Vara. For though it is part of womanhood's privilege to put up with
the truantry of mankind without complaint, it is too much to expect
her to suffer gladly his praises of the Canaanitish women he may have
collogued with upon his travels.
And then Vara walked a long way silent and with her head in the air.
Hugh Boy kicked all the stones out of his path and was silent also.
Nevertheless, though in this sulky silence, they travelled steadily
on and on. Horizon after horizon broke up, spread out to either side,
streamed dispersedly past them, and recomposed itself again solidly
behind them.
"I'm awesome hungry!" at last said Boy Hugh, humbly. Vara became full
of compassion in a minute.
"And Vara has nothing to give ye!" she said; "poor Boy Hugh!"
The baby woke with a faint cry.
They had passed off the moor and were now come among inhabited houses
again. They were just passing a little cottage which stood with its end
to the road, as a little boy came out of the gate with a great bowl of
porridge and milk in his hand.
"Snap! Snap!" he cried, and looked up and down the road. A small
terrier pricked its ears briskly over a wall and then leaped down upon
the road. "Here, Snap!" cried the boy.
Snap came slowly walking down the dusty highway. He smelled at the dish
of porridge and milk. Then he sniffed loudly upon the nose of contempt.
For he had just been dining richly in the outhouse on a rat which he
had killed himself.
Vara's eyes blazed at the sight of the porridge and milk.
"O, gie that to the baby!" she cried, her eyes fairly sparkling fire.
"Gie that to wee Gavin. The dog doesna want it!"
The little boy ran back into the house, crying out at the top of his
voice, "O, mither, mither, here's a lassie wants to gie our Snap's
porridge to a babby!"
A kindly-faced, apple-cheeked country woman came to the door of the
cottage. She had been baking cakes, and she dusted the oatmeal off her
hands as she stood there.
"Can I get the dog's porridge for the bairns? He doesna want them.
'Deed he doesna!" cried Vara, beseechingly.
"Of course, lassie, ye can hae the porridge, and welcome!" said the
woman, doubtfully.
"O, thank ye, mem, thank ye!" cried Vara, pouncing instantly on the
porridge, lest the permission should be withdrawn. In a minute she
had put most of the milk into the babe's bottle and the rest into the
hands of Boy Hugh, who fell upon the porridge unceremoniously with his
fingers. Vara smiled as she looked. She was hungrier than either—but
happy.
The woman stood watching the wolfish eagerness of the younger children
at the sight of food with a strange look on her face. Her lip tightened
and her eyes grew sterner. Suddenly Vara glanced up at her with frank
blue Irish eyes, brightened by hunger and suffering. They looked
through and through the woman at the door.
"Mither," said the boy, "they're eatin' up a' our Snap's porridge, and
there will no be a drap left——"
The woman turned on him with a kind of gladness.
"Hold your tongue!" she said, with quite unnecessary vehemence. And
she slapped her son smartly for no particular reason. The tears were
running down her cheeks. She almost dragged the children into the
house. Then and there she spread such a breakfast for them as Vara
had been seeing in her dreams ever since she grew hungry. It seemed
that Gavin grew visibly plumper before her very eyes, with the milk
which he absorbed as a sponge takes up water. And there appeared to
be no finality to Boy Hugh's appetite. He could always find room for
just another scone, spread with fresh butter and overlaid with cool
apple-jelly such as Vara had never in her life partaken of.
Vara herself was almost too happy to eat. But the kind woman pressed
her and would not let her leave the table.
"But I hae naething to pay ye wi'!" said Vara, whose soul was great.
"Hoot, hear to the lassie! I wadna tak' pay frae the Queen if she caaed
in aff the road to drink a dish of tea. My man's the Netherby carrier.
But tell me what's brocht ye here, wi' sic a bairn?"
And Vara told her as much as was necessary.
"To Liverpool to find your faither," said the woman. "Ye dinna stir a
fit till the morrow's morn, and then ye can get a ride wi' our John as
far as Netherby, at ony rate."
Vara was more than grateful to her. She was the first person who had
taken their quest seriously. So the carrier's wife kept them till
night, and helped Vara to give the baby and Hugh a bath. Then she
made Vara strip herself, and shut the door upon her till the girl
had enjoyed such a tubful of warm water as she had never washed in
before. As Vara was finishing and rubbing her slender, wearied body and
blistered feet with a soft towel, the carrier's wife opened the door.
"Put on these!" she said; "they were my wee Gracie's, and I canna bear
to keep them in the house." Vara would have protested, but the woman
shut the door with a slam.
