All about Slievochan, there was no lassie like Maggie Miller. Her
father was a kind o' overlooker to the Laird o' Taggart, and so was
reckoned weel-to-do. He was an elder o' the kirk, too, mind ye, and had
a farm o' his ain--or what was called a farm, though it was no mair than
might be a sma' holding, with a kye or twa, and fowls and live-stock,
and a bit o' pasture, and eneugh to butter the bannocks and give a
flavour to the parritch; so that he was called a weel-to-do man. I
doubt if any of ye know Slievochan; and it's no deal likely ye would,
for it's but a by-place where, down to the village, a few fisher-bodies
live; and up beyant the hills an' the cliff is the sma' farmers and the
laird's folk, with just the kirk an' the bit shops, and beyond that the
kirk itself, weel out o' sight o' the little whusky shop; and beyant the
widow Gillespie's "Herrin' Boat Inn," where our fishers go at times,
when they ha'e drunk out the ale at their own place, "The Coil," or,
maybe, tasted a runnel o' hollands or brandy, that has no paid the
exciseman, or got the King's mark upo' it.
For there's strange ways amang the fisherfolk? and between them and the
village is a wide difference; though you'll mind that some o' the bodies
wi' a boat o' their ain and a cottage that's as well keepit as they that
was built by the laird himsel'--and perhaps a store o' claes and linen,
and household goods, and a bit o' siller put by at interest--may hold up
their heads even wi' men like Donald Miller, or may speer a word to the
minister, or even ask him to taste a glass of _eau-de-vie_, when he gaes
doon for pastoral veesitation. But, hoot! I'm clavering o' the old
place as it was above fifty years ago, when I was workin' wi' my uncle,
Ivan Dhu, and my Aunt Tibby sat at the door, knit, knit, knitting, as
she watched for our comin' hame, and went in to make the parritch or
skim the sheep's-head broth, directly the jib o' the _Robert Bruce_
cocked over the ridge, and came tackin' round the Ness o' Slievochan,
with uncle and me looking to the tackle and the gear, and my braw young
cousin Rab at the tiller, wi' his bonnie fair face an' clustering curls,
all blowing in the breeze that lifted us out o' the surf, and sent us in
with a whistle an' a swirl, till the keel was ready to grate upon the
beach. Rab was only eighteen, and we were great friends--though I was
an orphan bairn, and Uncle Ivan had taken me and brought me up--so that
his boy might have been jealous, but there was no jealousy in him.
Uncle was a bachelor when I first went to him, a little raw lad, from
Inverness, and I'd learnt to manage a boat and do fisherman's work
before Rab came, so that I grew to be a strapping lad, and was able to
teach him in his turn. We loved each other weel, Rab and I; and quiet
Auntie Tibbie used to sit knitting, and watch us both with a smile; and
silent Uncle Ivan, with his great limbs, and dark face, and black
locks--though he gave me to know that Rab would have the boat one day,
if not a bigger one or two--would grip my hand and say, "Stick to the
laddie, if aught suld happen, Sandy; for if ye're no my son, ye're next
to him, and not much further frae my heart."
Weel--but about Maggie Miller! Her father, you observe, was a man o'
some substance, and one trusted by the laird; so that the minister, and
the bailie o' the nearest town, an' Mrs Gillespie, an' the farmers all,
ca'd him Mister; and my Uncle Ivan, who had his pounds away in the bank,
ca'd him Mister, too, and would send me or Rab up with a creel o' fish
when we had a fine take, now and then; so that we were on a footing of
visitors; and Maggie would stand and laugh and talk with me, and would
gie Rab a blink, and a rose-blush, and a smile that made us all laugh
taegither, till I used to wonder why it was that I wasn't one of
Maggie's lovers--of which she had three already, not counting Rab, who
was two years younger than she, and, of course, was lookin' at her as a
boy of eighteen always looks at a girl of twenty, too shy to speak, and
too much in love to keep silent, and so talking to anybody who'll listen
to him, which in Rab's case was me.
