Mistress Jean Gowdy was the tenant of a sheep farm on a moor, north of
Perth, where by rigorous economy and unwearied industry she and her two
sons and daughter contrived to make the rent, to live frugally, and to
put by a bit.
Jean was a hale, active woman of sixty, with a fine handsome face, but
no figure to speak of--a hard-headed, hard-working, God-fearing Scotch
woman.
She had not married over young, but was five-and-thirty years of age, a
sensible and settled person, when she bestowed herself and her savings
on Andy Gowdy, a small farmer body, with a little money, and a keen
desire to better his position.
The couple had taken a long lease of Ardnashiel sheep farm, because
being twenty miles from a railway it was cheap; there was plenty of
water, fair grazing, and a comfortable stone house on the moor. Here
for several years they struggled on bravely, through terrible winters
and wet springs, and were at last beginning "to see their way."
Unhappily, one dark morning, when the river was coming down in spate,
Andy, in endeavouring to ford it, with his horse and cart, was drowned.
The fierce mountain torrent turned over the cart, amidst the boulder
stones, as if it were a child's toy, and despite of the desperate
struggles of the fine young horse to effect a landing, he and his
master were swept away to their death.
The body of Andy was recovered three miles down the glen. There was
loud lamentation for him among the neighbouring farmers and shepherds,
and a great concourse from afar attended the funeral, when he was
buried in an almost forgotten churchyard among the hills. The loss of
a fine young horse, the marks of whose frantic hoofs were imprinted on
the banks for years, was almost equally deplored. He had lately cost
thirty pounds in Perth, and the tragedy was never related without due
mention of his fate.
Andy Gowdy was drowned, and his widow Jean reigned in his stead. The
poor woman found it no easy matter to carry on the farm, and to give
her children a bit of schooling; what with minding the bairns, the
housework, and the sheep, she was often on the point of breaking down
under her burthen, and it is a fact that only for the exertions of
three notable collie dogs they might almost have starved. But Jean
Gowdy, a woman of true Highland tenacity and indomitable courage,
struggled on bravely. Her children throve, thanks to the keen mountain
air and the good porridge and milk. The boys, Andrew and Jock, were now
able-bodied men, and Maggie, their sister, was a fine sonsie lassie of
two-and-twenty. She had received some sort of an education, for their
mother had sent them by turns to an aunt in Stirling, and they were all
great readers--what else was there to do in the long winter nights?
even when their mother drove them to bed at eight o'clock and reminded
them that their grandmother, who talked only Gaelic, had always retired
at dark. But these were different days, they declared, and no Scotch
folk would now consent to pass three-quarters of their time in bed--in
order to save lamp oil!
Oh, those winter nights! when the wind swept down through the glen,
and they could hear the starving deer stamping outside in the snow and
dragging at the wood stack. On these occasions, Mrs. Gowdy knitted
stockings, and did curious sums in mental arithmetic; the lads read the
paper and such books as they had borrowed from the minister. Jock's
shock-haired red head was bent over Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations."
He was clever and ambitious, and had long resolved that _he_ was not
going to waste his life in herding sheep, milking cows, and dragging
up and down the weary road to the town for coal and groceries. No!
Jock had heard the history of his uncle Jamie, and he was educating
himself with painful, but continuous, effort, in order that he might
also go out into the world and do something--something that would
bring him in money and applause. To begin with, he was going to the
University of Glasgow, and was reading for a bursary. His family
tacitly acquiesced; they respected his ambition and agreed that Jock
was to be somebody--some day. He was, therefore, allowed the largest
share of lamplight and first claim on the ink bottle. His sister had
also her dreams, as she sat with a collie at her feet. Maggie Gowdy
hated the hard rough life. It was aye fine for her grandmother, or even
her mother; but times were changed; there was no fun or stir beyond a
rare jaunt to Stirling or Glasgow. All the other girls in the glen were
a thousand times better off than she was. It was easy for her mother
to say "bide a wee"; she might bide at Ardnashiel till she was old and
toothless. Young Campbell of Lussie used to come up the valley, by way
of fishing, and spier for her, and have a crack, but her mother found
it out, and made an awful row, and threatened to lock her in her room.
The kirk was full six miles away, and a desperate rough walk, and there
was no one there foreby some old shepherds, their wives, and a few
farming folk. Aye, when she read beautiful stories in the paper penny
books she bought with her knitting profits, she felt wild to be away in
the big world, to see people--and be seen. She had overheard Mistress
Murray tell her mother that it was an awful pity such a bonnie lass
should be shut away up the glen. Maggie was a tall, broad-shouldered
young woman, with a pair of fine bold eyes, a fresh complexion and
ropes of coarse dark hair, and felt perfectly confident that, if she
only had a bit of money, she would get a match.
Mrs. Gowdy too had her own schemes and wishes. She was surely and
secretly putting by money, and intended Maggie to marry a minister, and
if Jock went out in the world, and Andy took a wife, she had made up
her mind to end her days in Glasgow, and in peace; leaving the young
ones to carry on the farm. Ardnashiel was paying well; they had only
lost five sheep that winter; they were getting good prices; she had
no shepherds to pay, and no wages; it was little going out and most
coming in. Of course, it was main dull for the bairns, puir bodies, but
they were young--and could wait.