When Vara came out, Gavin was sitting on the carrier's knees and
plucking at his beard. For "our John" had come in and heard their
story. He was a wise carrier, and knew better than to attempt
to interfere with his wife's benevolences. Then what was Vara's
astonishment to find the babe also clad in a new frock, and giving
rustling evidence of fresh underclothing. She could hear Boy Hugh's
voice outside. He and Snap's master had made up the peace, and were now
out somewhere about the barn, encouraging Snap to possess himself of
another dinner of rat.
The woman's wonderful kindness went to Vara's heart.
"Ye shouldna, oh, ye shouldna!" she said, and bowing her head in
her hands, she wept as she had never done in the worst of all her
sufferings.
"Hoot! can ye no haud your tongue, lassie?" said the carrier's wife.
"So mony bairn's things were just a cumber and a thocht to me in this
hoose. Our youngest (Tam there) is ten, an' we hae dune wi' that kind
o' nonsense in this hoose. What are ye lauchin' at, guidman?" she
cried, suddenly turning on the carrier, who had been quaintly screwing
up his face.
"I wasna lauchin'," said "our John," his face suddenly falling to a
quite preternatural gravity.
"They were juist a cumber and a care," continued the carrier's wife.
"And they are better being o' some use to somebody."
"Now ye will lie down and sleep in the back room, till the guidman
starts on his round at five i' the mornin'."
So the wearied children were put to bed in the "back room," and they
fell asleep to the sound of psalm-singing. For the good carrier and his
wife were praising the Lord. It is quite a mistake to suppose that most
psalm-singers are hypocrites. Much of the good of the world is wrought
by those who, being merry of heart, sing psalms.
ADVENTURE XL.
A NEW KIND OF HERO.
Then with the morning came the new day. The bitterest blast was over
for these small pilgrims. The night's rest, the clean clothes, the
goodness of the kind carrier folk were new life to Vara. There was
brighter hope in her heart as the carrier's wife set them under the
blue hood of the light cart, for her "man" did not expect any heavy
loads that day. The children, therefore, were to ride in the covered
waggon. The good woman wept to let them go, and made Vara promise many
a time, to be sure and send her a letter. As they went away she slipped
half-a-crown into Vara's hand.
"For the baby!" she whispered, like one who makes a shamefaced excuse.
And at that moment the carrier pretended to be specially busy about his
harness.
But Hugh Boy had quarrelled again with Snap's master, and that
enterprising youth sat on the fence opposite and made faces at the
party, till his mother, turning round somewhat quickly, caught him in
the act.
"Ye ill-set hyule," said she, "wait till I get ye!"
But her firstborn did not wait. On the other hand, he betook himself
down the meadow with much alacrity. His mother's voice followed him.
"My lad, wait till bedtime. It'll dirl far waur then. 'Warm backs, guid
bairns!' I'll learn you to make faces ahint my back."
And as Snap's master went down the meadow, the parts likely to be
nocturnally affected began to burn and tingle.
And the thought of the interview she would have with her son in the
evening did something to console the carrier's wife for the loss of the
children to whom she had taken such a sudden liking.
The light cart went jingling on. The Netherby carrier whistled steadily
as he sat on the edge of his driving-board, with his feet on the shaft.
Every now and then he passed over a bag of peppermint drops to the
children.
"Hae!" he said.
The Netherby carrier was a man of few words, and this was his idea of
hospitality. Hugh Boy did not remember ever to have been so happy
in his life. Kissing was very well in its way, though Vara had not
been pleased when she heard of it. But it was nothing to sitting in
a blue-hooded cart and hearing the click and jingle of brass-mounted
harness. Now and then the carrier stopped at snug farm-houses, and
went in to chaffer with the goodwife for her eggs. Then he left the
horse in charge of Hugh Boy, and so completely won that small heart.
When the carrier came out again, the farmer's wife mostly came too,
and the bargaining and bantering were kept up as the cart receded from
the door. Even when the blue-hooded cart was far down the loaning, a
belated and forgetful goodwife would come running to some knowe-top,
and from that eminence she would proceed to give further directions for
commissions from the town.
"Mind ye buy the thread at Rob Heslop's—no at that upstart sieffer's at
the corner, wi' his wax figgurs an' his adverteesements. I dinna haud
wi' them ava'!"
