THE SHORE.
It was two days after the longest day of the year, when there is no
night in those regions, only a long twilight in which many dream and do
not know it. There had been a few days of variable weather, with sudden
changes of wind to east and north, and round again by south to west, and
then there had been a calm for several days. But now the little wind
there was blew from the north-east, and the fervor of a hot June was
rendered more delicious by the films of flavoring cold that floated
through the mass of heat. All Portlossie more or less, the Seaton
especially, was in a state of excitement, for its little neighbor
Scaurnose was more excited still. There the man most threatened, and
with greatest injustice, was the only one calm amongst the men, and
amongst the women his wife was the only one that was calmer than he.
Blue Peter was resolved to abide the stroke of wrong, and not resist the
powers that were, believing them in some true sense--which he found it
hard to understand when he thought of the factor as the individual
instance--ordained of God. He had a dim perception too that it was
better that one, and that one he, should suffer, than that order should
be destroyed and law defied. Suffering, he might still in patience
possess his soul, and all be well with him; but what would become of the
country if every one wronged were to take the law into his own hands?
Thousands more would be wronged by the lawless in a week than by unjust
powers in a year. But the young men were determined to pursue their plan
of resistance, and those of the older and soberer who saw the
uselessness of it gave themselves little trouble to change the minds of
the rest. Peter, although he knew they were not at rest, neither
inquired what their purpose might be, nor allowed any conjecture or
suspicion concerning it to influence him in his preparations for
departure. Not that he had found a new home. Indeed, he had not heartily
set about searching for one--in part because, unconsciously to himself,
he was buoyed up by the hope he read so clear in the face of his more
trusting wife that Malcolm would come to deliver them. His plan was to
leave her and his children with certain friends at Port Gordon: he would
not hear of going to the Partans to bring them into trouble. He would
himself set out immediately after for the Lewis fishing. Few had gone
from Scaurnose or Portlossie. The magnitude of the events that were
about to take place, yet more the excitement and interest they
occasioned, kept the most of the men at home, and they contented
themselves with fishing the waters of the Moray Frith--not without
notable success. But what was success with such a tyrant over them as
the factor, threatening to harry their nests and turn the sea-birds and
their young out of their heritage of rock and sand and shingle? They
could not keep house on the waves any more than the gulls. Those who
still held their religious assemblies in the cave called the Baillies'
Barn met often, read and sang the comminatory psalms more than any
others, and prayed much against the wiles and force of their enemies
both temporal and spiritual; while Mr. Crathie went every Sunday to
church, grew redder in the nose and hotter in the temper.
Miss Horn was growing more and more uncomfortable concerning events, and
dissatisfied with Malcolm. She had not for some time heard from him, and
here was his most important duty unattended to--she would not yet say
neglected--the well-being of his tenantry left in the hands of an
unsympathetic, self-important underling, who was fast losing all the
good sense he had once possessed! Were the life and history of all
these brave fishermen and their wives and children to be postponed to
the pampered feelings of one girl, and that because she was what she had
no right to be--namely, his half-sister? said Miss Horn to herself, that
bosom friend to whom some people, and those not the worst, say oftener
what they do not mean than what they do. She had written to him within
the last month a very hot letter indeed, which had afforded no end of
amusement to Mrs. Catanach as she sat in his old lodging over the
curiosity-shop, but, I need hardly say, had not reached Malcolm; and now
there was but one night and the best of all the fisher families would
have nowhere to lie down. Miss Horn, with Joseph Mair, thought she did
well to be angry with Malcolm.
The blind piper had been very restless all day. Questioned again and
again by his Mistress Partan as to what was amiss with him, he had given
her odd and evasive answers. Every few minutes he got up--even from
cleaning her lamp--to go to the shore. He had not far to go to reach
it--had but to cross the threshold, and take a few steps through the
_close_, and he was on the road that ran along the sea-front of the
village. On the one side were the cottages, scattered and huddled--on
the other, the shore and ocean, wide outstretched. He would walk
straight across the road until he felt the sand under his feet; there
stand for a few moments facing the sea, and, with nostrils distended,
breathing deep breaths of the air from the north-east, then turn and
walk back to Meg Partan's kitchen and resume his ministration of light.
These his sallies were so frequent, and his absences so short, that a
more serene temper than hers might have been fretted by them. But there
was something about his look and behavior that, while it perplexed,
restrained her, and instead of breaking out upon him she eyed him
curiously. She had found that it would not do to stare at him. The
moment she began to do so he began to fidget, and turned his back to
her. It had made her lose her temper for a moment, and declare aloud as
her conviction that he was after all an impostor, and saw as well as any
of them.