The moor surrounding the grim blue-grey home of the Gowdys was
celebrated for an historical past, and a certain wild beauty peculiarly
its own; the romantic winding glen, guarded by steep mountains, was
watered by a capricious and picturesque river, which received many
tributaries. A rough cart track connected the glen with a high road,
which was seven miles distant, and in winter time the farmers and
cotters of Ardnashiel were frequently cut off from the outer world
for weeks. No wonder Maggie Gowdy dreaded these dark, dour days, the
leaden skies, the vast outlook on snow--snow, nothing but snow. Her
heart sank within her when, late in October, she watched the tenants of
a neighbouring shooting lodge pass down the rutty tracks, with their
servants, and luggage, and dogs--a long and imposing procession. As the
last cart turned the corner and was lost to sight, Maggie had known
what it was to rest her head between her knees and sob aloud.
Oh, winter was cruel to all the world, and especially to her; but
her mother was a woman of extraordinary force of character, and kept
everything going--the lads at the sheep-feeding and their books, and
herself at sewing and knitting. Summer and Autumn made some amends; the
streams ran merrily, the curlew called, the sheep bleated, the swallows
and the shooters returned, and the white mountains were clothed in
purple. When the day's work was over, the cows milked, the fowls
fed, Mrs. Gowdy would repair to her parlour in order to add up her
accounts. This was her period of mental refreshment, and if the lambs
had sold well, and fleeces were heavy, her heart was light. Jean Gowdy
lived meagrely below, in four rooms, a kitchen and three bedrooms.
She and Maggie washed at the pump, and shared one bed and a sixpenny
looking-glass.
But, like most self-respecting Scots folk, they had a sacred place
apart--a parlour, where they received company and entertained the
minister. This parlour had been handsomely plenished when Jean had
come to the glen a newly-wedded wife. She was proud of it then--she
was proud of it still. There was a green and red carpet, good mahogany
chairs, and a shiny sofa in horsehair, a variety of framed photographs,
two dyed sheepskin rugs, held down unnecessarily in the corners by
large foreign shells, some oleographs of Rome and Naples, and a large
picture of Queen Victoria; it was here, in a locked bureau, that Mrs.
Gowdy kept her business documents, her bank book, and her will. Sitting
there in her every-day gown and blue apron, with her bare arms and
toil-worn hands, she looked more like a servant who was poking through
her mistress's papers than the proprietor of the apartment. These were
her moments of delicious relaxation. Her daughter's diversion took the
form of a stroll as far as the next farm gate in the faint hope of
meeting someone, or else she climbed up to the old churchyard, which
commanded a magnificent prospect, and sat on a tombstone, building
castles in the air, and railing at her fate. Her thoughts frequently
turned to her father's brother Jamie, who, fifty years before, had gone
to the East Indies, and got on from one thing to another, had owned
hundreds of black men, and, it was even reported, elephants, and had
died as rich as a duke, leaving thousands and thousands to his widow,
but not one blessed bawbee to his own folk. Certainly, it was true that
her father and Uncle Jamie had had high words and a bitter quarrel
before he sailed, folks said, over a five-shilling piece, but they
might be wrong. Anyhow, her mother allowed they had no good will to one
another; but that was an old story, and she and her brothers were his
near kin. He had married a foreign woman, had no family, and had made
his home in the Indies, and never once came back to Scotland. His widow
had, so they heard, adopted a baby, and brought her up like a princess;
and there was she, his own flesh and blood, living on porridge, and
working and washing like any common woman. What a scandal!
When Maggie thought of this other girl, set out in silks and jewels,
and getting a grand education, and "chances," the blood fairly boiled
in her veins. She was far more embittered and furious against this
intruder than against her Uncle Jamie, or even his foreign wife. Here
was she, Maggie Gowdy, imprisoned and held fast within these glens by
poverty and a strong-willed mother, and she, though well enough looking
and educated and young, would never have a chance to be anything but
a drudge. She dared not throw off her mother's thrall; she had once
talked of service, but it was to deaf ears, and here she was, nigh
three-and-twenty and, as Jock had cruelly reminded her, "getting past
her market." Oh, she felt mad-like--to think of the wasted years!
When Maggie's mind dwelt on these matters and on the remorseless
monotony of her life, she felt distracted. She recalled how young Joe
Macdonald used to come up the moor, by way of looking for a stray
sheep, and how he had appeared at their chapel two Sundays running, and
met her once in Perth; and then, all of a sudden, he cooled off, and
took up with Allie McCrone, a yellow-haired girl, with a fortune of
three hundred pounds! Her mother had said, "Never you mind, my lass,
you shall have a fortune, too, as well as Allie. I was up for forty
when I got married, but I brought your father four hundred pounds. It
went to stock this place, and where we had one sheep then we have a
score the noo. You have plenty of time yet--you _wait_."
