THE EYES OF A MAID.
Now throughout all the parish, aye, and throughout all Galloway there
arose infinite noise and bruit of this thing. Specially was there the
buzz of anger in the hill parishes, where the men who had lain in the
moss-hags and fought for the ancient liberties dwelt thickest--in
Carsphairn, in the Glenkens, and in mine own Balmaghie.
As I went over the hill from farm-town to farm-town the herds would cry
down “Well done!” from among the sheep. Old men who had seen the high
days of the Kirk before the fatal home-coming of King Charles; rough,
buirdly men who had done their share of hiding and fighting in the
troubles; young men who, like myself, had heard in their cradles but the
murmur of the fray, came to shake my hand and bid me strengthen my knees
and stick to my testimony.
“For,” said a venerable elder, one Anthony Lennox of the Duchrae, who
had been a famous man in the sufferings, “this is the very truth for
which we bled. We asked for the kernel, and lo! they have given us the
dry and barren husk. We fought for ‘Christ’s Crown and Covenant,’ and
they have sent us a banner with the device--‘Queen Anne’s Crown and the
Test!’”
But I think that the women were even more warmly on our side, for the
canker of persecution had eaten deeper into their hearts, that had only
waited and mourned while their men folk were out suffering and fighting.
“Be ye none feared, laddie,” said Millicent Hannay, an ancient dame who
had stood the thumbikins thrice in the gaol of Kirkcudbright; “the most
part of the ministers may stick like burrs to their manses and glebes,
their tiends and tithings. But if so be, ye are thrust forth into the
wilderness, ye will find manna there--aye, and water from the rock and a
pillar of fire going before to lead you out again.”
But nowhere was I more warmly welcomed than in the good house of
Drumglass. The herd lads and ploughmen were gathered at the house-end
when I came up the loaning, and even as I passed one of them came
forward with his blue bonnet in his hand.
“Fear not, sir,” he said, with a kind of bold, self-respecting
diffidence common among our Galloway hinds. “I speak for all our lads
with hearts and hands. We will fight for you. Keep the word of your
testimony, and we will sustain you and stand behind you. If we will
unfurl the blue banner again, we will plant right deep the staff.”
And from the little group of stalwart men at the barn-end there came a
low murmur of corroboration, “We will uphold you!”
Strange as it is to-day to think on these things when most men are so
lukewarm for principle. But in those days the embers of the fires of
persecution were yet warm and glowing, and men knew not when they might
again be blown up and fresh fuel added thereto.
“Come awa’,” cried Nathan Gemmell heartily, from where he sat on the
outer bench of moss-oak by the door-cheek, worn smooth by generations of
sitters, “come awa’, minister, and tell us the news. Faith, it makes me
young-like again to hear there is still a man that thinks on the
Covenants and the blue banner wi’ the denty white cross. And though
they forget the auld flag noo, I hae seen it gang stacherin’ doon the
streets o’ the toon o’ Edinburg wi’ a’ the folk cryin’ ‘Up wi’ the Kirk
an’ doon wi’ the King!’ till there wasna a sodjer-body dare show his
face, nor a King’s man to be found between the Castle and the Holyrood
House. _Hech-how-aye!_ auld Drumglass has seen that.
“And eke he saw the lads that were pitten doon on the green Pentland
slopes in the saxty-sax start frae the Clachan o’ Saint John wi’ hopes
that were high, sharpening their bits o’ swords and scythes to withstand
the guns o’ Dalzyell. And but few o’ them ever wan back. But what o’
that? It’s a brave thrang there wad be about heaven’s gates that
day--the souls o’ the righteous thranging and pressing to win through,
the rejoicing of a multitude that had washed their robes and made them
white in the blood o’ the Lamb.
“Ow, aye, ye wonder at me, that am a carnal man, speakin’ that gate. But
it is juist because I am a man wha’ has been a sore sinner, that I wear
thae things sae near my heart. My time is at hand. Soon, soon will auld
Drumglass, wastrel loon that he is, be thrown oot like a useless root
ower the wa’ and carried feet foremost from out his chamber door. But
if it’s the Lord’s will” (he rose to his feet and shook his oaken staff)
“if it’s the Lord’s will, auld Drumglass wad like to draw the blade frae
the scabbard yince mair, and find the wecht o’ the steel in his hand
while yet his auld numb fingers can meet aboot the basket hilt.
“Oh, I ken, I ken; ye think the weapons of our warfare are not to be
swords and staves, minister--truth will fight for us, ye say.
“I daresay ye are right. But gin the hoodie-craws o’ the Presbytery come
wi’ swords and staves to put ye forth from your parish and your kindly
down-sitting, ye will be none the worse of the parcel o’ braw lads ye
saw at the barn-end, every man o’ them wi’ a basket-hilted blade in his
richt hand and a willing Galloway heart thump-thumpin’ high wi’ itching
desire to be at the red coaties o’ the malignants.”