It wasn't much in my mind that the boy loved her, but someway I'd got
used to thinking of him and her at the same time; and many a time I've
brought her home some trifle that I got from one of the coastmen--when
they brought in a runlet or two of spirits, or lace, and tabacker--some
French gewgaw or a handkerchief; and a good deal of my spare money went
that way, for Uncle Ivan kept us pretty short of spending. It was like
giving it to Rab, I thought; but yet I noticed once or twice that the
boy looked serious when I showed him anything to give to Maggie, though
I often asked him if he'd give it to her himself.
Maybe I'd ha' been less easy if there had seemed to me more than a lad's
liking and a lassie's pleasure, that meant little of lasting; for there
were two men, if not three, hankering about Donald Miller's house such
times as they could make excuse to gae there, an' one o' them made
believe often enough, for he was head keeper to the laird on some
shootin's that lay an hour's stout walking from Slievaloch; an' now it
was a couple o' rabbits for Mistress Miller, or a word or twa with
Donald about the bit cover for game beyond the big house; but a' the
time he sat an' smoked his tabacker, or took a sup o' parritch or
sowans, or a dish o' herrin', he'd have an eye to Maggie. An evil eye
it was, too, for he was a lowerin' carl, and 'twas said that he was more
poacher than keeper; while some folk (and I was one) knew well that
there was anither business brought him round toward Slievaloch. I shame
to say it, but at that time--ye ken I speak of nigh sixty year ago--
there was a smoke to be seen coming out frae a neuk i' the hills at a
wild place where there seemed to be naething but granite and bracken,
and a shanty or two, for shelter to the men quarrying the granite. But
it wasna frae the huts that the smoke rose. A good two mile awa' there
was a stone cottie, more like a cave, as though it had been burrowed out
by wind and water, and got closed in wi' boulders o' rock, and covered
with earth and broom, so that naebody could see how it led by a hole i'
the prong o' the hill to just sic anither hut, and neither of the twa to
be seen, except by goin' o'er the hill-side. In this second one there
was a fire smoulderin' under a furnace, and a' the place dark and smoky,
and fu' o' the reek o' sma'-still whisky, that had nae paid the king's
duty; an' on a cowhide i' the corner crouched auld Birnie, as blear and
withered as a dried haddie, waitin' for his wife to come trudgin' back
wi' silver shillin's and the empty leather bottle of twa gallons that
she'd carried out full i' the mornin', under her lang, patched cloak, or
hid awa' in the loose kindlin' wood at the bottom o' the ricketin' cart.
It was suspected that Rory Smith, the keeper, was in league wi' auld
Birnie in this sma' still, and that both he an' the o'erseer o' the
quarrymen--a Welsh body o' the name o' Preece--knew weel enough what
went wi' the whisky. The two men were as unlike as a raven and an owl;
Smith bein' suspectit of half gipsy blood--though few men daur say so to
his face, for he'd a heavy hand an' a look in his face that boded
mischief--while Preece was a slow, heavy-eyed, quiet body, short an'
square-built, and wi' a still tongue an' decent, careful ways, that yet
kept his rough men in order, and got him speech of the tradefolk at the
village where he lodged such times as he wasna' up at the quarry.
These were the twa that went each in his own fashion to visit Donald
Miller, and to cast an eye on Maggie; but neither o' them could boast of
much encouragement, least of all the keeper, who saw that the lassie
shrank from him, and would hae no word to say when he tried to win her
wi' owches, an' fairin's, an' even costlier gifs frae Edinbro' itsel',
which she refused, sayin' he maun keep them till he foun' a lassie o'
his ain. Preece thought it mare prudent to wait till Smith was out o'
the way; an' both of them, as I foun' out after long years, were jealous
o' me for seemin' to find mair favour wi' Maggie, an' carryin' her the
little presents that I told ye of, though never a word o' love-making
passed my lips; and perhaps baith o' us thought more o' my cousin Rab
than o' each other, though had it nae been for Rab, mind ye, I'll no say
that there'd been so clear a stage for the other twa if Maggie had been
as winsome when I went to pay my respects to her parents, and laughed
wi' her at the door.
