THE FOURTH LETTER.
_Hubert Blake to Sophy Meredith._
THE CASTLE FARM, MUIRBURN, N.B.
_Oct. 5, 187-._
MY DEAR SOPHY,
Yesterday there was a ‘feeing fair’ at Muirburn, and under Alec’s
guidance I paid a visit to the scene of dissipation.
But, first of all, I wish to tell you of a curious Scotch custom that
fell under my notice the evening before. Alec and I were returning
from a short ramble in the ‘gloaming,’ _i.e._, the twilight, when we
happened to meet a young couple walking side by side. As soon as they
caught sight of us they separated, and walked on opposite sides of the
road till we had passed. This, it seems, was according to local ideas
of what is proper under such circumstances. As we went by I glanced at
the girl, and saw that she was one of Mr. Lindsay’s farm-servants.
‘So Jessie has got a sweetheart,’ I remarked.
‘Very likely,’ said Alec, with a laugh; ‘but I don’t think Tom
Archibald is her lad. He is only the “black-fuit.”’
‘The _what_?’
‘The “black-fuit.” Dae ye no ken--I mean, don’t ye know what that is?’
On confessing my ignorance, I learned that the etiquette of courtship,
as understood among the peasantry of south-west Scotland, demands that
no young ploughman shall present himself at the farm on which the young
woman who has taken his fancy may happen to be employed; if he did so,
it would expose the girl to a good deal of bantering. He invariably
secures the services of a friend, on whom he relies not only for moral
support, but for actual assistance in his enterprise.
At the end of the working-day, when the dairymaids, as we should
call them in England, have ‘cleaned themselves,’ and are chatting
together in a little group at the door of the byre, John, the friend,
makes his appearance, and presently contrives to engage the attention
of Jeanie, who is the object of his friend’s devotion. The other
girls good-naturedly leave them alone, and John suggests that ‘they
micht tak’ a bit daun’er as far as the yett’ (_i.e._, the gate).
Jeanie blushes, and picking up the corner of her apron as she goes,
accompanies the ambassador to the gate and into the lane beyond. There,
by pure accident, they meet Archie, and he and John greet each other in
the same way as if they had not met each other for a week. The three
saunter on together, under the hawthorn, till suddenly John remembers
that he will be ‘expeckit hame,’ and takes his departure, leaving
Archie to plead his cause as best he may.
I declared my conviction that the custom sprang from unworthy fears of
an action for breach of promise; but Alec was almost offended by this
imputation on the good faith of his countrymen, and assured me most
seriously that that kind of litigation was unheard of in Kyleshire.
Next day we went to the fair. The object of this gathering is to enable
farmers to meet and engage their farm-servants, male and female; it
takes place twice a year, the hiring being always for six months.
The village, or ‘the toon,’ as they always call it here, was in a state
of great excitement. There was quite a crowd in the middle of the
street, chiefly composed of young women in garments of many colours,
in the most enviable condition of physical health; and young giants
of ploughmen in their best clothes, with carefully oiled hair. On the
outskirts of the crowd (which was as dense as four hundred people
could possibly make it), were a few queys, _i.e._, young cows, and a
few rough farm-horses. The public-houses were simply crammed as full
as they would hold. There was a swing, and a merry-go-round, and a
cheap-Jack. There was also a sort of lottery, conducted on the most
primitive principles. You paid sixpence, plunged your hand into a
little wooden barrel revolving on a spindle, and pulled out a morsel of
peculiarly dirty paper bearing a number. This entitled you to a comb,
or an accordion with three notes, or a penny doll, as the case might be.
What chiefly impressed me was the sober, not to say dismal,
character of the whole thing. I saw no horse-play, no dancing, no
kiss-in-the-ring, or games of any kind. One might have thought it was
an ordinary market-day, but for the crowd and the cracking of the
caps on the miniature rifles with which the lads were shooting for
nuts. This, in fact, was the only popular amusement; and, as all the
boys and young men took part in it, and all held the muzzle of their
weapon within twelve or fourteen inches of the mark, I perceived that
every proprietor of a nut-barrow would have been ruined if he had not
secured himself against bankruptcy by prudently twisting the barrels of
his firearms.
There was, by the way, one other amusement besides the shooting for
nuts: every young man presented every girl of his acquaintance with a
handful of nuts or sweetmeats, the degree of his regard being indicated
by the quantity offered. I convinced myself that some of the prettier
and more popular girls must have carried home several pounds’ weight of
saccharine matter.
