"Ay," she continued, "an' waur than that, the lass poured the luggy that
she had drawn frae Meg among the other milk, and the whole lot turned.
Sic' wastry I never kent afore, and ye may be sure that nae paraphrase
has ever been sung in my byre since. The guid man was that upset--no'
wi' the loss o' the milk--but at the thocht that a paraphrase had been
sung in his byre to his coo on the Sabbath day that on the Monday he
gi'ed the wench notice."
"I should have thought," I said, "that Mary's voice would persuade the
milk from the most reluctant cow."
"I dinna' ken aboot that," she answered: "She's no as guid a milker as
her mother, and though my voice is timmer noo I'll guarantee to get mair
milk at a milkin' than ever Mary'll fetch ben the hoose."
I would fain have continued the conversation, but the baking was over,
and the good woman left to join her daughter. Mary still sang on and I
sat in rapture, my heart aglow.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*THE WISDOM OF A WOMAN*
I saw no more of Mary that day, for ere the milking was over Andrew
returned from the fields and after studying me for a moment said: "I
think it's time for your bed." Whereat he helped me carefully up the
ladder, and left me to disrobe myself. That night, when the moon came
out and filled my room with a glory that was not of this earth, I lay
and dreamed of Mary, and through the silence of my dream I could hear
once again the witching notes of her song.
Day after day I was gently assisted down the ladder, and each day I
spent a longer time sitting by the peat fire. Most often my only
companion in the kitchen was the good wife, and between us an intimate
understanding began to spring up. I felt she liked to have me sitting
there, and more than once she would look wistfully at me, and I knew
from the sigh with which she turned again to her work that she was
thinking of her dead boy.
Her face was attractive, though time had chiselled it deeply--and her
eyes were shrewd and kindly. In repose her features were overcast by a
mask of solemnity, but at each angle of her mouth a dimple lurked, and a
ready smile, which started there or in her eyes, was perpetually chasing
away all the sterner lines.
Mary came and went, busy at times on duties about the steading,
sometimes on duties further afield, and more than once she set off laden
with a well-filled basket and I knew that she was taking succour to some
fugitive hill-man hidden on the moors. Always she treated me with
kindness--with those innumerable and inexpressible little kindnesses
that mean nothing to most people, but which to one in love are as drops
of nectar on a parched tongue. Sometimes she would bring me flowers
which she had gathered on the moor; and proud I was when on a day she
fastened a sprig of heather in my coat.
Sometimes of a night the dambrod was brought out and the old man would
beat me soundly once again.
But an evening came when he had no heart to play. He had been moody all
day long, and when I suggested a game he said with a groan: "No' the
nicht! no' the nicht! I ha'e mair serious things in mind."
I was at a loss to understand his reluctance, for hitherto he had always
been eager for a game, but when I began to urge him to play, his wife
interrupted me saying:
"Na, na, leave the man alane. If ye want to play, ye can play wi'
Mary."
I needed no second invitation, nor did the suggestion seem unwelcome to
Mary, who brought the board and the men and set them upon the table.
Hers were the white men, mine the black: but after the first move or two
the grace of her hand as it poised above the board cast such a spell
over me that I began to play with little skill, and she was an easy
victor. We played several games, all of which she won: and the only
sound that disturbed our tourney was the tinkle of her laugh when she
cornered me, or the click of her mother's needles as she knitted in the
ingle-nook. But every now and then the old man groaned as though he were
in great distress, and looking at him I saw that his head was buried in
his hands.
When our tourney was over Mary gathered up the men and restored them to
a drawer, and as she did so she turned to her mother and said:
"Oh, mother, you ha'e never given the minister's Bible and his flute
back to the gentleman."
"Nae mair I ha'e," said her mother. "Fetch them here," and Mary brought
them to her. She took the Bible and handed it to me. It opened at the
blood-stained page. Mary had come behind my chair; I was conscious that
she was leaning over me. I could feel her hair touch my face, and then
when she saw the stain a hot tear fell and struck my hand. I lifted my
face towards her, but she had turned away. Without a word I handed the
open book to her mother.
