People tell us that if you commit a secret to a dweller in the city, and
exact pledges of faithfulness, the confidence will be proclaimed on the
housetops within twenty-four hours, and yet, that no charge of treachery
can be brought against your friend. He has simply succumbed to the
conflict between the habit of free trade in speech and the sudden
embargo on one article. Secret was engraved on his face and oozed from
the skirts of his garments, so that every conversational detective saw
at a glance that the man was carrying treasure, and seized it at his
will.
When one told a secret thing to his neighbour in Drumtochty, it did not
make a ripple on the hearer's face, and it disappeared as into a deep
well. “Ay, ay” was absolutely necessary as an assurance of attention,
and the farthest expression of surprise did not go beyond, “That wesna
chancy.” Whether a Drumrecesses of his mind, no one can tell, but when
Jamie Soutar, after an hour's silence, one evening withdrew his pipe
and said “Sall” with marked emphasis, it occurred to me that he may have
been digesting an event. Perhaps the law of silence was never broken
except once, but that was on a royal scale, when William Maclure
indirectly let out the romance of Drumsheugh's love to Marget Howe, and
afterwards was forgiven by his friend.
Marget had come to visit the doctor about a month before he died,
bearing gifts, and after a while their conversation turned to George.
“Dinna speak aboot ma traivellin' tae see ye,” Marget said; “there's no
a body in the Glen but is behaddit tae ye, an' a' can never forget what
ye did for ma laddie yon lang summer-time.”
“A' did naethin,' an' nae man can dae muckle in that waesome tribble.
It aye taks the cleverest laddies an' the bonniest lassies; but a' never
hed a heavier hert than when a' saw tochty man ever turned over secrets
in the Geordie's face that aifternoon. There's ane fechtin' decline.”
“Ye mak ower little o' yir help, doctor; it wes you 'at savit him frae
pain an' keepit his mind clear. Withoot you he cudna workit on tae the
end or seen his freends. A' the Glen cam up tae speir for him, and say a
cheery word tae their scholar.
“Did a' ever tell ye that Posty wud gang roond a gude half mile oot o'
his road gin he hed a letter for Geordie juist tae pit it in his hands
himsel? and Posty 's a better man sin then; but wha div ye think wes
kindest aifter Domsie an' yersel?”
“Wha wes't?” but Maclure lifted his head, as if he had already heard the
name.
“Ay, ye 're richt,” answering the look of his friend, “Drumsheugh it
wes, an' a' that simmer he wes sae gentle and thochtfu' the Glen wudna
hae kent him in oor gairden.
“Ye've seen him there yersel, but wud ye believe't, he cam three times
a week, and never empty-handed. Ae day it wud be some tasty bit frae
Muirtown tae gar Geordie eat, another it wud be a buke the laddie
had wantit tae buy at College, an' a month afore Geordie left us, if
Drumsheugh didna come up ae Saturday wi' a parcel he had gotten a' the
way frae London.
“'Whatna place is this, Geordie?' an' he taks aff the cover an' holds
up the picture. It wud hae dune ye gude tae hae seen the licht in the
laddie's een. 'Athens,' he cried, an' then he reached oot his white hand
tae Drumsheugh, but naethin' wes said.
“They were at it the hale forenoon, Geordie showin' the Temple the
Greeks set up tae Wisdom, an' the theatre in the shadow of the hill whar
the Greek prophets preached their sermons; an' as a' gied oot an' in,
Geordie wud read a bonnie bit, and Domsie himsel cudna hae been mair
interested than Drumsheugh. The deein' scholar an' the auld fairmer....”
“Ay, ay,” said Maclure..
“Ae story Geordie telt me never ran dry wi' Drumsheugh, an' he aye askit
tae hear it as a treat till the laddie grew ower sober--aboot twa lovers
in the auld days, that were divided by an airm o' the sea, whar the
water ran in a constant spate, and the lad hed tae sweem across tae see
his lass. She held a licht on high tae guide him, an' at the sicht o't
he cared naethin' for the danger; but ae nicht the cauld, peetiless
water gied ower his head, and her torch burned oot. Puir faithfu'
lass, she flung hersel into the black flood, and deith jined them where
there's nae partin'.”
“He likit that, did he?” said Maclure, with a tone in his voice, and
looking at Marget curiously.