We did not leave the village till it was getting dark and the naphtha
lamps were blazing at the stalls. Probably the fun was only beginning,
but we did not stay to witness it. Happily, the drinking seemed to
be confined to great, large-limbed farmers, on whom half a bottle of
whisky seemed to make not the slightest impression, beyond loosening
their tongues. As the night advanced, however, a change must have
occurred, for I was told afterwards that Hamilton of Burnfoot (my
friend of the coach and of the offertory) had been seen sitting upright
in his gig, thrashing with all his might, and in perfect silence, a
saddler’s hobby-horse, which some wag had put between the shafts in
place of his steady old ‘roadster.’
On the way home Alec and I had some confidential conversation as to his
future.
‘Mr. Blake,’ he began, ‘what do you think I ought to be?’
‘How can I tell, Alec?’ I answered; ‘what would you like to be?’
‘That’s just what I don’t know,’ said the lad gloomily. ‘I don’t know
what I am fit for, or whether I am fit for anything. How can I tell,
before I have seen anything of the world, what part I should try to
play in it?’
‘You have no strong taste in any direction?’
‘No; I can’t say that I have. I like the country, but I am sick of the
loneliness of my life here. I long to be out in the world, to be up and
doing something, I hardly know what. You see, I know so little. What
I should like is to go to college for the next three or four years--to
Glasgow, or Edinburgh--and by that time I would have an idea what I
could do, and what I should not attempt.’
‘But do you think,’ I said, with some hesitation, ‘that you are ready
to go to college?’
‘Why not? Don’t you think I am old enough? I am almost nineteen. I
dare say you think I am too ignorant; but there are junior classes
for beginners. I can do Virgil and Cicero, and I think I could manage
Xenophon and Homer.’
‘What is the difficulty then?’
‘My father thinks it would be wasting money to send me to college,
unless I were to be a minister or a doctor, and I don’t want to be
either the one or the other.’
‘But you must be something, you know.’
‘Yes, but I won’t be a minister. Do you know that I was once very
nearly in the way of making my fortune through paraffin oil. and lost
my chance through an ugly bull-pup?’
‘Really? How was that?’
‘Mr. Lindsay of Drumleck----’
‘Is _he_ a relation of yours?’ I interposed.
(It was a surprise to me to hear that I was, ever so distantly, related
to a millionnaire.)
‘He is my father’s uncle,’ said Alec. ‘Well, last year he sent for me
to pay him a visit, and he had hinted to my father that if I pleased
him he would “make a man of me.” I didn’t please him. The very day
I went to his house, I happened to be standing near a table in the
drawing-room on which there was a precious vase of some sort or other.
There was a puppy under the table that I didn’t see; I trod on its
tail, and the brute started up with a yowl and flew at my leg. I
stooped down to drive it off, and managed to knock over the table,
vase and all. You should have seen the old man’s face! He very nearly
ordered me out of the house. I don’t believe he particularly cared for
the thing, but then you see he had given five-and-twenty pounds for it.
It ended my chances so far as he is concerned at any rate; and, to tell
the truth, I wasn’t particularly sorry. I shouldn’t care to spend my
life in making oil.’
‘But, my dear fellow, it seems to me you are too particular. Take
my advice, and if you have an opportunity of getting into your
grand-uncle’s good books again, don’t lose it.’
‘Oh! he has taken another in my place, a fellow Semple--I don’t think
much of him. He is a grand-nephew, too. I shouldn’t wonder if he makes
him his heir; and I don’t care. I don’t want to be a Glasgow merchant,
any more than I want to be a Kyleshire farmer.’
‘Ah! Alec, are you smitten too?’ I said. ‘You want to climb, and you
will not think that you may fall. I didn’t know you were ambitious.’
‘I want to go into a wider world than this one;’ said the lad, and his
eyes flashed, and his voice trembled with excitement. ‘I want to learn,
first of all; then I want to find what I can do best, and try to make a
name for myself. I want to rise to the level of--oh! what am I talking
about?’
He broke off abruptly, as if ashamed of his own enthusiasm.
For my own part I felt sorry for him. I always do, somehow, when I see
a brave young spirit eager to meet and conquer fortune--a ship setting
sail from port, colours all flying, guns firing, crowds cheering.
How many reach the harbour? How many founder at sea? One is wrecked
in this way, another in that. One gallant bark meets with headwinds
nearly all the way; another is run down by a rival and is heard of no
more; a third, after baffling many a wintry gale, goes down in smooth
water, within sight of land. How many unsuccessful men are there in the
world for every one who succeeds? And of those who gain their heart’s
desire, how many can say, ‘I am satisfied’?