"Eh, dear, the bluid o' a saint," she said, and she closed the book
reverently and gave it back to me.
The silence was broken by the good man. "Ay, the bluid o' a saint," he
groaned--"ane o' the elect."
And that night for the first time I was present at the "taking o' the
Book." Evening after evening as I had lain in the garret, I had heard
these good folk at their worship. To-night I was permitted to take part
in the rite, and though I have worshipped in the beautiful churches of
Oxford and the storied Cathedrals of my own native land, I was never
more conscious of the presence of God than in that little farm kitchen
on the Galloway moors.
One afternoon as I sat watching the good wife at her baking, I asked her
how it was that her husband and she had succeeded in escaping the
attentions of the troopers.
"Oh," she said, "we ha'ena' escaped. Lag often gi'es us a ca', but
there's a kin' o' understandin' between him and me. It's this way, ye
see; before she got married my mother was a sewing-maid to his mother,
and when my faither deid and she was left ill-provided, and wi' me to
think o', she went back to Mistress Grierson and tellt her her trouble.
Weel, Mrs. Grierson liked my mother and she took her back, and she said:
'Mrs. Kilpatrick,' says she, 'if you will come back, you can bring wee
Jean wi' ye. What a bairn picks will never be missed in a hoose like
this, and the lassie can play wi' my Robert. Ye see he has neither
brither nor sister o' his ain, and is like to be lonely, and your
lassie, bein' six or seeven years aulder than him, will be able to keep
him oot o' mischief.'
"And so it cam' aboot, and for maybe eight years I was as guid as a
sister to him. But he was aye a thrawn wee deevil--kind-hearted at
times, but wi' an awfu' temper. Ye see his mother spoiled him. Even as
a laddie he was fond o' his ain way, and he was cruel then tae. I min'
weel hoo he set his dog on my white kittlin, but I let him ken aboot it,
because when the wee thing was safe in the kitchen again I took him by
the hair o' the held and pu'd oot a guid handfu'. My mither skelped me
weel, but it was naething to the skelpin' I gie'd him the first chance I
got. His mother never correkit him; it was 'puir Rob this, and puir Rob
that,' and if it hadna' been that every noo and then, when my mither's
patience was fair worn oot, she laid him ower her knee, I'm thinkin' Lag
would be a waur man the day than he gets the blame o' bein'. There's
guid in him; I'm sure o't, for even the de'il himsel' is no' as black as
he's painted: but his heid has been fair turned since the King sent for
him to London and knighted him wi' his ain sword.
"I bided in his mother's hoose till I was maybe seventeen years auld,
and then my mither got mairrit again and left Dunscore to come and live
near Dairy. Weel, I had never seen Lag frae that day till maybe a year
sin', when the troopers began to ride through and through this
country-side. Ae day I was oot-bye at the kirn when I heard the soond
o' horses comin' up the loanin', and turnin', I saw Lag ridin' at the
heid o' a company o' armed men. There was a scowl on his face, and when
I saw him and minded the ill wark that I heard he had done in ither
pairts, I was gey feart. He shouted an order to his troop and they a'
drew rein. Then he cam' forrit tae me. 'Woman,' he said, 'Where's yer
man?'
"'Fegs," says I, 'Rab Grier, that's no' a very ceevil way to address an
auld frien'. Woman indeed! I am Mistress Paterson that was Jean
Kilpatrick, that has played wi' ye mony a day in yer mither's hoose at
Dunscore.' 'Guid sakes,' he cried, vaultin' oot o' his saddle, 'Jean
Kilpatrick! This beats a'.' And he pu'd aff his ridin' gloves and held
oot his hand to me. Then he shouted for ane o' his troopers to come and
tak' his horse, and in he walks to the kitchen. Weel, we cracked and
cracked, and I minded him o' mony o' the ploys we had when we were weans
thegither.