"She has told you so, Mistress Partan, one hundred thousand times,"
replied Duncan with an odd smile; "and perhaps she will pe see a little
petter as any of you, no matter."
Thereupon she murmured to herself, "The cratur' 'ill be seein'
something!" and with mingled awe and curiosity sought to lay some
restraint upon her unwelcome observation of him.
Thus it went on the whole day, and as the evening approached he grew
still more excited. The sun went down and the twilight began, and as the
twilight deepened still his excitement grew. Straightway it seemed as if
the whole Seaton had come to share in it. Men and women were all out of
doors; and, late as it was when the sun set, to judge by the number of
bare legs and feet that trotted in and out with a little red flash, with
a dull patter-pat on earthen floor and hard road, and a scratching and
hustling among the pebbles, there could not have been one older than a
baby in bed; while of the babies even not a few were awake in their
mothers' arms, and out with them on the sea-front, where the men, with
their hands in their trouser-pockets, were lazily smoking pigtail in
short clay pipes with tin covers fastened to the stems by little chains,
and some of the women, in short blue petticoats and worsted stockings,
were doing the same. Some stood in their doors, talking with neighbors
standing in their doors, but these were mostly the elder women: the
younger ones--all but Lizzy Findlay--were out in the road. One man half
leaned, half sat on the window-sill of Duncan's former abode, and round
him were two or three more, and some women, talking about Scaurnose, and
the factor, and what the lads there would do to-morrow; while the hush
of the sea on the pebbles mingled with their talk like an unknown tongue
of the Infinite--never articulating, only suggesting--uttering in song
and not in speech--dealing not with thoughts, but with feelings and
foretastes. No one listened: what to them was the Infinite, with
Scaurnose in the near distance? It was now almost as dark as it would be
throughout the night if it kept clear.
Once more there was Duncan, standing as if looking out to sea, and
shading his brows with his hand as if to protect his eyes from the glare
of the sun and enable his sight.
"There's the auld piper again!" said one of the group, a young woman.
"He's unco fule-like to be stan'in' that gait (_way_), makin' as gien he
cudna weel see for the sun in 's een."
"Haud ye yer tongue, lass," rejoined an elderly woman beside her.
"There's mair things nor ye ken, as the Beuk says. There's een 'at can
see an' een 'at canna, an' een 'at can see twise ower, an' een 'at can
see steikit what nane can see open."
"Ta poat! ta poat of my chief!" cried the seer. "She is coming like a
tream of ta night, put one tat will not tepart with ta morning!" He
spoke as one suppressing a wild joy.
"Wha'll that be, lucky-deddy?" inquired in a respectful voice the woman
who had last spoken, while all within hearing hushed each other and
stood in silence. And all the time the ghost of the day was creeping
round from west to east, to put on its resurrection body and rise new
born. It gleamed faint like a cold ashy fire in the north.
"And who will it pe than her own son, Mistress Reekie?" answered the
piper, calling her by her husband's nickname, as was usual, but, as was
his sole wont, prefixing the title of respect where custom would have
employed but her Christian name. "Who'll should it pe put her own
Malcolm?" he went on. "I see his poat come round ta Tead Head. She flits
over the water like a pale ghost over Morven. But it's ta young and ta
strong she is pringing home to Tuncan.--O m'anam, beannuich!"
Involuntarily, all eyes turned toward the point called the Death's Head,
which bounded the bay on the east.
"It's ower dark to see onything," said the man on the window-sill.
"There's a bit haar (_fog_) come up."
"Yes," said Duncan, "it'll pe too tark for you who haf cot no eyes only
to speak of. Put you'll wait a few, and you'll pe seeing as well as
herself.--Och, her poy! her poy! O m'anam! Ta Lort pe praised! and
she'll tie in peace, for he'll pe only ta one-half of him a Cam'ell, and
he'll pe safed at last, as sure as there's a heafen to co to and a hell
to co from. For ta half tat's not a Cam'ell must be ta strong half, and
it will trag ta other half into heafen--where it will not pe ta welcome
howefer."
As if to get rid of the unpleasant thought that his Malcolm could not
enter heaven without taking half a Campbell with him, he turned from the
sea and hurried into the house, but only to catch up his pipes and
hasten out again, filling the bag as he went. Arrived once more on the
verge of the sand, he stood again facing the north-east, and began to
blow a pibroch loud and clear.