_October 29._
I was fairly amazed to find this unfinished letter, begun three weeks
ago, between the leaves of my blotter this morning. Another example of
my incurable laziness!
My stay here is almost at an end. My large picture is nearly completed.
My portrait of Margaret is finished; and though it is not what I would
like it to be, I think it is the best thing I have done yet. I leave
to-morrow morning, and hope to be with you in a day or two. Alec goes
with me as far as Glasgow, for he has persuaded his father to send him
to college--or rather, the old man has yielded to the lad’s discontent,
backed by my expressions of the high opinion I hold of his abilities.
I fancy Mr. Lindsay thinks his son will yet be an ornament to the Free
Kirk, but, if I am not very much mistaken, Alec will never change his
mind on this point.
We had a regular family council, at which the matter was settled.
The old man sat on his chair, bolt upright, his hands folded before
him. Alec sat near by while his future was being decided, carelessly
playing with a paper-knife on the table. Margaret was, as usual, at her
sewing; but I could tell by little signs in her face, that for once her
composure was more than half assumed.
‘You had your chance a year ago,’ said the old man in a harsh
unyielding tone, ‘and you threw it away. Why should I stint myself, and
go back from my task of buying back the land, to give you another one?’
‘I don’t wish you to stint yourself,’ said the boy half sullenly.
‘I don’t want to injure your sister,’ said his father, in the same tone.
‘Do you think _I_ wish Margaret injured? If you cannot spare
five-and-twenty pounds without inconvenience, there’s an end of it.’
‘It’s not the first winter only,’ began Mr. Lindsay.
‘But I can support myself after that,’ interrupted Alec; ‘I can get a
bursary; I can get teaching----’
‘You’ll have to give up idling away your time over _Blackwood_ then,’
said the old man, with a grim smile.
Alec’s face flushed, and he made no reply.
Then, having proved that Alec’s wish was wholly unreasonable and
impracticable, Mr. Lindsay gave his consent to the proposal, and, to
cut short further discussion, told Margaret to bid the servants come to
‘worship.’
I was rather surprised that Margaret had said nothing on her brother’s
behalf, and a little disappointed that she had not declared that her
own interests ought not to stand in the way of her brother’s education;
but I found that I had misjudged her.
‘Well, I owe this to Margaret,’ said Alec to me, as soon as we found
ourselves alone together.
‘To your sister?’ I said, with some surprise.
‘Yes; my father thinks more of her opinion than he does of anybody
else’s, and I know she has been urging him to let me go. As for that
about injuring her, it is all stuff. Do you think I would take the
money, if I didn’t know my father could afford it perfectly well?’
I hardly knew what reply to make to this, and Alec went on:
‘There will be a row between them one of these days. My father will
want her to marry Semple. I know he is in love with her; and Margaret
won’t have him.’
‘I should think not, indeed!’ I exclaimed.
I had seen this young fellow, and I confess I took a violent dislike
to him. He came over to the farm one afternoon, and I thought I had
never seen a more vulgar creature. He was dressed in the latest
fashion--on a visit to a farmhouse, too! He had a coarse, commonplace
face, a ready, officious manner, and the most awful accent I ever
heard on the tongue of any human being. I cannot say I admire the
Scotch accent; it is generally harsh and disagreeable; but when it
is joined to an affectation of correctness, when every syllable is
carefully articulated, and every _r_ is given its full force and
effect, the result is overpowering. The young man was good enough to
give me a considerable share of his attention, and I could hardly
conceal my dislike of him. He patronized old Mr. Lindsay, was loftily
condescending to Alec, and treated Margaret as if she ought to have
been highly flattered by the admiration of so fine a gentleman.
‘Your respected cousin seemed to me as if he were greatly in need of a
kicking,’ I said to Alec.
‘If he gets even a share of Uncle James’s property he will be a rich
man,’ said Alec thoughtfully. ‘My father would think it a sin for
Maggie to refuse a man with a hundred thousand pounds.’
‘So would a good many fathers, I suppose,’ said I.
I am sorry to see Alec’s attitude to his father; yet I fear he judges
the old man only too accurately.
For the last few days we have had nothing but rain. Rain, rain,
rain, till the leaves were fairly washed off the trees, and the very
earth seemed as if it must be sodden to the rocks beneath. Yesterday
afternoon I felt tired of being shut up in the large bare room which
I have been using as a studio, so I put on a thick suit, and went out
for a stretch in the midst of a perfect deluge. I crossed the river by
a stone bridge, about a mile lower down, as the stepping-stones were
covered, and soon I got to a wide expanse of country, composed of large
sodden green fields, barely reclaimed from the moor, and even now, in
spite of drains, partly overgrown with rushes. There were no fences;
and the hardy cattle wandered at will over the land.