"Syne, Mary cam' in wi' a face as white as a sheet. She had seen the
troopers, and was awfu' feart: but I saw her comin' and I said: 'Mary
lass, tak' a bowl and fetch my auld frien' Sir Robert Grier a drink o'
buttermilk.' And that gie'd the lassie courage, for she took the bowl
and went oot-bye to the kirn, and in a minute she cam' back wi' the
buttermilk; so I set cakes and butter afore him and fed him weel, and as
he ate he said: 'Ay, Jean, ye're as guid a baker as your mither. D'ye
mind how you and me used to watch her at the bakin' in the old kitchen
at Dunscore, and how she used to gie us the wee bits she cut off when
she was trimming the cake, and let us put them on the girdle ourselves?'
And as he talked he got quite saft-like and the scowl went aff his face
a' thegither.
"Then he began to tak' notice o' Mary. 'So this is your dochter,' he
said. He looked her up and doon: 'I see she favours her mither, but I'm
thinkin' she's better lookin' than you were, Jean. Come here, my pretty
doo!' he says, and as Mary went towards him I could see she was a' o' a
tremble. He rose frae his chair an' put his arm roon' her shoulder and
made as though to kiss her. Wed, I could see Mary shrinkin' frae his
touch, and the next minute she had gie'd him a lood skelp on the side o'
his face wi' her haun, and wi' her chin in the air, walked oot o' the
door. I looked at Lag. There was anger on his broo, but he pu'd
himsel' thegither and dropped back in his chair, sayin': 'Jean, ye've
brocht her up badly. That's puir hospitality to a guest.' 'Weel, Rob,'
says I, 'the lassie's no' to blame. It maun rin in her blood, for mony
a guid skelpin' my mither has gi'en ye,--I ha'e skelped ye masel', and
noo ye've been skelped by the third generation.' Whereat he let a roar
o' laughter oot o' his heid that shook the hams hangin' frae the baulks.
And that set his memory going, and he said, 'D'ye mind the day I set my
dog on your kitten, and you pu'd a handfu' o' hair oot o' my heid?' and
he took his hat off, saying, 'I am thinkin' that is the first place on
my pow that is going bald.' 'Ay,' says I, 'weel I mind it, and the
lickin' I got.' 'Yes,' says he, laughin', 'but ye paid me back double.'
And he roared wi' laughter again.
"We were crackin' as crouse as twa auld cronies, when he said: 'And noo,
Jean, a word in yer lug. I had nae thocht when I cam' up here I was gaun
to meet an auld frien'. I cam' to ask you and your man, will ye tak'
the Test. But I am no' gaun to ask the question o' ye. For the sake o'
the auld days, this hoose and they that live in it are safe, so far as
Robert Grierson o' Lag is concerned. But that is between you and me.
Dinna be lettin' your man or your dochter, the wee besom, consort wi'
the hill-men. The times are stern, and the King maun be obeyed. But ye
can trust me that I will not do your hoose a mischief. Whaur's your
guid man?' 'He's oot on the hills wi' the sheep,' says I, 'but he will
be back before lang,' and I went to the door to look, and there he was
comin' doon the brae face. He had seen the troopers and I'm tellin' ye
he was gey scared. I waved to him to hurry, and he, thinkin' that I was
in danger, cam' rinning. 'Come awa ben the hoose,' says I. 'There's an
auld frien' o' mine come to see us,' and I brocht him in, and presented
him to Lag.
"Lag was gey ceevil to him, and said naething aboot oaths or tests, but
talked aboot sheep and kye, and syne said: 'And noo I'll ha'e to be
awa'. I will tak' anither sup o' your buttermilk, Jean,' and then he
shook me by the haun' and would ha'e shaken Andra's tae, but Andra wadna
tak' a haun' that was stained wi' innocent blood. It was an affront to
Lag, but a man like that aye respects anither man wi' courage, and he
walked oot o' the door. He sprang into the saddle and the troop formed
up and clattered doon the loanin', and the last I saw o' Lag he had
turned his heid and was wavin' his haun as he gaed roond the corner at
the brae-fit."
"And what of Mary," I said. "What was she doing in the meantime?"
Her mother laughed. "We looked high and low for her and at last we
found her in a hidie-hole in the haystack, greetin' like a wean. She
had made up her mind, puir lassie, that Lag would shoot baith her
faither and me, because she had boxed his lugs."