Meantime, the Partan had joined the same group, and they were talking in
a low tone about the piper's claim to the second-sight--for although all
were more or less inclined to put faith in Duncan, there was here no
such unquestioning belief in the marvel as would have been found on the
west coast in every glen from the Mull of Cantyre to Loch Eribol--when
suddenly Meg Partan, almost the only one hitherto remaining in the
house, appeared rushing from the close. "Hech, sirs!" she cried,
addressing the Seaton in general, "gien the auld man be in the richt--"
"She'll pe aal in ta right, Mistress Partan, and tat you'll pe seeing,"
said Duncan, who, hearing her first cry, had stopped his drone and
played softly, listening.
But Meg went on without heeding him any more than was implied in the
repetition of her exordium: "Gien the auld man be i' the richt, it 'll
be the marchioness hersel', 'at's h'ard o' the ill-duin's o' her factor,
an' 's comin' to see efter her fowk. An' it 'll be Ma'colm's duin'; an'
that 'll be seen. But the bonny laad winna ken the state o' the herbor,
an' he'll be makin' for the moo' o' 't, an' he'll jist rin 's bonny
boatie agrun' 'atween the twa piers; an' that 'll no be a richt
hame-comin' for the leddy o' the lan'; an' what's mair, Ma'colm 'ill get
the wyte (_blame_) o' 't; an' that 'll be seen. Sae ye maun, some o' ye,
to the pier-heid, an' luik oot to gie them warnin'."
Her own husband was the first to start, proud of the foresight of his
wife. "Haith, Meg!" he cried, "ye're maist as guid at the lang sicht as
the piper himsel'!"
Several followed him, and as they ran Meg cried after them, giving her
orders as if she had been vice-admiral of the red, in a voice shrill
enough to pierce the worst gale that ever blew on northern shore, "Ye'll
jist tell the bonnie laad to haud wast a bit an' rin her ashore, an'
we'll a' be there, an' hae her as dry's Noah's ark in a jiffie. Tell her
leddyship we'll cairry the boat an' her intil't to the tap o' the Boar's
Tail gien she'll gie's her orders.--Winna we, laads?"
"We can but try," said one. "But the Fisky 'ill be waur to get a grip o'
nor Nancy here," he added, turning suddenly upon the plumpest girl in
the place, who stood next him. But she foiled him of the kiss he had
thought to snatch, and turned the laugh from herself upon him, so
cleverly avoiding his clutch that he staggered into the road and nearly
fell upon his nose.
By the time the Partan and his companions reached the pier-head
something was dawning in the vague of sea and sky that might be a sloop,
and standing for the harbor. Thereupon the Partan and Jamie Ladle jumped
into a small boat and pulled out. Dubs, who had come from Scaurnose on
the business of the conjuration, had stepped into the stern, not to
steer, but to show a white ensign--somebody's Sunday shirt he had
gathered as they ran from a furze-bush, where it hung to dry, between
the Seaton and the harbor.
"Hoots! ye'll affront the marchioness," objected the Partan.
"Man, i' the gloamin' she'll no ken't frae buntin'," said Dubs, and at
once displayed it, holding it by the two sleeves. The wind had now
fallen to the softest breath, and the little vessel came on slowly. The
men rowed hard, shouting and waving their flag, and soon heard a hail
which none of them could mistake for other than Malcolm's. In a few
minutes they were on board, greeting their old friend with jubilation,
but talking in a subdued tone, for they knew by Malcolm's that the
cutter bore their lady. Briefly the Partan communicated the state of the
harbor, and recommended porting his helm and running the Fisky ashore
about opposite the brass swivel. "A' the men an' women i' the Seaton,"
he said, "'ill be there to haul her up."
Malcolm took the helm, gave his orders and steered farther westward.
By this time the people on shore had caught sight of the cutter. They
saw her come stealing out of the thin dark like a thought half thought,
and go gliding along the shore like a sea-ghost over the dusky water,
faint, uncertain, noiseless, glimmering. It could be no other than the
Fisky! Both their lady and their friend Malcolm must be on board, they
were certain, for how could the one of them come without the other? and
doubtless the marchioness--whom they all remembered as a good-humored,
handsome girl, ready to speak to any and everybody--would immediately
deliver them from the hateful red-nosed ogre, her factor. Out at once
they all set along the shore to greet her arrival, each running
regardless of the rest, so that from the Seaton to the middle of the
Boar's Tail there was a long, straggling, broken string of hurrying
fisher-folk, men and women, old and young, followed by all the current
children, tapering to one or two toddlers, who felt themselves neglected
and wept their way along. The piper, too asthmatic to run, but not too
asthmatic to walk and play his bagpipes, delighting the heart of
Malcolm, who could not mistake the style, believed he brought up the
rear, but was mistaken; for the very last came Mrs. Findlay and Lizzy,
carrying between them their little deal kitchen-table for her ladyship
to step out of the boat upon, and Lizzy's child fast asleep on the top
of it.
