E-text prepared by Al Haines
UP IN ARDMUIRLAND
by
REV. MICHAEL BARRETT, O.S.B.
New York Cincinnati Chicago
Benziger Brothers
Publishers of Benziger's Magazine
1912
Copyright, 1912, by Benziger Brothers
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. PERSONAL
II. MEMORIES
III. ARCHIE
IV. GOLDEN DREAMS
V. "DOMINIE DICK"
VI. BILDY
VII. SMUGGLERS
VIII. PHENOMENA
IX. SPRING'S RETURN
X. A RUSTIC PASTOR
XI. A SPRIG OF SHAMROCK
XII. PENNY
UP IN ARDMUIRLAND
I
PERSONAL
Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean
Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.
(_Longfellow--"Miles Standish"_)
Val and I, being twins, have always been looked upon as inseparables.
True, we have been often forced apart during life's course; yet,
somehow, we have always managed to drift back again into the old
companionship which Nature seems to have intended in bringing us into
the world together.
Boyhood and youth, as long as school life lasted, slipped by with never
a parting. The crux came when we were old enough to choose our
respective paths in life. It appeared that Val, although he had never
before breathed a word to me--whatever he may have done to Dad--had
thoroughly determined to be a priest if he could. I had never felt the
ghost of a vocation in that direction, so here came the parting of the
ways. Val went to college, and I was left inconsolable.
But I was not allowed to nurse my griefs; plans had been made in my
regard also, it appeared.
"Ted," said Dad quite abruptly one day, "you'll have to go to Bonn.
That'll be the best place for you, since Oxford is out of the question.
You've got to take my place some day, and you mustn't grow up an
absolute dunce. Atfield" (an old school-chum of his) "is well pleased
with the place for his boy, Bill, so you may get ready to travel back
with him next week, when the vacation finishes."
In those days (how long ago I almost blush to record) Catholics were
not allowed access to our own universities as they now are, and we
Flemings were Catholics to the core, and of old staunch Jacobites, as
befitted our Scottish race and name.
So Bill Atfield took me under his wing, and to Bonn I went the very
next week. There I remained until the end of my course, returning home
for vacations, as a rule, but ending up with a week or two, in company
with Dad, in Paris, whither Val had gone for his philosophy. But such
rare meetings became rarer still when Val went off to Rome, and I had
to take up a profession; and our separation was apparently destined to
last indefinitely when Val had been ordained, and I went out to India
after a civil service appointment.
And yet so kindly at times is Fate that, quite beyond my most ardent
hopes, I have been thrown together with Val, in daily companionship, as
long as life permits.
For, as it fell out, I was invalided home at quite an early stage of my
public career, and, contrary to all family traditions, disgraced my kin
by contracting lung disease--at least, so the doctors have declared,
though I have experienced very little inconvenience thereby, except
that of being condemned to act the invalid for the rest of my life.
For years I was forced by arbitrary decrees to winter in clement
climes, as the only means of surviving till the spring; but now that I
am fifty I have emancipated myself from such slavery, and insist on
spending winter as well as summer in "bonnie Scotland." So far I have
found no difference in health and strength. Thus it came about that a
long visit to Val lengthened out indefinitely, and is not likely to
terminate until one or other of us is removed hence.
The _ego_ appears rather prominently in these introductory paragraphs,
it is true, but it was almost unavoidable; for my presence had to be
accounted for in Ardmuirland before I could give reminiscences of this
delightful spot. Now, however, I am free to speak of other folks; and
first of dear old Val.
It was a long and arduous apprenticeship (if it is not irreverent so to
style it) which Val had to pass in order to fit himself for priestly
work; he was curate for I know not how many years in a large and
extremely poor mission in one of our big towns. He worked well and
thoroughly, as any one who knows Val will be ready to affirm; but his
health would not stand the hard work and close confinement of a town,
and he was forced against his will to relinquish his post. His
attraction had always been toward a studious life, so it came about
that he was sent up here, where he has time to study to his heart's
content, since his flock will never be anything but small. Moreover,
his share of poor old Dad's worldly substance enables him to live, for
the emoluments here would scarcely support a canary-bird.
Yet it must not be supposed that Val is rolling in riches. In the
first place, poor Dad had to sell a good deal of property to make good
his losses from unfortunate investments, and he had not overmuch to
leave us. His worldly wisdom, too, taught him to be sparing with Val.