"And have you had no trouble since?" I asked, for I knew that the
promise given by Lag would be binding on none but himself, and should a
troop Captain like Winram or Claver'se come to Daldowie, disaster might
fall on the household.
"Oh, ay," she said, "we've seen Lag mair than aince since then. He was
here twa or three weeks sin' when you were lyin' up in the laft, and he
asked aboot you. He speired whether we had seen ocht o' a young man in
a trooper's uniform wanderin' aboot the moors. Ye were up in the laft
sleepin' as cosy as a mowdie, but I telt him I'd seen nae young man in
ony trooper's uniform. I wasna fule enough to tell him that I'd seen a
trooper in the meenister's claes. 'Weel,' he said, 'should ye see sic
an ane, dinna forget there's a price upon his heid. He is a deserter,
and Rab Grier mak's short work o' deserters.'
"So, ye see, so far as Lag's concerned, Daldowie's safe enough. But
Andra, puir stubborn buddy, is no' sure o' the richts o't. He is a
queer man, Andra, and like lots mair o' the hill-men he wad sooner wear
the martyr's crown than his ain guid bannet. But I'm no' made that way.
I find the world no' a bad place ava, and I'm content to wait in it till
it pleases the Almichty to send for me: and I'm no' forcin' His haun by
rinnin' masel' into danger when a bowl o' buttermilk and a farle o'
oatcake serves wi' a jocose word to mak' a frien' o' ane that micht be a
bitter enemy. That was a wise word o' Solomon's--maybe he learned it
frae ane o' his wives--'Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the
foolish plucketh it down with her hands.' Even Andra daur'na say that
Jean Paterson, his wife, is a fule."
*CHAPTER XIX*
*THE MAKING OF A DAISY CHAIN*
A day came when at last I was considered strong enough to venture
out-of-doors, and on that day, to my joy, I had Mary for a companion.
Lending me the support of her arm, she guided me to a grassy hillock
beside a little stream that ran down the face of the brae. Many a time
I had dreamed of this moment when I should be alone with her--but now
that it was come I found myself bereft of words. Apparently, she did not
notice my silence but talked merrily as she sat down beside me. Yet,
though my tongue was holden so that I could not speak, the scales had
fallen from my vision and Mary looked more beautiful than ever. I
looked into her eyes and for the first time saw the secret of their
loveliness. They were brown as a moorland stream--but a moorland stream
may be a thing of gloom, and in her eyes there was nothing but glory. I
saw the secret. The rich, deep brown was flecked with little points of
lighter hue, as though some golden shaft of sunlight had been caught and
held prisoner there, and when she smiled the sleeping sunshine woke and
danced like a lambent flame.
Daisies were springing all round us, and as she talked she began to
weave a chain. The play of her nimble fingers as she threaded the
star-like flowers captivated me. I offered my clumsy aid, and she
laughed merrily at my efforts; but every now and then our hands touched,
and I was well content.
When the Chain was completed I doubled it, and said: "Now, Mary, the
crown is ready for the Queen."
She bent her head towards me playfully and I placed the daisies on her
glistening hair, nor could I resist the temptation of taking that dear
head of hers between my hands, making as my excuse the need to set the
garland fair.
"Ay," she said, "I am thinkin' it is no' the first time that you ha'e
done this. Tell me aboot the English lassies. Are they bonnie?"
"I know very little about them," I replied, and she, with twinkling
eyes, returned:
"Ye dinna expect me to believe that, dae ye?"
With mock solemnity I laid my hand upon my heart and swore I spoke the
truth, but she only laughed.
"Tell me," she said, "are they bonnie? I've heard tell they are."
"Well, Mary," I answered, "there may be bonnie lassies in England, but
I've seen far bonnier ones in Scotland."
She plucked a daisy and held its yellow heart against her chin. "Oh
ay," she said, "I've heard that the Wigtown lassies are gey weel-faured.
Nae doot, when ye were a sodger there, ye had a sweetheart."
"No," I said, "I had no sweetheart in Wigtown, although I saw a very
bonnie lass there."