For there are still uncouth and outlandish parts of the country, where
the medical axiom that it is wicked and unprofessional to advertise
holds good in practical commerce. Now the road toward England does not
run directly through Netherby, but leaves the town a little to one side
with its many spires and its warring denominations. From the outside
Netherby looks like a home of ancient peace. But for all that, there
were hardly two neighbour shopkeepers down all its long main street who
belonged to the same religious denomination—the only exceptions being
Dickson the baker and Henderson the butcher. But Henderson and Dickson
did not speak to one another, having quarrelled about the singing of
paraphrases in the Seceder kirk.
However, the poor benighted Kavannahs did not know one kirk from
another. And what is worse, indeed held almost criminal in Netherby,
they did not care.
It was here at the parting of the roads that John the carrier took his
leave of them. His farewell was not effusive.
"Weel," he said, cracking his whip three times over, while he thought
of the rest of his speech, "guid-day. Be sure and come back and see us,
as the wife bade ye. The sooner the better!"
But he put a shilling into Hugh's hand as they parted.
"For peppermints!" he said.
Vara did not know when she might come to another town on her way, so
she decided to buy a loaf in Netherby before going further. For though
they never asked for food, except when driven by hunger, as in the case
of Snap's dinner, yet since the night on the moor she had resolved to
ask for shelter if they came to any house at nightfall. So after the
carrier was gone, with many charges Vara left Hugh in care of Gavin and
went into the town to make her markets.
Hugh Boy sat a good while by the roadside, till the time began to
pass very dully. Then he became interested in the trains which kept
shunting and whistling behind him. So he carried Gavin to the side of
the railway line, where he could just see the road by which Vara would
return. He was quite sure that he could not be doing any harm. Directly
opposite there was a fascinating turn-table, upon which two men stood
with iron poles in their hands wheeling round a great engine as if it
had been a toy. This was really too much for Boy Hugh. Forgetting all
about Vara's warning, he scrambled over the wire paling, and staggered
across the netted lines in order to get a nearer view of the marvel.
But just at that moment up came the main line express twenty minutes
behind time, and the engine-driver in a bad temper. And if Muckle
Alick had not opposed the breadth of his beam to the buffer of Geordie
Grierson's engine, this tale, so far at least as two of the Kavannahs
were concerned, would have ended here. But when Muckle Alick gripped
the children in his great arms, and made that spring to the side,
the engine caught him so exactly in the right place that it did no
more than considerably accelerate his lateral motion, and project
him half-way up the bank. As has been recorded, Muckle Alick's first
exclamation (which immediately became proverbial all over the Greenock
and South-Eastern) was, "Is there aught broke, Geordie, think ye?"
They talked of getting up a testimonial to Muckle Alick. But the hero
himself strongly discouraged the notion. Indeed, he went so far as to
declare that he "wad gie the fule a ring on the lug that cam' to him
wi' ony sic a thing!" This was a somewhat unusual attitude for a hero
to assume in the circumstances. But it was quite genuine. And so well
known was the horse-power of Alick's buffet, that it would have been
easier to recruit a storming party in Netherby than a deputation to
present a "token of esteem" to the head porter at Netherby Junction.
In time, however (though this is somewhat to anticipate the tale),
there came from the Royal Humane Society a medal, together with a long
paper setting forth the noble deed of the saving of the children. No
notice of this ever appeared publicly in the local prints, to which
such things are usually a godsend.
For Alick immediately put the medal in the bottom of his trunk, beneath
his "best blacks" which he wore only twice a year at Sacraments.
He had heard that the editor of the "Netherby Chronicle and
Advertiser" had collogued with the provost of the town to bring about
this "fitting acknowledgment." Now Muckle Alick could not help the
thing itself, but he could help people in Netherby getting to hear
about it.
Muckle Alick called upon the editor of the "Chronicle." He found him
in, and engaged in the difficult task of penning an editorial which
would not alienate the most thin-skinned subscriber, but which would
yet be calculated to exasperate the editor of the opposition local
paper published in the next county.
"Maister Heron," said the head-porter, "I juist looked in to tell ye,
that there's nocht to come oot in the 'Chronicle' aboot me the morn."
"But, my dear sir," said the editor, "the item has been specially
communicated, and is already set up."
"Then it'll hae to be set doon again!" said Muckle Alick, firmly.
"Impossible, impossible, I do assure you, my dear friend," remonstrated
the editor. He was proprietor—editor and proprietor in one. Such
editors in agricultural communities are always polite to subscribers.
"But it's no onpossible. It's to be!" said Alick—"or there's no a paper
will leave the junction the morn—aye, and there'll no be a paper sell't
in this toon eyther."