It was inexpressibly dreary. There was little or no wind--no clouds
in the sky--only a lead-coloured heaven from which the rain fell
incessantly. There was not a house, not a tree, not a hedgerow in
sight; and the rain-laden atmosphere hid the horizon.
Suddenly I heard the noise of singing, the singing of a child. I was
fairly startled, and looked round, wondering where the sound could come
from. I was on the border between the moor and the reclaimed land;
and there was literally nothing in sight but the earth, the sky, and
the rain, except what looked like a small heap of turf left by the
peat-cutters. Could some stray child be hidden behind it? If so, I
thought, its life must be in danger.
I hurried up to the mound of peats, and as I did so, the sound of the
song became stronger. Then it ceased, and the little singer began a
fresh melody:
‘Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
‘Mang muirs an’ mosses mony, O,
The wintry sun the day has closed----’
He stopped suddenly as he caught sight of me, and a fine collie which
had been lying beside him made a dash at me.
‘Doon, Swallow! Lie doon, sir!’ cried the child, and the dog obeyed at
once.
It was not a heap of peats, as I had supposed, but a tiny hut, just
large enough to hold a boy sitting upright, ingeniously built of dry
peats. It was open to the east, the lee side, and was quite impervious
to the weather. The little fellow seemed to be about twelve years of
age, a stout, rosy-cheeked laddie, clad in an immense Scotch bonnet and
a tattered gray plaid; and his little red bare feet peeped out beneath
his corduroys.
‘What on earth are you doing here, child?’ I exclaimed.
‘Eh?’ asked the boy, looking up in my face with surprise.
‘Why are you here? Why are you not at home?’
‘Man, I’m herdin’.’
‘Herding what?’
‘The kye.’
At that moment some of the young cattle took it into their heads to
cross the ditch which separated their territory from the moor, and the
boy with a ‘Here, Swallow!’ sent the dog bounding after the ‘stirks.’
‘And do you stay here all alone?’
‘Ay.’
‘All day long?’
‘Ou, ay.’
‘Poor little fellow!’ was on my lips, but I did not utter the words.
The child was healthy and strong, and not, apparently, unhappy. He held
a ‘gully’ in one hand, and a bit of wood, which he had been whittling
while he sang, in the other. Why should I, by expressing my pity for
his solitary condition, make him discontented with his lot?
Fortunately I had in my pocket a few coppers, which I presented to
him. You should have seen the joy that lighted up the child’s face!
He looked at the treasure shyly, as if afraid to touch it, so I had
to force it into his hand. I don’t think I ever saw before such an
expression of pure unalloyed delight on a human countenance. He was so
happy that he forgot to thank me.
‘What will you do with them?’ I asked.
He opened his hand and pointed to the pennies one after another.
‘I’ll buy sweeties wi’ that ane, an’--an’ bools wi’ that ane,
an’--an’--an’ a peerie wi’ that ane; an’ I’ll gi’e ane to Annie, and
I’ll lay by twa!’
‘Prudent young Scotchman,’ said I; ‘and pray, what are “bools”?
Marbles, I suppose. And what is a “peerie”?’
The boy thought I was laughing at him.
‘Div ye no ken that?’ he asked, with some suspiciousness and a dash of
contempt.
I assured him I did not.
‘Ye tie’t up wi’ a string, an’ birl’t on the road, an’ it gangs soon’
soon’ asleep.’
‘Oh, a top you mean.’
‘A peerie,’ persisted he.
‘Ah, well; it’s the same thing. Good-day, my boy,’ said I.
The little fellow got up, draped as he was in his ragged plaid, and
putting one hand with the precious pennies into his pocket, solemnly
extended to me the other.
‘I dare say,’ said I to myself, as I looked back and saw the child
counting over his treasure once more with eager eyes, ‘I dare say there
isn’t a happier creature this day between Land’s End and John O’Groats,
than this herd-boy, in his lonely hut on the sodden, dreary moorland!’
And so it is, all the world over. I should think myself very hardly
used by fortune, if I had to live alone in a grimy city for six months
on five-and-thirty pounds, and had to get up every day before dawn to
grind away at Latin and Greek; yet here is young Lindsay with his blue
eyes ready to leap out of his head with excitement and delight at the
bare prospect of it! It is a curious world. But I must look after my
packing; for in order to reach Glasgow to-morrow, we must be stirring
long before daylight. Till we meet, then,
Your affectionate cousin,
HUBERT.