“Best o' a' the ancient things George gied him in the gairden, an' ae
day he nearly grat, but it wesna for their deith.
“'Na, na,' he said tae George, 'a' coont him happy, for he hed a reward
for the black crossin'; laddie, mony a man wud be wullin' tae dee gin he
wes luved. What think ye o' a man fechtin' through the ford a' his life
wi' nae kindly licht?'
“Geordie wes wae for him, an' telt me in the gloamin', an' it set
me thinkin'. Cud it be that puir Drumsheugh micht hae luved an' been
refused, an' naebody kent o't? Nane but the Almichty sees the sorrow in
ilka hert, an' them 'at suffers maist says least.
“It cam tae me that he must hae luved, for he wes that conseederate wi'
Geordie, sae wum-manlike in his manner wi' the pillows and shawls,
sae wilie in findin' oot what wud please the laddie; he learned yon
in anither place than Muirtown Market. Did ye... ever hear onything,
doctor? It 's no for clashin' (gossip) a' wud ask, but for peety an' his
gudeness tae ma bairn.”
“Is't likely he wud tell ony man, even though he be his freend?” and
Maclure fenced bravely, “did ye hear naethin' in the auld days when ye
wes on Drumsheugh?”
“No a whisper; he wes never in the mooth o' the Glen, an' he wesna the
same then; he wes quiet and couthy, ceevil tae a' the workin' fouk;
there wes nae meanness in Drumsheugh in thae days. A've often thocht nae
man in a' the Glen wud hae made a better husband tae some gude wumman
than that Drumsheugh. It passes me hoo he turned sae hard and near for
thirty years. But dinna ye think the rael Drumsheugh hes come oot again?”
The doctor seemed to be restraining speech.
“He's no an ordinary man, whatever the Glen may think,” and Marget
seemed to be meditating. “Noo he wudna enter the hoose, an' he wes that
agitat that aince when a' brocht him his tea he let the cup drop on the
graivel. Be sure there's twa fouk in every ane o 's--ae Drumsheugh 'at
focht wi' the dealers an' lived like a miser, an' anither that gied the
money for Tammas Mitchell's wife an' nursit ma laddie.”
Maclure would have been sadly tried in any case, but it was only a week
ago Drumsheugh had made his confession. Besides, he was near the end,
and his heart was jealous for his friend. It seemed the worse treachery
to be silent.
“There 's juist ae Drumsheugh, Marget Hoo, as ye 're a leevin' wumman,
him ye saw in the gairden, wha wud hae denied himsel a meal o' meat tae
get thae pictures for yir... for Geordie.
“The Glen disna ken Drumsheugh, and never wull this side o' the grave,”
and the doctor's voice was ringing with passion, and something like
tears were in his eyes; “but gin there be a jidgment an'... books be
opened, the 'ill be ane for Drumtochty, and the bravest page in it 'ill
be Drumsheugh's.
“Ye 're astonished, an' it's nae wunder”--for the look in Marget's grey
eyes demanded more--“but what a' say is true. It hes never been for
himsel he's pinched an' bargained; it wes for... for a freend he wantit
tae help, an' that wes aye in tribble. He thocht 'at it micht... hurt
his freend's feelin's and pit him tae shame in his pairish gin it were
kent, so he took the shame himsel. A' daurna tell ye mair, for it wud
be brakin' bonds at ween man and man, but ye 've herd eneuch tae clear
Drumsheugh's name wi' ae wumman.”
“Mair than cleared, doctor,” and Marget's face glowed, “far mair, for ye
've shown me that the Sermon on the Mount is no a dead letter the day,
an' ye 've lifted the clood frae a gude man. Noo a'll juist hae the
rael Drumsheugh, Geordie's Drumsheugh,” and again Marget thanked Maclure
afresh.
For the moment the heroism of the deed had carried her away, but as she
went home the pity of it all came over her. For the best part of his
life had this man been toiling and suffering, all that another might
have comfort, and all this travail without the recompense of love. What
patience, humility, tenderness, sacrifice lay in unsuspected people. How
long?... Perhaps thirty years, and no one knew, and no one said, “Well
done!” He had veiled his good deeds well, and accepted many a jest that
must have cut him to the quick. Marget's heart began to warm to this
unassuming man as it had not done even by George's chair.