"He would spend his half in a month, Ted," said the old Pater shrewdly,
when he came to settle his worldly affairs. "I shall therefore leave
the bulk of everything to you, and trust to you to provide liberally
for the dear boy."
Dad's remark is the best possible clue to Val's character. Had he
nothing else to give, Val would strip the very coat off his own back,
when it was a question of relieving distress. So it is a part of my
duty to see that he is clothed and fed as he ought to be, and a
difficult job it is at times.
I suppose I ought to give some idea of Val's appearance, if this is to
be a proper literary turn-out. When we both were younger, it was
commonly said by aunts, uncles, and such like, that one was the image
of the other. That would be scarcely a fair description now. I am
thin; Val is inclined to become chubby. I have a beard and he is
necessarily shaven; he needs glasses always, and I only for reading.
With these preliminary observations I may say that Val is about five
feet six in his shoes, of dark complexion, and with hair inclining to
gray. He is quiet in manner, yet withal a charming companion when
called upon to talk. The people worship him; that is the best
testimonial of a country priest, and all that I need say about his
interior man.
If I did not know for certain that Longfellow never set eyes on
Ardmuirland, I should maintain that the lines at the head of this
chapter were meant for a description of it. For "the steel-blue rim of
the ocean" is but three miles distant from this heather-clad,
wind-swept height, which rises some seven hundred feet above it.
Moreover, as one gazes down, the eye meets many a miniature forest of
pine and birch, clothing portions of the lower hills, or nestling in
the crevices of the numerous watercourses which divide them. Strewn
irregularly over the landscape are white-walled, low-roofed farms and
crofters' dwellings--each in the embrace of sheltering barn and byre,
whose roofs of vivid scarlet often shine out in the sun from a setting
of green meadow or garden.
Our own habitation is simple enough, yet amply suffices for our needs.
It is just a stone cottage of two stories, and is connected by a small
cloister-like passage, Gothic in character, with the stone chapel which
is the scene of Val's priestly ministrations. This, too, is modest
enough. The windows are triple lancets, filled with opaque glass, the
altar of stone and marble, but simple in decoration, the tabernacle of
brass, and the eastern window--larger than the others--is embellished
with stained glass. It is in memory of our dear Dad, and besides his
patron, St. Andrew, it has the figures of St. Valentine and St. Edmund
on either side of the Apostle.
Within the house is a dining-room, a better furnished room for the
reception of important visitors, and a small den known as the "priest's
room," in which Val interviews members of his flock. Upstairs are
Val's study and my sitting-room, with our respective bed-chambers and a
spare one for a casual visitor. Kitchen offices and servants' quarters
are in a tiny special block.
Both chapel and house have been built by Val. I can recall his
pleading letters to Dad for help to raise a more worthy temple. The
Pater, with his characteristic caution, made it a condition of his help
that a new house should form part of the plan. If the old chapel was
as unworthy of its purpose as Val's descriptions painted it, the
dwelling must have been indeed poverty-stricken. From what I have
gleaned from the natives, both buildings must have surpassed in
meanness our wildest conceptions of them. But more upon that subject
later.
Any account of the chapel-house at Ardmuirland would be incomplete
without some reference to a personage who holds an important position
in the household, second only to that of the master of the house. This
is Penelope Spence, known to the world outside as "Mistress Spence,"
and to Val and myself as "Penny." She was our nurse long ago, and is
now the ruler of the domestic affairs of the chapel-house. A little,
round, white-haired, rosy-faced dumpling of a woman is Penny; an
Englishwoman, too, from the Midlands, where the letter H is reserved by
many persons of her social standing for the sake of special emphasis
only. I find by calculation that she first saw the light at least
seventy years ago, but she is reticent upon that subject. All the
precise information I have ever extracted from her on the point is that
she is not so young as she once was--which is self-evident! But young
or old, she is brisk and active, both in mind and body, still. Such a
devoted old soul, too! She would go to the stake cheerfully for either
of us, but for Val she entertains an almost superstitious reverence,
which would be amusing were it not touching. When speaking of him to
the natives, she invariably styles him "the Priest." I imagine she
looks for a higher place above, in recognition of her early services to
him.
Penny was already a young married woman when she came into the service
of our family. Her history, as I have learned it from her own lips,
will be worth narrating, if I can find room for it in these pages.
