not go to Skene's. We can hear no word of her from any. Her
grandfather and I and the men at White Farm looked for her through the
night. This morning there's an alarm sent up and down the dale."
"What harm could happen--"
"She might have strayed into some lonely place--fallen--hurt herself.
There were gipsies seen the other day over by Windyedge. Or she might
have walked on and on upon what road she took, and somehow none
chanced to notice her. I am going now to ride the Edinburgh way."
"Have you gone up the glen?"
"That was tried this morning at first light. But that is just opposite
to Skene's and the way she certainly took at first. She would have to
turn and go about through the woods, or White Farm would see her." His
voice had a haunting note of fear and trouble.
Glenfernie caught it. "She was not out of health nor unhappy?"
"She is changed from the old Elspeth. When you ask her if she is
unhappy she says that she is not.... I do not know. Something is
wrong. With the others, I am seeking about as though I expected each
moment to see her sitting or standing by the roadside. But I do not
expect to see her. I do not know what I expect. We have sent to
Windyedge to apprehend those gipsies."
"Let me speak one moment to Mr. Strickland to send the men forth and
go himself. Then I am ready."
On Black Alan he rode with Robin down the hill and through the wood
and upon the White Farm way. The earth was mainly bare of snow, but
frozen hard. The hoofs rang out but left no print. The air hung still,
light and dry; the sun, far in the south, sent slanting, pale-gold
beams. The two men made little speech as they rode. They passed men
and youths, single figures and clusters.
"Ony news, Littlefarm? We've been--or we're going--seeking here, or
here--"
A woman stopped them. "It was thae gipsies, sirs! I had a dream about
them, five nights syne! A lintwhite was flying by them, and they gave
chase. Either it's that or she made away with herself! I had a dream
that might be read that way, too."
When they came to White Farm it was to find there only Jenny and Menie
and Merran.
"Somebody maun stay to keep the house warm gin the lassie come
stumbling hame, cauld and hungry and half doited! Eh, Glenfernie, ye
that are a learned man and know the warld, gie us help!"
"I am going up the glen," said Alexander to Greenlaw. "I do not know
why, but I think it should be tried again. And I know it, root and
branch. I am going afoot. I will leave Black Alan here."
They wasted no time. He went, while Robin Greenlaw on his gray took
the opposed direction. Looking back, he saw the great fire that Jenny
kept, dancing through the open door and in the pane of the window.
Then the trees and the winding of the path shut it away, shut away
house and field and all token of human life.
He moved swiftly to the mouth of the glen, but then more slowly. The
trees soared bare, the water rushed with a hoarse sound, snow lay in
clefts. So well he knew the place! There was no spot where foot might
have climbed, no ledge nor opening where form might lay, huddled or
outstretched, that lacked his searching eye or hand. Here was the
pebbly cape with the thorn-tree where in May he had come upon Elspeth,
sitting by the water, singing.... Farther on he turned into that
smaller, that fairy glen, bending like an arm from the main pass. Here
was the oak beneath which they had sat, against which she had leaned.
It wrapt him from himself, this place. He stood, and space around
seemed filled with forms just beyond visibility. What were they? He
did not know, but they seemed to breathe against his heart, to
whisper.... He searched this place well, but there were only the
winter banks and trees, the little burn, the invisible presences. Back
in the deep glen a hawk sailed overhead, across the stripe of
pale-blue sky. Alexander went on by the stream and the projecting rock
and the twisted roots. There was no sound other than the loud voice of
the water, talking only of its return to the sea. When he came to the
cave he pushed aside the masking growth and entered. Dark and barren
here, with the ashes of an old fire! For one moment, as it were
distinctly, he saw Ian. He stood so clear in the mind's eye that it
seemed that one intense effort might have set him bodily in the
cavern. But the central strength let the image go. Alexander moved the
ashes of the fire with his foot, shuddered in the place of cold and
shadow, and, stooping, went out of the cave and on upon his search for
Elspeth Barrow.
He sought the glen through, and at last, at the head, he came to
Mother Binning's cot. Her fire was burning; she was standing in the
door looking toward him.
"Eh, Glenfernie! is there news of the lassie?"
"None. You've got the sight. Can you not _see_?"
"It's gane from me! When it gaes I'm just like ony bird with a broken
wing."
"If you cannot see, what do you think?"
"I dinna want to think and I dinna want to say. Whaur be ye gaeing
now?"
"On over the moor and down by the Kelpie's Pool."
"Gae on then. I'll watch for ye coming back."
He went on. Something strange had him, drawing him. He came out from
the band of trees upon the swelling open moor, bare and brown save
where the snow laced it. Gold filtered over it; a pale sky arched
above; it was wide, still, and awful--a desert. He saw the light run
down and glint upon the pool. Searchers had ridden across this moor
also, he had been told. He went down at once to the pool and stood by
the kelpie willow. He was not thinking, he was not keenly feeling. He
seemed to stand in open, endless, formless space, and in unfenced
time. A clump of dry reeds rose by his knee, and upon the other side
of these he noticed that a stone had been lifted from its bed. He
stooped, and in the reeds he found an inch-long fragment of ribbon--of
a snood.
He stepped back from the willow. He took off and dropped upon the moor
hat and riding-coat and boots, inner coat and waistcoat. Then he
entered the Kelpie's Pool. He searched it, measure by measure, and at
last he found the body of Elspeth. He drew it up; he loosened and let
fall the stone tied in the plaid that was wrapped around it; he bore
the form out of the pool and laid it upon the bank beyond the willow.