The footpath from the doctor's to Whinnie Knowe passed along the front
of the hill above the farm of Drumsheugh, and Marget came to the cottage
where she had lived with her mother in the former time. It was empty,
and she went into the kitchen. How home-like it had been in those days,
and warm, even in winter, for Drumsheugh had made the wright board over
the roof and put in new windows. Her mother was never weary speaking of
his kindness, yet they were only working people. The snow had drifted
down the wide chimney and lay in a heap on the hearth, and Marget
shivered. The sorrow of life came upon her--the mother and the son now
lying in the kirkyard. Then the blood rushed to her heart again, for
love endures and triumphs. But sorrow without love... her thoughts
returned to Drumsheugh, whose hearthstone was cold indeed. She was
now looking down on his home, set in the midst of the snow. Its
cheerlessness appealed to her--the grey sombre house where this man,
with his wealth of love, lived alone. Was not that Drumsheugh himself
crossing the laigh field, a black figure on the snow, with his dog
behind him... going home where there was none to welcome him...
thinking, perhaps, what might have been?... Suddenly Marget stopped and
opened a gate.... Why should he not have company for once in his lonely
life... if the woman he loved had been hard to him, why should not one
woman whom he had not loved take her place for one half hour?
When Drumsheugh came round the corner of the farmhouse, looking old and
sad, Marget was waiting, and was amazed at the swift change upon him.
“Ye didna expect me,” she said, coming to meet him with the rare smile
that lingered round the sweet curves of her lips, “an' maybe it 's a
leeberty a'm takin'; but ye ken kindness breaks a' barriers, an' for the
sake o' Geordie a' cudna pass yir hoose this nicht withoot tellin' that
ye were in ma hert.”
Drumsheugh had not one word to say, but he took her hand in both of his
for an instant, and then, instead of going in by the kitchen, as all
visitors were brought, save only the minister and Lord Kilspindie, he
led Marget round to the front door with much ceremony. It was only in
the lobby he found his tongue, and still he hesitated, as one overcome
by some great occasion.
“Ye sud be in the parlour, Marget Hoo, but there 's no been a fire there
for mony a year; wull ye come intae ma ain bit room?... A' wud like tae
see ye there,” and Marget saw that he was trembling, as he placed her in
a chair before the fire.
“Ye were aince in this room,” he said, and now he was looking at her
wistfully; “div ye mind? it's lang syne.”
“It wes when a' cam' tae pay oor rent afore we flitted, and ye hed tae
seek for change, an' a' thocht ye were angry at oor leavin'.”
“No angry, na, na, a' wesna angry... it took me half an oor tae find
some siller, an' a' the time ye were sittin' in that verra chair... that
wes the Martinmas ma mither deed... ye 'ill no leave withoot yir tea.”
After he had gone to tell Leezbeth of his guest, Marget looked round
the room, with its worn furniture, its bareness and its comfortlessness.
This was all he had to come to on a Friday night when he returned
from market; out and in here he would go till he died. One touch of
tenderness there was in the room, a portrait of his mother above the
mantelpiece, and Marget rose to look at it, for she had known her, a
woman of deep and silent affection. A letter was lying open below the
picture, and this title, printed in clear type at the head, caught
Marget's eye:
“Macfarlane and Robertson, Writers,
Kilspindie Buildings, Muirtown.”
Marget's heart suddenly stood still, for it was the firm that sent the
seasonable remittances from Whinnie's cousin. This cousin had always
been a mystery to her, for Whinnie could tell little about him, and the
writers refused all information whatever, allowing them to suppose that
he was in America, and chose to give his aid without communication. It
had occurred to her that very likely he was afraid of them hanging on a
rich relation, and there were times when she was indignant and could not
feel grateful for this generosity.
Other times she had longed to send a letter in her name and Whinnie's,
telling him how his gifts had lightened their life and kept them in
peace and honesty at Whinnie Knowe; but the lawyers had discouraged the
idea, and she had feared to press it.
What if this had all been a make-believe, and there had been no
cousin... and it had been Drumsheugh who had done it all.... Was this
the object of all his sacrifice... to keep a roof above their heads...
and she had heard him miscalled for a miser and said nothing... how
could she look him in the face... she was sure of it, although there was
no proof.... A grey light had been gathering all the afternoon in her
mind, and now the sun had risen, and everything was light.
Any moment he might come in, and she must know for certain; but it was
Leezbeth that entered to lay the tea, looking harder than ever, and
evidently seeing no call for this outbreak of hospitality.
