"Here," I said, "is the poem. You see, I never finished it."
I was fingering the thing grimly when Gavin's eye fell on something
else in the desk. It was an ungainly clasp-knife, as rusty as if it
had spent a winter beneath a hedge.
"I seem to remember that knife," he said.
"Yes," I answered, "you should remember it. Well, after three months
Adam tired of his wife."
I stopped again. This was a story in which only the pauses were
eloquent.
"Perhaps I have no right to say he tired of her. One day, however, he
sauntered away from Harvie whistling, his dog at his heels as ever,
and was not seen again for nearly six years. When I heard of his
disappearance I packed my books in that kist and went to Harvie, where
I opened a school. You see, every one but Margaret believed that Adam
had fallen over the cliffs and been drowned."
"But the dog?" said Gavin.
"We were all sure that, if he had fallen over, it had jumped after
him. The fisher-folk said that he could have left his shadow behind as
easily as it. Yet Margaret thought for long that he had tired of
Harvie merely and gone back to sea, and not until two years had passed
would she marry me. We lived in Adam's house. It was so near the
little school that when I opened the window in summer-time she could
hear the drone of our voices. During the weeks before you were born I
kept that window open all day long, and often I went to it and waved
my hand to her.
"Sometimes, when she was washing or baking, I brought you to the
school. The only quarrel she and I ever had was about my teaching you
the Lord's Prayer in Greek as soon as you could say father and mother.
It was to be a surprise for her on your second birthday. On that day,
while she was ironing, you took hold of her gown to steady yourself,
and began, '~Pater emon ho en tois ouranois~' and to me, behind the
door, it was music. But at ~agiastheto~, of which you made two
syllables, you cried, and Margaret snatched you up, thinking this was
some new ailment. After I had explained to her that it was the Lord's
Prayer in Greek, she would let me take you to the school-house no
more.
"Not much longer could I have taken you in any case, for already we
are at the day when Adam Dishart came back. It was the 7th of
September, and all the week most of the women in Harvie had been
setting off at dawn to the harvest fields and straggling home at
nights, merry and with yellow corn in their hair. I had sat on in the
school-house that day after my pupils were gone. I still meant to be a
minister, and I was studying Hebrew, and so absorbed in my book that
as the daylight went, I followed it step by step as far as my window,
and there I read, without knowing, until I chanced to look up, that I
had left my desk. I have not opened that book since.
"From the window I saw you on the waste ground that separated the
school from our home. You were coming to me on your hands and feet,
and stopping now and again to look back at your mother, who was at the
door, laughing and shaking her fist at you. I beckoned to you, and
took the book back to my desk to lock it up. While my head was inside
the desk I heard the school-house door pushed open, and thinking it
was you I smiled, without looking up. Then something touched my hand,
and I still thought it was you; but I looked down, and I saw Adam
Dishart's black dog.
"I did not move. It looked up at me and wagged its tail. Then it drew
back--I suppose because I had no words for it. I watched it run
half-round the room and stop and look at me again. Then it slunk out.
"All that time one of my hands had been holding the desk open. Now the
lid fell. I put on my bonnet and went to the door. You were only a few
yards away, with flowers in your fist. Margaret was laughing still. I
walked round the school and there was no dog visible. Margaret nodded
to me, meaning that I should bring you home. You thrust the flowers
into my hand, but they fell. I stood there, dazed.
"I think I walked with you some way across the waste ground. Then I
dropped your hand and strode back to the school. I went down on my
knees, looking for marks of a dog's paws, and I found them.
"When I came out again your mother was no longer at our door, and you
were crying because I had left you. I passed you and walked straight
to the house. Margaret was skinning rushes for wicks. There must have
been fear in my face, for as soon as she saw it she ran to the door to
see if you were still alive. She brought you in with her, and so had
strength to cry, 'What is it? Speak!'
"'Come away,' I said, 'come away,' and I was drawing her to the door,
but she pressed me into a chair. I was up again at once.
"'Margaret,' I said, 'ask no questions. Put on your bonnet, give me
the boy, and let us away.'
"I could not take my eyes off the door, and she was walking to it to
look out when I barred the way with my arm.
"'What have you seen?' she cried; and then, as I only pointed to her
bonnet, she turned to you, and you said, 'Was it the black dog,
father?'
"Gavin, then she knew; and I stood helpless and watched my wife grow
old. In that moment she lost the sprightliness I loved the more
because I had none of it myself, and the bloom went from her face
never to return.
"'He has come back,' she said.
"I told her what I had seen, and while I spoke she put on her bonnet,
and I exulted, thinking--and then she took off her bonnet, and I knew
she would not go away with me.
"'Margaret,' I cried, 'I am that bairn's father.'