The sunlight showed the whole, the face and figure. The laird of
Glenfernie, kneeling beside it, put back the long drowned hair and
saw, pinned upon the bosom of the gown, the folded letter, wrapped
twice in thicker paper. He took it from her and opened it. The writing
was yet legible.
I hope that I shall not be found. If I am, let this answer
for me. I was unhappy, more unhappy than you can think. Let
no one be blamed. It was one far from here and you will not
know his name. Do not think of me as wicked nor as a
murderess. The unhappy should have pardon and rest. Good-by
to all--good-by!
In the upper corner was written, "For White Farm." That was all.
Glenfernie put this letter into the bosom of his shirt. He then got on
again the clothing he had discarded, and, stooping, put his arms
beneath the lifeless form. He lifted it and bore it from the Kelpie's
Pool and up the moor. He was a man much stronger than the ordinary; he
carried it as though he felt no weight. The icy water of the pool upon
him was as nothing, and as he walked his face was still as a stone
face in a desert. So he came with Elspeth's body back to the glen, and
Mother Binning saw him coming.
"Hech, sirs! Hech, sirs! Will it hae been that way--will it hae been
that way?"
He stopped for a moment. He laid his burden down upon the boards just
within the door and smoothed back the streaming hair. "Even the shell
flung out by the ocean is beautiful!"
"Eh, man! Eh, man! It's wae sometimes to be a woman!"
"Give me," he said, "a plaid, dry and warm, to hap her in."
"Will ye na leave her here? Put her in my bed and gae tell White
Farm!"
"No, I will carry her home."
Mother Binning took from a chest a gray plaid. He lifted again the
dead woman, and she happed the plaid about her. "Ah, the lassie--the
lassie! Come to me, Glenfernie, and I will scry for you who it was!"
He looked at her as though he did not hear her. He lifted the body,
holding it against his shoulder like a child, and went forth. He knew
the path so absolutely, he was so strong and light of foot, that he
went without difficulty through the glen, by the loud crying water, by
the points of crag and the curving roots and the drifts of snow, by
the green patches of moss and the trees great and small. He did not
hasten nor drag, he did not think. He went like a bronze Talus, made
simply to find, to carry home.
Known feature after known feature of the place rose before him, passed
him, fell away. Here was the arm of the glen, and here was the pebbled
cape and the thorn-tree. The winter water swirled around it, sang of
cold and a hateful power. Here was the mouth of the glen. Here were
the fields which had been green and then golden with ripe corn. Here
were the White Farm roof and chimneys and windows, and blue smoke from
the chimney going straight up like a wraith to meet blue sky. Before
him was the open door.
He had thought of there being only Jenny and the two servant lasses.
But in the time he had been gone there had regathered to White Farm,
for learning each from each, for consultation, for mere rest and food,
a number of the searchers. Jarvis Barrow had returned from the
northward-stretching moor, Thomas and Willy from the southerly fields.
Men who had begun to drag deep places in the stream were here for some
provision. A handful of women, hooded and wrapped, had come from
neighboring farms or from the village. Among them talked Mrs.
Macmurdo, who kept the shop, and the hostess of the Jardine Arms. And
there was here Jock Binning, who, for all his lameness and his
crutches, could go where he wished.... But it was Gilian, crossing
upon the stepping-stones, who saw Glenfernie coming by the stream with
the covered form in his arms. She met him; they went up the bank to
the house together. She had uttered one cry, but no more.
"The Kelpie's Pool," he had answered.
Jarvis Barrow came out of the door. "Eh! God help us!"
They laid the form upon a bed. All the houseful crowded about. There
was no helping that, and as little might be helped Jenny's
lamentations and the ejaculations of others. It was White Farm
himself who took away the plaid. It lay there before them all, the
drowned form. The face was very quiet, strangely like Elspeth again,
the Elspeth of the springtime. All looked, all saw.
"Gude guide us!" cried Mrs. Macmurdo. "And I wadna be some at the
Judgment Day when come up the beguiled, self-drownit lassies!"
Jock Binning's voice rose from out the craning group. "Aye, and I
ken--and I ken wha was the man!"
White Farm turned upon him. He towered, the old man. A winter wrath
and grief, an icy, scintillant, arctic passion, marked two there, the
laird of Glenfernie and the elder of the kirk. Gilian's grief stood
head-high with theirs, but their anger, the old man's disdaining and
the young man's jealousy, was far from her. In Jarvis Barrow's hand
was the paper, taken from Elspeth, given him by Glenfernie. He turned
upon the cripple. "Wha, then? Wha, then? Speak out!"
He had that power of command that forced an answer. Jock Binning,
crutched and with an elfish face and figure and voice, had pulled down
upon himself the office of revelator. The group swayed a little from
him and he was left facing White Farm and the laird of Glenfernie. He
had a wailing, chanting, elvish manner of speech. Out streamed this
voice:
"'Twere the last of June, twa-three days after the laird rode to
Edinburgh, and she brought my mither a giftie of plums and sat doon
for a crack with her. By he came and stood and talked. Syne the
clouds thickened and the thunder growlit, and he wad walk with her
hame through the glen--"
"Wha wad? Wha?"
"Captain Ian Rullock."
"_Ian Rullock!_"
"Aye, Glenfernie! And after that they never came to my mither's again.
But I marked them aft when they didna mark me, in the glen. Aye, and I
marked them ance in the little glen, and there they were lovers
surely--gin kisses and clasped arms mak lovers! She wad come by
herself to their trysting, and he wad come over the muir and down the
crag-side. It was na my business and I never thocht to tell. But eh!
all ill will out, says my mither!"