The foremost ran and ran until they saw that the Fisky had chosen her
lair, and was turning her bows to the shore, when they stopped and
stood ready with greased planks and ropes to draw her up. In a few
minutes the whole population was gathered, darkening, in the June
midnight, the yellow sands between the tide and the dune. The Psyche was
well manned now with a crew of six. On she came under full sail till
within a few yards of the beach, when in one and the same moment every
sheet was let go, and she swept softly up like a summer wave, and lay
still on the shore. The butterfly was asleep. But ere she came to rest,
the instant indeed that her canvas went fluttering away, thirty strong
men had rushed into the water and laid hold of the now wingless Psyche.
In a few minutes she was high and dry.
Malcolm leaped on the sand just as the Partaness came bustling up with
her kitchen-table between her two hands like a tray. She set it down,
and across it shook hands with him violently: then caught it up again,
and deposited it firm on its four legs beneath the cutter's waist. "Noo,
my leddy," said Meg, looking up at the marchioness, "set ye yer bit fut
upo' my table, an' we'll think the mair o' 't efter whan we tak oor
denner aff o' 't."
Florimel thanked her, stepped lightly upon it, and sprang to the sand,
where she was received with words of welcome from many, and shouts which
rendered them inaudible from the rest. The men, their bonnets in their
hands, and the women curtseying, made a lane for her to pass through,
while the young fellows would gladly have begged leave to carry her
could they have extemporized any suitable sort of palanquin or triumphal
litter.
Followed by Malcolm, she led the way over the Boar's Tail--nor would
accept any help in climbing it--straight for the tunnel: Malcolm had
never laid aside the key his father had given him to the private doors
while he was yet a servant. They crossed by the embrasure of the brass
swivel. That implement had now long been silent, but they had not gone
many paces from the bottom of the dune when it went off with a roar. The
shouts of the people drowned the startled cry with which Florimel
turned to Malcolm, involuntarily mindful of old and for her better
times. She had not looked for such a reception, and was both flattered
and touched by it. For a brief space the spirit of her girlhood came
back. Possibly, had she then understood that hope rather than faith or
love was at the heart of their enthusiasm, that her tenants looked upon
her as their savior from the factor, and sorely needed the exercise of
her sovereignty, she might have better understood her position and her
duty toward them.
Malcolm unlocked the door of the tunnel, and she entered, followed by
Rose, who felt as if she were walking in a dream. But as he stepped in
after them he was seized from behind and clasped close in an embrace he
knew at once. "Daddy, daddy!" he said, and turning threw his arms round
the piper.
"My poy! my poy! her nain son Malcolm!" said the old man in a whisper of
intense satisfaction and suppression. "You'll must pe forgifing her for
coming pack to you. She cannot help lofing you, and you must forget tat
you are a Cam'ell."
Malcolm kissed his cheek, and said, also in a whisper, "My ain daddy! I
hae a heap to tell ye, but I maun see my leddy hame first."
"Co, co, this moment co!" cried the old man, pushing him away. "To your
tuties to my leddyship first, and then come to her old daddy."
"I'll be wi' ye in half an hoor or less."
"Coot poy! coot poy! Come to Mistress Partan's."
"Ay, ay, daddy!" said Malcolm, and hurried through the tunnel.
As Florimel approached the ancient dwelling of her race, now her own to
do with as she would, her pleasure grew. Whether it was the twilight or
the breach in dulling custom, everything looked strange, the grounds
wider, the trees larger, the house grander and more anciently venerable.
And all the way the burn sang in the hollow. The spirit of her father
seemed to hover about the place, and while the thought that her
father's voice would not greet her when she entered the hall cast a
solemn funereal state over her simple return, her heart yet swelled with
satisfaction and far-derived pride. All this was hers to do with as she
would, to confer as she pleased! No thought of her tenants, fishers or
farmers, who did their strong part in supporting the ancient dignity of
her house, had even an associated share in the bliss of the moment. She
had forgotten her reception already, or regarded it only as the natural
homage to such a position and power as hers. As to owing anything in
return, the idea had indeed been presented to her when with Clementina
and Malcolm she talked over _St. Ronan's Well_, but it had never entered
her mind.