“The maister's gaen upstairs tae clean him-sel,” said the housekeeper,
with a suggestion of contempt. “A' saw naethin' wrang wi' him masel,”
But Leezbeth was not one that could move Marget to anger at any time,
and now she was waiting for the sight of Drumsheugh's face.
He came in twenty years younger than she had seen him in that dreary
field, and, speaking to her as if she had been the Countess of
Kil-spindie, asked her to pour out the tea.
“Drumsheugh,” and he started at the note of earnestness, “before a'
sit doon at yir table there's ae question a' have tae ask an' ye maun
answer. Ye may think me a forward wumman, an' ma question may seem like
madness, but it's come intae ma mind, an a 'll hae nae rest till it 's
settled.”
Marget's courage was near the failing, for it struck her how little she
had to go on, and how wild was her idea; but it was too late to retreat,
and she also saw the terror on his face.
Drumsheugh stood silent, his eyes fixed on her face, and his hand
tightened on the back of a chair.
“Is't you--are ye the freend 'at hes helped ma man an' me through a' oor
tribbles?”
Had he been prepared for the ordeal, or had she opened with a preface,
he would have escaped somehow, but all his wiles were vain before
Marget's eyes.
“Ye were wi' William Maclure,” and Drumsheugh's voice quivered with
passion, “an' he telt ye. A 'll never forgie him, no, never, nor speak
ae word tae him again, though he be ma dearest freend.”
“Dinna blame Doctor Maclure, for a' he did wes in faithfulness an'
luve,” and Marget told him how she had made her discovery; “but why sud
ye be angry that the fouk ye blessed at a sair cost can thank ye face
tae face?” Marget caught something about “a pund or twa,” but it was not
easy to hear, for Drumsheugh had gone over to the fireplace and turned
away his face.
“Mony punds; but that's the least o 't; it's what ye suffered for them
a' thae years o' savin', and what ye did wi' them, a'm rememberin'.
Weelum micht never hev hed a hoose for me, an' a' micht never hev hed ma
man, an' he micht gaen oot o' Whinnie Knowe and been broken-herted this
day hed it no been for you.
“Sic kindness as this hes never been kent in the Glen, an' yet we 're
nae blude tae you, no mair than onybody in the pairish. Ye 'ill lat me
thank ye for ma man an' Geordie an' masel, an' ye 'ill tell me hoo ye
ever thocht o' showin' us sic favour.” Marget moved over to Drumsheugh
and laid her hand on him in entreaty. He lifted his head and looked her
in the face.
“Marget!” and then she understood. He saw the red flow all over her
face and fade away again, and the tears fill her eyes and run down her
cheeks, before she looked at him steadily, and spoke in a low voice that
was very sweet.
“A' never dreamed o' this, an' a 'm not worthy o' sic luve, whereof I
hev hed much fruit an' ye hev only pain.”
“Ye're wrang, Marget, for the joy hes gien ower the pain, an' a 've hed
the greater gain. Luve roosed me tae wark an' fecht, wha micht hae been
a ne'er-dae-weel. Luve savit me frae greed o' siller an' a hard hert.
Luve kept me clean in thocht an' deed, for it was ever Marget by nicht
an' day. If a'm a man the day, ye did it, though ye micht never hae
kent it. It's little a' did for ye, but ye 've dune a'thing for me...
Marget.”
After a moment he went on:
“Twenty year ago a' cudna hae spoken wi' ye safely, nor taken yir man's
hand withoot a grudge; but there's nae sin in ma luve this day, and a'
wudna be ashamed though yir man heard me say, 'A' luve ye, Marget.'”
He took her hand and made as though he would have lifted it to his lips,
but as he bent she kissed him on the forehead. “This,” she said, “for
yir great and faithfu' luve.”
They talked of many things at tea, with joy running over Drumsheugh's
heart; and then spoke of Geordie all the way across the moor, on which
the moon was shining. They parted at the edge, where Marget could see
the lights of home, and Drumsheugh caught the sorrow of her face, for
him that had to go back alone to an empty house.
“Dinna peety me, Marget; a've hed ma reward, an' a'm mair than content.”
On reaching home, he opened the family Bible at a place that was marked,
and this was what he read to himself: “They which shall be accounted
worthy... neither marry nor are given in marriage... but are as the
angels of God in heaven.”