Elsie is Penny's "lady in waiting"; she is too youthful as yet to have
made history. She hails from a neighboring farm, and is a really
satisfactory handmaid--ready, cheerful, and diligent; she entertains a
thoroughly genuine respect for her superior officer, "Mistress Spence,"
in spite of the latter's somewhat severe notions as to the training of
young servants. In appearance Elsie is much like any other Scottish
lassie of her age--not strikingly beautiful, nor yet ugly; just
pleasant to look upon. Her most conspicuous trait is a smile which
appears to be chronic. One cannot help wondering what she looks like
on occasions when a smile is out of place--at her prayers, or at a
funeral, for instance. I am quite prepared to maintain that she does
not lose it during sleep; for though I have noticed it growing deeper
and broader when she has reason to feel more than usual satisfaction
(e.g., when Penny unthinkingly utters a word of praise), it never
entirely disappears during the daytime.
There is another personage who deserves special mention; for not only
is he an important item in our establishment, but a very special crony
of mine. This is Willy Paterson (known locally, by-the-bye, as "the
Priest's Wully"), our gardener, groom, coachman (when required), and
general handy man. Willy is a wiry, wrinkled, white-haired little
man--little now, because stooping a bit under the weight of well-nigh
eighty years--who is greatly respected by his neighbors far and near
because he has "been sooth." For he was long ago in the ranks of the
police of one of our biggest cities, and his former profession, not to
speak of his knowledge of the world gained thereby, entitles him to
esteem. It has raised him to the rank of a species of oracle on any
subject upon which he is pleased to discourse; the result is a not
unpleasing, because altogether unintentional, dogmatism which seasons
Willy's opinions of men and things.
Our garden is the pride of Willy's heart. It begins in front of the
house, where flowers of varied hue succeed one another as season
follows season, and roses--red, white, and yellow--seem almost
perennial, since they bud forth in late May and scarcely disappear till
December. But that is due to our wonderful climate as much as to
Willy's attention. As the garden disappears round the corner of the
house, its nature changes; vegetables in surprising and intricate
variety there flourish chiefly. At the stable-yard it ceases; beyond
that a dense pine wood holds its own to the very top of a hill, which
rises above our domain and protects us from eastern blasts. The wood
is not the least of the attractions which Ardmuirland has for me;
beyond the more prosaic quality of its health-giving power, it
possesses, as every bit of forest land does for those who can read its
message aright, a charm unspeakable.
And now I seem to hear some crusty reader exclaim quite impatiently,
having skimmed through my literary attempt thus far:
"No doubt the fellow thinks all this interesting enough! But why
expect me to wade through pages of twaddle about Scottish peasants and
their doings--for it is evident that is what it will turn out?"
"Read it or not, just as you feel inclined, honored sir," I answer with
all the courtesy I can command. "I respect your opinions, as your
fellow-creature, and have no desire to thrust my wares upon unwilling
hands. But opinions differ, luckily, or this world would be an
undesirable habitation for any one, so there may be some who do not
disdain my humble efforts to entertain--and perhaps even amuse. To
such I dedicate my pages."
Yet, between ourselves (dear, appreciative reader), it is but just that
I should offer some apology for thus rushing into print. I trust to
you to keep the matter a strict secret from my doctor (McKillagen,
M.D., M.R.C.S.), but winter weather at Ardmuirland is not altogether of
a balmy nature. Consequently it is necessary that these precious lungs
of mine should not be exposed too rashly to
"the cauld, cauld blast, on yonder lea."
This leads to much enclosure within doors during a good share of the
worst of our months--say from February to May, off and on; this again
leads to a dearth of interesting occupation.
It is Val who is really to be blamed for this literary attempt. When,
in an unlucky moment, I was one day expatiating on the material
afforded to a book-maker (I do not use the word in a sporting sense, of
course) by the varied characters and histories of our people, and the
more than ordinary interest attaching to some, he beamed at me across
the dinner-table, a twinkle of humor disclosing itself from behind his
glasses, and said:
"Why not write about them yourself, Ted? You complain of having
nothing to do in bad weather."
The idea took root; it was nourished by reflection. Here is the fruit;
pluck it or not, gentle reader, as your inclination bids.
II
MEMORIES
"Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain."
(_Goldsmith--"Deserted Village"_)
I have heard a complaint made of some reverend preachers (untruthfully,
I well believe) that they could never begin a sermon without harking
back to the Creation. Now it is not my intention to travel quite so
far back into the past, but I must confess to a desire to dig somewhat
deeply into the history of Ardmuirland in days gone by before touching
upon more recent happenings. Such a desire led me to investigate the
recollections of some of our "oldest inhabitants."