It was not clear to the editor how Muckle Alick could bring about this
result.
"But," said he, tapping the desk with his pen, "my dear sir, the
stationmaster—the railway company——"
"Ow aye, I ken," said Muckle Alick, "there wad be a wark aboot it
after, nae doot. But it's the morn I'm speakin' aboot, Maister Heron.
It is possible I micht get the sack ower the head o' it—(though I'm
thinkin' no). But that wadna help your papers to sell the morn." Alick
paused to let this sink well in. Then he took his leave.
"Noo, mind, I'm tellin' ye. Guid day, Yedditur!"
That afternoon Alick presided at a gathering of the amalgamated paper
boys of the town, being accredited representatives of all the various
newsagents. The proceedings were private, and as soon as strangers were
observed, the house was counted out (and stones thrown at them). But
the general tenor of the resolutions passed may be gathered from the
fact that when Mr. Heron heard of it, he ordered the junior reporter to
"slate a novel" just come in—a novel by an eminent hand. "It's to make
three quarters of a column, less two lines," he said.
So that we know from this, the length of the suppressed article on the
presentation of a medal of the Royal Humane Society to "our noble and
esteemed townsman, Mr. Alexander Douglas." The "Netherby Chronicle
and Advertiser" enjoyed its normal circulation next day. And, after
Muckle Alick had carefully searched every column of the paper, the
parcels were forwarded from the junction with the usual promptitude and
despatch.
But this is telling our tale "withershins about," as they say in
Netherby. We return to Vara and her bairns.
ADVENTURE XLI.
"TWA LADDIES—AND A LASSIE."
Muckle Alick trotted the children soberly down the street, and at the
foot he turned his long lumbering stride up a country road. For Alick
had a little wife who was an expert market-gardener and beekeeper.
Her name was Mirren, and her size, as reported by her husband, was
"near-aboots as big as twa scrubbers." It was for her sake and because
he could not help himself, that Muckle Alick lived so far from his work.
"D'ye think that because I hae to put up wi' a great hulk like you,
comin' hame at nicht smellin' o' cinders and lamp oil, that I'm gaun
to leeve in a hut amang the coal waggons? Na, certes, gin ye want to
hae Mirren Terregles to keep ye snug, ye maun e'en walk a mile or twa
extra in the day. And it will be the better for keepin' doon that great
muckle corporation o' yours!"
And that is the way that Muckle Alick Douglas lived out at Sandyknowes.
It was to his small garden-girt house that he took the children.
"What's this ye hae fetched hame in your hand the nicht?" cried the
little wife sharply, as she saw her husband come up the loaning. "It's
no ilka wife that wad be pleased to hae a grown family brocht in on her
like this!"
"Hoot, Mirren woman!" was all that Muckle Alick said, as he pushed Vara
and Hugh in before him, Gavin nestling cosily in his arms the while.
"Whaur gat ye them, Alick?" said Mirren, going forward to look at the
bairn in his arms. "They are bonny weans and no that ill put on."
Little Gavin was so content in the arms of Muckle Alick that he smiled.
And his sweetness of expression struggling through the pinched look of
hunger went right to the heart of Mirren, who, having no bairns of her
own—"so far," as Muckle Alick remarked cautiously—had so much the more
love for other people's. She turned on Vara, who stood looking on and
smiling also. The little woman was almost fierce.
"What has been done to this bairn that he has never grown?" said Mirren
Douglas, wife of Muckle Alick.
Vara flushed in her slow still way, at the imputation that she had not
taken good care enough of her Gavin—to pleasure whom she would have
given her life.
"I did the best I could," she said, "whiles we had to sleep oot a'
nicht, an' whiles I had nae milk to gie him."
"Lassie! lassie!" cried Mirren Douglas, "what is this ye are tellin'
me?"
"The truth," said Vara Kavannah, quietly; "Gavin and Boy Hugh and me
hae walked a' the road frae Edinburgh. We hae sleepit in the hills,
and——"
"But how cam' the bairn here?" asked Muckle Alick's fiercely tender
little wife; "tell me quick!"
"I hae carried Gavin a' the road!" said Vara, simply.
"You, lassie!" cried Mirren, looking at the slip of pale girlhood
before her, "it's juist fair unpossible!"
"But I did carry him. He's no that heavy when ye get the shawl weel
set."
"O lassie, lassie, ye juist mak' me fair shamed," cried Mistress
Douglas. "Alick, ye muckle bullock; what for are ye standin' there like
a cuif? Gang ower to Mistress Fraser's and ask the lend o' her cradle.
