It rushed upon me a' o' a sudden. My claes like tinder; the bed o' dry
leaves; my shrivelled boots; the bacca in powder. There, in that cave
o' the cliff I'd slept in a trance, with ne'er a dream to know o', an'
the world had gone round while I stoppit still. There was a soun' o'
talking an' laugh in' at the kirk door, an' then a shout, as a band o'
fishermen came out, all in their best rig; an' then a shoal of pretty
lassies, an' then my uncle Ivan, an' Mistress Miller--(Old Donald was
deed, then, I thought); and then the bailie an' my Aunt Tibbie; and,
after all, Rab an' Maggie--he looking a grand, noble man, for he was no
longer a boy; but wi' his father's strength, and Aunt Tibbie's soft,
tender smile; an' she--Maggie, I mean--older an' paler; but wi' a light
in her een, an' a lovin' look upon her face, that made me forget mysel'
in joy to think how they had come together at last, whatever might have
happened in the ten years.
But what would happen if I should be seen by the bailie, starin' there
at the church porch, in my rags and unkempt hair an' beard--I, that had
perhaps been sought for, and might be suspectit?--Ah! that was
dreadfu'!--suspectit o' murder! for where was Rory Smith?--and who could
tell the true tale but me?
I might be recognised in a minute; for how did I know whether I was
altered?--and I could remember half the men who were there shouting, and
half the women claverin' in the kirkyard. I crept away.
The best thing I could do was to make off down to the fisher village on
the beach; for everybody had come up to the wedding, and I could gain my
uncle's house without meeting any one that I knew. So crammin' what was
left of my bacca into my pipe, I turned down a lane, and could see the
man and woman that I'd spoken to stopping to look after me.
I was wrong in the thinking that I should reach my uncle's house
unknown. At all events, I was known after I'd entered the house, though
there was naebody there. The first thing I did was to stir up the
embers o' the fire, for I was chilled, though it was a warm summer's
day; then I cut a slice from the loaf, and took a mug o' milk from the
pan; an' then went to the ben, to see after washing myself, and go on to
my ain auld room, to look what had come o' my claes.
The room was altered, but the chest was there; and though my _men's_
claes had gone, some of my _boy's_ claes were there; an' even some of
them that I wore as a child, when Aunt Tibbie made me a new suit. I was
thocht to be dead, then, but wasna' forgotten.
If a mon can cry, it does him a world o' good at times--that is, if he
doesna' cry much nor often. I cried, and it did me good. Then I went
up to the little bit o' broken glass that was nailed to the wa' to speer
what like I was. My hair had began to whiten--bleached, maybe, by the
sea air. I had a strange, wild look, for hair and beard had grown all
tangled, and my face was grey instead of red-brown, as it once was.
Would my uncle know me?
When I went down again to eat some more bread, and to look for a little
whisky to put wi' the milk, there was a man's face peerin' through the
window; and before I could stir, the door-latch clicked, and in walked
my uncle Ivan. I had started to my feet, and my uncle strode in, with
his hand uplifted, as if to strike me.