* * * * *
It was late on an April evening in the glen, the snow had melted, and
swelled the river far above its banks, the waterfalls were pouring down
the hillsides, the small burns were noisy and boisterous, and Andy
Gowdy, who had been to the town with the cart for coal and a bag of
flour, was not sorry when he came to the last gate of all. As soon as
he had "loused" the pony, he carried into the kitchen a sack of flour,
a small parcel of tea and sugar, and a letter. This he brought to his
mother, who was frying something over the fire.
"There's a letter for you," he drawled.
"Leave it there--it can bide. It's about the sheep wash and tar."
"I'm no so sure of that, it looks out of the ordinary, and the postmark
is London."
"Land sakes--it's for the keeper above."
"Nay, it's for Mrs. Andy Gowdy, Ardnashiel."
"Then give it here. No, my hands is black--you read it, Andy."
Andy at once opened the letter and began:
"LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS."
"Aye, didn't I tell ye it was aboot the farm!" interrupted his mother.
"No--no--listen here--to what it says," rejoined Andy, with heightened
colour.
"MADAM,--I have to acquaint you with the sudden death of Mrs. James
Gowdy, which took place yesterday at the 'Beaufort Hotel' in Dover
Street, Piccadilly. I am her solicitor, and aware that her will,
though drawn up, is unsigned. Therefore, I believe, the fortune of
her late husband devolves upon his next-of-kin, who I assume to
be your children. I am making all arrangements for the funeral,
which I propose should take place at Kensal Green on April 30. I
fixed this date presuming that you and members of your family will
be present. Kindly write instructions at once, or telegraph. Miss
Chandos, Mrs. James Gowdy's adopted daughter, is at present at the
Hotel. I beg to add that my firm, having conducted the business of
Mrs. Gowdy for twenty years, are conversant with all its details,
and we shall be happy to place our experience at your service.
"I remain, Madam,
"Yours faithfully,
"GEORGE MIDDLEMASS.
"To Mrs. Andrew Gowdy."
When Andy had finished reading the foregoing, he drew a long loud
breath and looked around him. There was a dead silence. Mrs. Gowdy
straightened her back, and still holding a sausage on a fork, stood
staring hard at her son. Then she turned about, and snatching the pan
off the fire, exclaimed:
"Well! to think of that! Losh me! It's ten thousand a year coming among
ye. It's hard to credit!"
Maggie, who had been washing rubbers in the scullery, stood in the
doorway with cold wet arms and crimson cheeks and eyes like two flames.
"What shall we do?" she asked, hysterically. "What shall we do?"
"First of all, thank God," rejoined her pious mother, "and then have a
bit of supper before we begin to talk and make plans."
"I could not taste a mite!" cried Maggie, in a strange hoarse voice,
"let us talk now, if we ever talked. We are not dumb beasts. Let the
supper bide."
Mrs. Gowdy gazed at her daughter fixedly. The mere name of money had
transformed the girl into another creature; a woman with an imperious
countenance and a loud tongue.
"Well, well," she agreed, and she sat down and stared out of the window
reflectively, whilst her children stood around in a dazed silence,
momentarily speechless.
"We mun go to London in the morn," announced Mrs. Gowdy at last. "I see
that plain. This is Thursday, and the letter has lain two days. Jock,
the pony canna stir to-morrow; you mun run over and borrow Duncan's bay
horse, and bring it back with you. We will start at daybreak, there's
no call to be keeping the good money waiting, and we will just take a
few bits of things and my papers. I have a ten-pound note above in my
desk; Andy and Maggie will come with me, and you, Jock, mun mind the
place."
"No, no, I'm not for agreeing to that," rejoined Jock, sullenly. "Why
should I stay behind more than Andy or Mag. Have I no share in the
fortune? I'm going!"
Here were a son and daughter defying her authority for the first time
in their lives. And being a prudent and far-seeing woman, Mrs. Gowdy
instantly realised that she was no longer dealing with children and
dependents, subject to her thrall, but with the heirs of Jamie Gowdy's
fortune, who, should she stand in their way, would cut themselves loose
from her control. So much for money. In less than ten minutes it had
occasioned a domestic revolution.
"Well, then, have yer way," she agreed. "I'm thinking of who's to mind
the cows and the chickens--forby the sheep. You might cry in to Alec
Macnab on yer way for the horse, and ask him and his son to give a look
to the place, and he'll need to be here at streak of day. I'll make it
worth their while. I'll give him a good fee."
"All right," agreed Jock, "I'll bring Alec back with me."
"Aye, and don't let on but what we are going to Glasgow on a bit of
family business. No use giving out the news before we are well up in it
ourselves."
"Aye, I'll mind that."
"Oh, won't the Flemings be wild," cried Maggie, "when they know it. Ten
thousand a year--and maybe more! Ten thousand a year!" As she spoke,
she hammered on the table with her wet red hands.
"Now go off like a good lad," urged Mrs. Gowdy to her son, "and bring
over Alec and the bay horse. Mind ye, the train leaves the junction at
ten o'clock the morn."
There was little sleep for anyone in Ardnashiel that night, and sunrise
saw Jean Gowdy and her bairns clad in their Sunday clothes, driving
through the dew-soaked glen, _en route_ to establish their claim to a
fortune.