Weel, it was just on one o' the occasions when I was on my way to the
house, one evening in the airly summer, carrying with me a gaudy
necklace o' shining beads that I'd bought of a packman at Farmer Nicol's
shearin', whaur I'd been the day before. I'd shown the toy to my
step-mother, and uncle, and to Rab too, and had asked him to take it to
Maggie himsel'; but he put me off, sayin' that he'd rather not be amang
them that was gi'en and gi'en sma' things, for he'd gied her the best o'
himsel' a'reedy. It was, maybe, to ponder over these words that I took
the way up the steep bye-path that led up the beach, an' so zig-zag
along the cliff's edge. There was a sort o' neuk beside a turn o' this
path, where was a big stane, that one might sit upon, and so lose sight
o' everything but the distant sea an' the beach below, to which the
rocks shelved down, rugged an' bare in places, an' in others wi' a toss
an' tangle o' weed and brushwood, where there was a hollow in the face
of the cliff.
There I sat, an' sat, and felt all strange an' drowsy, dreamin' about
Rab an' Maggie, but not rightly thinking o' anything; but holding in my
hand the bauble that I had taken out o' my pocket to look at. Night was
comin' down quick out at sea, and the mist was creepin' over the hills,
when I heard a man's footstep on the path, and stood up to see who came.
No need to look twice; 'twas Rory Smith, the keeper, trampling quick and
heavy, and with a heavy cudgel in his clenched hands--a murderous look
in his eyes.
He turned upon me, clutching his stick.
"Whaur are ye goin'?" he said, "and who's that for?" pointin' to the
necklace that hung on my fingers.
"I'm no here to answer questions," answered I; "but ye can know for a'
that, or ye can turn back, and see for yoursel'."
"Go, if ye daur!" he shrieked; "for it shall be but one o' us, if ye'll
no turn about the way I'm walkin'. It's through you, is it, that Maggie
flouts me, an' throws back my gifts, that are o' mair cost than ye can
earn, ye loupin' beggar?"
"Hand off!" I shouted; "or I'll no answer for mysel'," for he was
pressin' on, an' there was no room for a struggle between the rock an'
the road's edge. "Haud off, or not one, but baith, may make a turn too
many."
"Gie me that trash," he said, making a snatch toward the necklace. "Gie
it me, and go no more to Maggie's house--you nor your baby cousin Rab.
Gie it me, I say!"
He was upon me before I could answer him, mad wi' passion and wi'
whisky, and dealt me a heavy blow upon the head; but I was quicker and
stronger than he, and, before he could repeat it, had him by wrist and
shoulder. As I've said, 'twas no place to wrestle in, and when we both
came to grips, we had but one scuffle, and then our footing was gone,
and I lost him and myself, too--lost sense, and hearing, and a' things.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sun was high in the sky, when I came to myself--shining like a
golden shield over the blue sea, and the wavin' grass and heather; and I
could just see the ripple o' the waves and the fleece o' white clouds
far away, but naething else.
It was a while before I could do that, for I seemed to be covered wi'
dried grass and leaves above my chin as I lay there in a deep cleft in
the cliff side, mid a tangle of stalks an' roots, and dry driftsand,
that had got into my claes, and tilled my ears and eyes. I was like a
man paralysed, too; and had to move an inch at a time, till I could rub,
first my arms, an' then, when I had got upon one elbow, give my legs a
turn, and then my back. The first thing I did was to feel if the
necklace was on my wrist still; but it had gone; dropped off and lost in
the scuffle. Next I crawled to the edge of the hole, and peered down
the cliff side, and all round, as far as I could see, to look for the
body of Rory Smith, living or dead.
I could not tell how he had fallen; but unless he had clutched at the
long weed, or reached a cliff lower down, he'd hardly be alive after a
whole night; for, had he fallen on the beach, and been disabled, his
body was now under the water, above which the sea-birds wheeled and
piped in the bright morning air.
Perhaps he had cried out, and help had come, while I lay senseless.
However it was, I must get to the village and see what could be done.