Then we went in, and there by the fireside, looking very wistfully out
of her meek eyes at me, stood the young lass, Jean Gemmell. She came
forward holding out her hand, saying no word, but the tears still wet on
her lashes--why, I know not. And she listened as her father asked of the
doings at the Presbytery, and looked eager and anxious while I was
answering. Presently Auld Drumglass went forth on some errand about the
work of the ploughlads, and the lass and I were left alone together in
the wide kitchen.
“And they will indeed put you forth out of house and home?” she asked,
looking at me with sweet, reluctant eyes, the eyes of a mourning dove.
She stood by the angle of the hearth where the broad ingle-seat begins.
I sat on her father’s chair where he had placed me and looked over at
her. A comely lass she was, with her pale cheeks and a blush on them
that went and came responsive to the beating of her heart.
I had not answered, being busy with looking at her and thinking how I
wished Mistress Mary Gordon had been as gentle and biddable as this
lass. So she asked again, “They will not put you forth from your kirk
and parish, will they?”
“Nay, that I know not,” I said, smiling; “doubtless they will try.”
“Oh, I could not listen to another minister after----”
She stopped and sighed.
It was in my mind to rebuke her, and to bid her remember that the Word
of God is not confined to any one vessel of clay, but just then she put
her hand to her side, and went withal so pale that I could not find it
in my heart to speak harshly to the young lass.
Then I told her, being stirred within me by her emotion, of the two who
had stood by me in the Presbytery, and how little hope I had that they
would manfully see it out to the end.
“’Tis a fight that I must fight alone,” I said.
For I knew well that it would come to that, and that so soon as the
affair went past mere empty words those two who had stood at my shoulder
would fall behind or be content to bide snugly at home.
“_Not alone!_” said the young lass, quickly, and moved a step towards me
with her hand held out. Then, with a deep and burning blush, her maiden
modesty checked her, and she stood red like a July rose in the clear
morning.
She swayed as if she would have fallen, and, leaping up quickly, I
caught her in my arms ere she had time to fall.
Her eyes were closed. The blood had ebbed from her face and left her
pale to the very lips. I stood with her light weight in my arms,
thrilling strangely, for, God be my judge, never woman had lain there
before.
Presently she gave a long snatching breath and opened her eyes. I saw
the tears gather in them as her head lay still and lax in the hollow of
my arm. The drops did not fall, but rather gathered slowly like wells
that are fed from beneath.
“You will not go away?” she said, and at last lifted her lashes, with a
little pearl shining wet on each, like a swallow that has dipped her
wings in a pool.
Then, because I could not help it, I did that which I had never done to
any woman born of woman: I stooped and kissed the wet sweet eyes. And
then, ere I knew it, with a little cry of frightened joy, the girl’s
arms were about me. She lifted up her face, and kissed me again and
again and yet again.
* * * * *
When I came to myself I was conscious of another presence in the
kitchen. I looked up quickly, and there before me, standing with an ash
switch swaying in her hand, was Alexander-Jonita. I had not supposed
that she could have looked so stern.
“Well?” she said, as if waiting for my explanation.
“I love your sister,” I replied; for indeed, though I had not thought
thus of the matter before, there seemed nothing else to be said.
But the face of Alexander-Jonita did not relax. She stood gazing at her
sister, whose head rested quiet and content on my shoulder.
“Jean,” she said at last, “knowing that which you know, why have you
done this?”
The girl lifted her head, and looked at Jonita with a kind of glad
defiance.
“Sister,” she said, “you do not understand love. How should you know
what one would do for love?”
“You love my sister Jean?” Jonita began again, turning to me with a
sharpness in her words like the pricking of a needle’s point.
“Yes!” I answered, but perhaps a little uncertainly.
“Did you know as much when you came into the kitchen?”
“No,” said I.
For indeed I knew not what to answer, never having been thus tangled up
with women’s affairs in my life before.
“I thought not,” said Jonita, curtly. Then to Jean, “How did this come
about?” she said.
Jean lifted her head, her face being lily-pale and her body swaying a
little to me.
“I thought he would go away and that I should never see him again!” she
replied, a little pitifully, with the quavering thrill of unshed tears
in her voice.
“And you did this knowing--what you know!” said Jonita again, sternly.
“I saw him first,” said Jean, a little obstinately, looking down the
while.
Her sister flushed crimson.
“Oh, lassie,” she cried, “ye will drive me mad with your whims and
foolish speeches; what matters who saw him first? Ye ken well that ye
are not fit to be----”
“She is fit to be my wife,” I said, for I thought that this had gone far
enough; “she is fit to be my wife, and my wife she shall surely be if
she will have me!”
With a little joyful cry Jean Gemmell’s arms went about my neck, and her
wet face was hidden in my breast. It lay there quiet a moment; then she
lifted it and looked with a proud, still defiance at her sister.
Alexander-Jonita lifted up her hands in hopeless protest.
She seemed about to say more, but all suddenly she changed her mind.
“So be it,” she said. “After all, ’tis none of my business!”
And with that she turned and went out through the door of the kitchen.