Thae bairns are gaun to bide——"
"But, wife, hae ye considered?" Alick began.
"Considered, my fit, did ye no hear me? Dinna stand hingin' there,
balancin' on your soles like a show elephant lookin' aboot for
cookies—gang, will ye!"
The little wife stamped her foot and made a threatening demonstration.
Whereupon Muckle Alick betook himself over the way to Mistress
Fraser's, and he never smiled till he got past the gate of the front
garden, in which Mirren kept her old-fashioned flowers.
"I thocht that's what it wad come to," said Alick to himself, "when
she saw the bairns. I wonder if she means to keep haud o' them a'
thegither? She's been wearing her heart on the flooers a lang while,
puir lassie. It wad be a farce if three bairns cam' hame at once to
Sandyknowes after sae lang withoot ony, twa o' them walkin' cantily on
their ain feet!"
Thus Alick mused, laughing a little to himself as he went over to
borrow Mistress Fraser's cradle. He had an idea.
"There'll be some amusement at ony rate," he said, "but I maunna be
ower keen. Na, and I maun haud back an' make difficulties. And then the
wife will tak' the ither side and be juist daft to get her ain way and
keep them."
Alick was well aware of the value of a certain amount of opposition,
judiciously distributed.
He arrived before long at the cottage of Mistress Fraser. It was set
like his own in the midst of a garden. But instead of being bosomed in
flowers, with beeskeps scattered about, the garden was wholly taken up
with potatoes, cabbage, and curly greens. It was a strictly utilitarian
garden. As soon as Muckle Alick hove in sight, turning up off the main
road, a covey of children broke from the door of the house and ran
tumultuously towards him. They tripped one another up. They pulled each
other back by the hair, or caught those in front by the heels or the
coat-tails. It was a clean-limbed, coltish lass of thirteen who gained
the race and sprang first into the arms of Muckle Alick. Then two
smaller boys gripped each a mighty leg, while a whole horde of smaller
banditti swarmed up Alick's rearward works and took his broad back by
storm. When he got to the potato garden he looked more like the show
elephant his wife had called him than ever. For he was fairly loaded
with children "all along the rigging," as Mistress Fraser said.
She was a buxom, rosy-cheeked woman, gifted upon occasion with an
astonishing plainness of speech.
"Guidnicht to ye, Alick," she said, "thae bairns maks as free wi' ye as
if they were a' your ain?"
Alick disentangled the hands of one of the rearward harpies from his
beard and mouth. Whereupon the offended rascal was not to be appeased.
He slid down, caught the giant about the knee, and began to kick an
outlying shin with all his might.
"Ye should ken best whether they are or no," said Alick, "there's
plenty o' them at ony gait!"
"An' what wind has blawn ye awa' frae Sandyknowes this nicht? It takes
naething less than an earthquake to shake ye awa' frae Mirren. Ye hae
fair forgotten that there's ither folk in the warl."
"I was wanting the lend o' your cradle, guidwife," said Alick, with
affected shamefacedness, well aware of the astonishment he would
occasion by the simple request.
Mistress Fraser had been stooping over a basin in which she was mixing
meal and other ingredients, to form the white puddings for which she
was famous. She stood up suddenly erect, like a bow straightening
itself. Then she looked sternly at Alick.
"Ye are a nice cunning wratch to be an elder—you and Mirren Terregles
baith—and at your time o' life. An' hoo is she?"
"Ow, as weel as could hae been expectit," said Muckle Alick, with just
the proper amount of hypocritical resignation demanded by custom on
these occasions. Mistress Fraser, whose mind ran naturally on the lines
along which Muckle Alick had directed it, was completely taken in.
"An' what has Mirren gotten?—a lassie, I'll wager," said the excited
mother of eleven, dusting her hands of the crumblings of the pudding
suet, and then beginning breathlessly to smooth her hair and take off
her baking apron. So excited was she that she could not find the loop.
"Aye," said Alick, quietly, "there's a lassie!"
"I juist kenned it," said Mistress Fraser, drawing up wisdom from the
mysterious wells of her experience; "muckle men and wee wives aye start
aff wi' a lassie—contrarywise they begin wi' a laddie. Noo me and my
man——"
What terrible revelation of domestic experience would inevitably have
followed, remains unfortunately unknown. For the words which at that
moment Muckle Alick delicately let drop, as the chemist drops a rare
essence into two ounces of distilled water, brought Mistress Fraser
to a dead stop in the fulness of her career after the most intimate
domestic reminiscences.