The quickest way was to climb up to the path again, and so get toward
the long street o' Slievochan, nearer than going back to find uncle an'
Rab, who'd most likely be at Donald Miller's to look for me.
It was strange to think that I should have been fightin' for Maggie, an'
all the time was the only one that made no claim to be her lover. I
began to wonder whether, after all, the lassie might have understood me
different, and had been waitin' for me to speak out, preferrin' me to
Rab even, and wonderin' why I had his name always foremost. The thought
wasna' a good one, for I felt a kind of sudden fancy to win the girl,
even though I couldna say I loved her; indeed, I'd thought of her only
as a winsome child; and, lately, had never spoke of her to Rab, except
wi' caution, for I could see that the puir laddie was sair in airnest.
Somehow, the thought o' my bein' Maggie's lover, though I put it frae
me, caused me for a moment to wonder what she'd say to me if she saw me
all dusty, and with torn clothes and grimy face. This made me look at
my clothes, and, wi' a sort o' wonder, I found that my pilot coat had
got all brown at the back, where I lay upon it, and broke as though it
had been scorched. My shoes, too, were all dry and stiff; and as I
began to climb the cliff, very slowly an' painfully, my shirt an'
trousers gave way at knees and elbows. I sat down on the bank of the
path after I'd reached it, a'most dead with faintness an' hunger, so put
my hand in my pocket to find my pipe. It was there, sure enough, along
wi' my steel bacca-box, and there was bacca there too, an' a bit o'
flint to get a light. The bacca was dry as powder, but it eased the
gnawin' of my limbs, and I tottered on.
On to the first cottages, leading to the main street, where I meant to
go first to Mrs Gillespie's, and find some of the fishermen to search
the cliff for the keeper. As I came nearer to those cottages, I could
see that something was stirring in the village, for women an' bairns
were all out in the street, an' in their best claes; and across the
street farther away was a rope bearin' a great flag an' bunches of
heather, an' the people all about Mrs Gillespie's door, an' the by-way
leadin' toward Donald Miller's cottage, and so right up to the kirk. I
could see a' this only when I got closer; but I could na' turn up the
high street. A kind o' fear an' wonder kept me back, an' more than once
I shut my e'en, and stretchit oot my arms all round, to feel whether I
was na' dreamin' it all in the hole of the cliff side, or, maybe, in my
bunk at hame, or on the deck of the _Robert Bruce_, wi' Rab at the
tiller, an' uncle smoking forrard.
I turned up a by-way, and got near to the church itsel', where a man and
woman--strangers to me--were leanin' against the wall, talkin'. I
thought I knew everybody in the place; but these people had just come
out o' a cottage that belonged to auld Nannie Dun, and had turned the
key o' the door as though they lived there, at the sicht o' me coming
along the path.
They eyed me over, too, as I came near, and answered wi' caution, when I
asked what was goin' on the day.
"Weel, it's a weddin' in the kirk," says the wife, "an' sae lang waited
for that it's little wonder a' the toon is oot to give joy to the bonnie
bride an' groom. Ye're a stranger, and where may ye come frae?"
"Nae, nae," I said, between a laugh an' a fright. "Ae body kens me
hereabout; but where's auld Nannie, that ye've come to see to-day;
she'll know me."
The couple looked skeerit. "Auld Nannie Dun was deed an' buried six
years ago come July," said the woman. "Ye've been long away frae this
toon, I'm thinkin'."
"Frae this _village_," says I. "Slievochan's na' a toon."
"'Deed, but it is, though, since the auld laird's death, and the new
street was built, two years' ago; when Donal' Miller an' Ivan Dhu bought
the land that it stands on for a portion for son an' daughter--but there
they come."
"Just one moment," I cried, clutching the man by the arm. "Will ye
kindly tell me the day an' the year?"
"What day, mon?" says he, lookin' at me in doubt.
"This present day o' the month and the year. Is it auchteen hunnerd
saxteen?"
"Hoot, mon!" cried the fellow, gettin' away frae me. "Nae; but the
third June, auchteen hunnerd twenty-sax. Ha'e ye been asleep these ten
years?"