"'Adam's my man,' she said, and at that I gave her a look for which
God might have struck me dead. But instead of blaming me she put her
arms round my neck.
"After that we said very little. We sat at opposite sides of the fire,
waiting for him, and you played on the floor. The harvesters trooped
by, and there was a fiddle; and when it stopped, long stillness, and
then a step. It was not Adam. You fell asleep, and we could hear
nothing but the sea. There was a harvest moon.
"Once a dog ran past the door, and we both rose. Margaret pressed her
hands on her breast. Sometimes she looked furtively at me, and I knew
her thoughts. To me it was only misery that had come, but to her it
was shame, so that when you woke and climbed into her lap she shivered
at your touch. I could not look at her after that, for there was a
horror of me growing in her face.
"Ten o'clock struck, and then again there was no sound but the sea
pouring itself out on the beach. It was long after this, when to me
there was still no other sound, that Margaret screamed, and you hid
behind her. Then I heard it.
"'Gavin,' Margaret said to me, 'be a good man all your life.'
"It was louder now, and then it stopped. Above the wash of the sea we
heard another sound--a sharp tap, tap. You said, 'I know what sound
that is; it's a man knocking the ashes out of his pipe against his
boot.'
"Then the dog pushed the door off the latch, and Adam lurched in. He
was not drunk, but he brought the smell of drink into the room with
him. He was grinning like one bringing rare news, and before she could
shrink back or I could strike him he had Margaret in his arms.
"'Lord, lass,' he said, with many jovial oaths, 'to think I'm back
again! There, she's swounded. What folks be women, to be sure.'
"'We thought you were dead, Adam," she said, coming to.
"'Bless your blue eyes,' he answered gleefully; 'often I says to
myself, "Meggy will be thinking I'm with the fishes," and then I
chuckles.'
"'Where have you been all this time?' I demanded sternly.
"'Gavin,' he said effusively, 'your hand. And don't look so feared,
man; I bear no malice for what you've done. I heard all about it at
the Cross Anchors.'
"'Where have you been these five years and a half?' I repeated.
"'Where have I no been, lad?' he replied.
"'At Harvie,' I said.
"'Right you are,' said he good-naturedly. 'Meggie, I had no intention
of leaving you that day, though I was yawning myself to death in
Harvie; but I sees a whaler, and I thinks, "That's a tidy boat, and
I'm a tidy man, and if they'll take me and the dog, off we go."'
"'You never wrote to me,' Margaret said.
"'I meant to send you some scrapes,' he answered, 'but it wasna till I
changed ships that I had the chance, and then I minds, "Meggy kens I'm
no hand with the pen." But I swear I often thought of you, lass; and
look you here, that's better than letters, and so is this and every
penny of it is yours.'
"He flung two bags of gold upon the table, and the chink brought you
out from behind your mother.
"'Hallo!' Adam cried.
"'He is mine,' I said. 'Gavin, come here.' But Margaret held you
back.
"'Here's a go,' Adam muttered, and scratched his head. Then he slapped
his thigh. 'Gavin,' he said, in his friendliest way, 'we'll toss for
him.'
"He pulled the knife that is now in my desk from his pocket, spat on
it, and flung it up. 'Dry, the kid's ours, Meggy,' he explained; 'wet,
he goes to Gavin.' I clinched my fist to----But what was the use? He
caught the knife, and showed it to me.
"'Dry,' he said triumphantly; 'so he is ours, Meggy. Kiddy, catch the
knife. It is yours; and, mind, you have changed dads. And now that we
have settled that, Gavin, there's my hand again.'
"I went away and left them, and I never saw Margaret again until the
day you brought her to Thrums. But I saw you once, a few days after
Adam came back. I was in the school-house, packing my books, and you
were playing on the waste ground. I asked you how your mother was, and
you said, 'She's fleid to come to the door till you gang awa, and my
father's buying a boat.'
"'I'm your father,' I said; but you answered confidently:
"'You're no a living man. You're just a man I dreamed about; and I
promised my mother no to dream about you again.'
"'I am your father,' I repeated.
"'My father's awa buying a fishing-boat,' you insisted; 'and when I
speir at my mother whaur my first father is, she says I'm havering.'
"'Gavin Ogilvy is your name,' I said. 'No,' you answered, 'I have a
new name. My mother telled me my name is aye to be Gavin Dishart now.
She telled me, too, to fling awa this knife my father gave me, and
I've flung it awa a lot o' times, but I aye pick it up again.'
"'Give it to me,' I said, with the wicked thoughts of a fool in my
head.
"That is how your knife came into my possession. I left Harvie that
night in the carrier's cart, but I had not the heart to return to
college. Accident brought me here, and I thought it a fitting place in
which to bury myself from Margaret."
Chapter Thirty-Seven.