"I knew it, I knew it," she cried. "And maybe ye helped her to make a
daisy chain?"
"No, Mary," I said, "I never had a chance. I saw her only for an hour."
"But ye loved her?" and she looked at me quickly.
"No," I answered, "I had no right to love her. If I had loved her I
should have tried to save her. She's dead now, but I do not think I can
ever forget her."
"Oh," she said, "then you canna forget her. You're never likely to love
anither lassie? But ye speak in riddles. Wha was she? Tell me."
It was a hard thing to do, but there was nothing for it. So I told her
the story of Margaret Wilson. She listened breathlessly with mounting
colour. Her eyes dilated and her lips parted as she sat with awe and
pity gathering in her face.
When I had finished she turned from me in silence and looked into the
distance. Then she sprang to her feet and faced me, with glowing eyes.
"And you were there! You!" she cried. "You helped the murderers! O
God! I wish I had left you on the moor to die!"
This was my condemnation: this my punishment; that this sweet girl
should turn from me in horror, hating me. I bent my head in shame.
She stood above me, and when I dared to lift my eyes I saw that her
hands, which she had clasped, were trembling.
"Mary," I murmured, and at my voice she started as though my lips
polluted her name, "Mary--you cannot know the agony I have suffered for
what I did, nor how remorse has bitten into my heart torturing me night
and day. It was for that I became a deserter."
"You deserted, and put yoursel' in danger o' death because you were
sorry," she said slowly, as though weighing each word.
"Yes," I answered, "that is why I deserted," and I looked into her eyes,
from which the anger had faded.
"I'm sorry I was so hasty. I didna mean to be cruel. Forget what I
said. I meant it at the meenute, but I dinna mean it noo," and she held
out both her hands impulsively. I clasped them, and drew her down
beside me again, and she did not resist. For a moment or two she sat in
silence pulling at the blades of grass around her. Then she laid a hand
upon my arm, and said quietly:
"Tell me aboot her again. Was she really very bonnie?"
"Yes," I replied, "very bonnie."
"The bonniest lassie you ever saw?"
"Yes, the bonniest lassie I had ever seen till then."
"Oh," she exclaimed, "then you've seen a bonnier? And where did ye see
her?"
A woman versed in the wiles of her sex would not have thrown the glove
down so artlessly. Unwittingly she had challenged me to declare my
love--and I was sorely tempted to do so: but I hesitated. A riper moment
would come, so I answered simply:
"Yes, I have seen a bonnier lassie among the hills."
"Oh," she exclaimed, and looked at me questioningly, "and what was she
daein' there?"
I laid a hand upon hers as I replied: "Now, little Mistress Curiosity,
do not ask too much."
She drew her hand away quickly, and brushed it with the other as though
to rid it of some defilement. I fear the taunting name had given her
umbrage.
"I think you are a licht-o'-love," she said.
"Mary!" I exclaimed, offended in my turn. "What right have you to say
such a thing?"
"Weel," she answered, "what else would you ha'e me think. Ye lo'ed
Margaret Wilson: ye tell me ye've seen a bonnier lass amang the hills,
and when I found you on the moors you were repeatin' a lassie's name
ower an' ower again--and her name wasna Margaret."
"I was repeating the name of a lassie?" I exclaimed dubiously.
"Ay, ye were that," she made answer, "or ye wadna be here the day. It
was that made me tak' peety on you. I was sorry for the lassie, whaever
she micht be, and I thocht if I had a lad o' my ain I should like him to
be croonin' ower my name, as you were daein' hers. So I ran hame an'
fetched faither, an' we cairried ye to Daldowie."
"And what was the name of the lassie?" I asked, looking at her eagerly.
"Oh I ye kept sayin'--Mary--Mary--Mary--in a kind o' lament."
My heart bounded: there was riot in my veins. "It was your name,
Mary--yours--and none other. There is no other Mary in my life."
She looked at me in amazement--her eyes alight. "Surely ye dinna expect
me to believe that? You'd only seen me aince--and hardly spoken to me.
It couldna be me ye meant."