The drawing-room and the hall were lighted. Mrs. Courthope was at the
door, as if she expected her, and Florimel was careful to take
everything as a matter of course.
"When will your ladyship please to want me?" asked Malcolm.
"At the usual hour, Malcolm," she answered.
He turned and ran to the Seaton.
His first business was the accommodation of Travers and Davy, but he
found them already housed at the Salmon, with Jamie Ladle teaching
Travers to drink toddy. They had left the Psyche snug: she was high
above high-water mark, and there were no tramps about: they had furled
her sails, locked the companion-door and left her.
Mrs. Findlay rejoiced over Malcolm as if he had been her own son from a
far country, but the poor piper, between politeness and gratitude on the
one hand and the urging of his heart on the other, was sorely tried by
her loquacity: he could hardly get in a word. Malcolm perceived his
suffering, and as soon as seemed prudent proposed that he should walk
with him to Miss Horn's, where he was going to sleep, he said, that
night. Mrs. Partan snuffed, but held her peace. For the third or fourth
time that day, wonderful to tell, she restrained herself!
As soon as they were out of the house Malcolm assured Duncan, to the
old man's great satisfaction, that, had he not found him there, he would
within another month have set out to roam Scotland in search of him.
Miss Horn had heard of their arrival, and was wandering about the house,
unable even to sit down until she saw the marquis. To herself she always
called him the marquis: to his face he was always Ma'colm. If he had not
come she declared she could not have gone to bed; yet she received him
with an edge to her welcome: he had to answer for his behavior. They sat
down, and Duncan told a long sad story; which finished, with the toddy
that had sustained him during the telling, the old man thought it
better, for fear of annoying his Mistress Partan, to go home. As it was
past one o'clock, they both agreed.
"And if she'll tie to-night, my poy," said Duncan, "she'll pe lie awake
in her crave all ta long tarkness to pe waiting to hear ta voice of your
worrts in ta morning. And nefer you mind, Malcolm, she'll has learned to
forgive you for peing only ta one-half of yourself a cursed Cam'ell."
Miss Horn gave Malcolm a wink, as much as to say, "Let the old man talk:
it will hurt no Campbell;" and showed him out with much attention.
And then at last Malcolm poured out his whole story, and his heart with
it, to Miss Horn, who heard and received it with understanding, and a
sympathy which grew ever as she listened. At length she declared herself
perfectly satisfied, for not only had he done his best, but she did not
see what else he could have done. She hoped, however, that now he would
contrive to get this part over as quickly as possible, for which in the
morning she would show him cogent reasons.
"I hae no feelin's mysel', as ye weel ken, Ma'colm," she remarked in
conclusion, "an' I doobt, gien I had been i' your place, I wad na hae
luikit ta a' sides o' the thing at ance, as ye hae dune. An' it was a
man like you 'at sae near lost yer life for the hizzy!" she exclaimed.
"I maunna think aboot it, or I winna sleep a wink. But we maun get that
deevil Catanach (an' cat eneuch!) hangt.--Weel, my man, ye may haud up
yer heid afore the father o' ye, for ye're the first o' the race, I'm
thinkin', 'at ever was near han' deein' for anither. But mak ye a speedy
en' till 't noo, laad, an' fa' to the lave o' yer wark. There's a
terrible heap to be dune. But I maun haud my tongue the nicht, for I wad
fain ye had a guid sleep; an' I'm needin' ane sair mysel', for I'm no
sae yoong as I ance was; an' I hae been that anxious aboot ye, Ma'colm,
'at though I never hed ony feelin's, yet, noo 'at it's a' gaein' richt,
an' ye're a' richt, an' like to be richt for evermair, my heid's jist
like to split. Gang yer wa's to yer bed, and soon' may ye sleep! It's
the bed yer bonny mither got a soon' sleep in at last, an' muckle was
she i' need o' 't! An' jist tak tent the morn what ye say whan Jean's i'
the room, or maybe o' the ither side o' the door, for she's no mowse. I
dinna ken what gars me keep the jaud. I believe 'at gien the verra
deevil himsel' had been wi' me sae lang, I wadna hae the hert to turn
him aboot his ill business. That's what comes o' haein' no feelin's.
Ither fowk wad hae gotten rid o' her half a score o' years sin' syne."