Willy Paterson, I well knew, was to be trusted for accurate memories of
a certain class of happenings; but for more minute details of events
the feminine mind is the more reliable. So I determined to start with
Willy's wife, Bell. Their dwelling is nearest to ours; it stands,
indeed, but a few yards down the road which leads past our gate. It is
a white-walled, thatched house of one story only--like most of the
habitations in Ardmuirland; it stands in a little garden whose neatness
and the prolific nature of its soil are standing proofs of Willy's
industry in hours of leisure.
Owing to the prevalence in our neighborhood of some particular
patronymics--Macdonald, Mackintosh, Mackenzie, and the rest--many
individuals are distinguished by what is called in Ardmuirland a
"by-name." Some of these are furnished by the title of the residence
of the family in question, others by the calling or trade of father,
mother, or other relative; thus we have "Margot of the Mill," "Sandy
Craigdhu," as examples of the former, and "Nell Tailor," "Duncan the
Post," of the latter. Still more variety is obtained by the mention of
some personal trait of the individual, such as "Fair Archie," "Black
Janet," and the like. Willy Paterson's wife was commonly known by such
a by-name; every one spoke of her as "Bell o' the Burn," from the name
of her childhood's home.
Bell is a spare, hard-featured body--not attractive at first sight,
though when one comes to know her, and the somewhat stern expression
relaxes, as the lines about the mouth soften, and the brown eyes grow
kindly, one begins to think that Bell must have been once quite
handsome. She is always scrupulously clean whenever I chance to visit
her, and is usually arrayed in a white "mutch" cap, spotless apron, and
small tartan shawl over her shoulders. Willy and she have reared up a
large family, all of them now settled in the world and most of them
married. They are most proud of their youngest, Margaret, who is a lay
sister in a town convent. Though her husband is reckoned a traveler,
Bell can lay no claim to the title; she probably never moved farther
than ten miles away from the family hearthstone until the day she left
her father's house by the Burn of Breakachy to marry Willy Paterson,
and certainly has never traveled much since that time.
Most of the houses of Ardmuirland are constructed on exactly the same
plan. There are two principal rooms--"but" and "ben," as they are
commonly designated. (It is unnecessary here to dive into etymology;
but it may be noticed in passing that _but_ signifies "without" and
_ben_ "within.") To "gae ben" is to pass into the inner room, which at
one time opened out of the ordinary living apartment or kitchen, but is
now usually separated from it by a little entrance lobby. Besides
these two chief rooms, the initiated will be able to point out sundry
little hidden closets and cupboards, fitted up as sleeping apartments,
and reminding one of the contrivances on board ship. The two rooms
each contain a more demonstrative bed, as a rule: but in some cases the
bed is shut up with panelled doors like a cupboard.
All that I learned from Bell about the Ardmuirland of bygone days was
gathered from her lips at intervals, and in the course of many repeated
visits; for it would have been fatal to my purpose had I allowed her to
imagine that I intended to make public use of her communications.
Though I have retained the substance, I have often altered the form;
for it would be useless to expect the reader to translate (if it were
even possible to do so without the help of a glossary) Bell's broad
Scots dialect. Yet the temptation has been too great to be resisted
from time to time to quote her exact words--so quaint her diction and,
to me at least, so attractive withal.
A description of the original chapel of the district will serve as a
fitting introduction to these memoirs. According to Bell, it must have
been simple even to destitution. No smoothly hewn stones, no carved
windows, no decoration of any kind distinguished it from the houses of
the people. It was a small, low building of rough stone, unplastered,
even inside, and roofed by a heather thatch. There was a single door
in the side wall. The roof within was open to the rude, unvarnished
beams which upheld the thatch. The floor was of beaten clay, and there
were rough benches for the people to sit upon during the sermon, but no
contrivance for kneeling upon.
"Some o' the fowk had boards to kneel on, ye ken," Bell explained, "but
the maist o' them prayed kneelin' on the flure."
The altar was a plain, deal kitchen table, devoid of all ornament in
the shape of draperies except the necessary linen coverings.
Underneath it was a box, within which the vestments were stowed away;
for there was no semblance of sacristy, and the priest's house was some
yards distant. At the opposite end from the altar was a raised dais
for the accommodation of the singers, of whom Bell herself was one.
She could not recall what they were accustomed to sing as a rule.
"I mind we wad sing the _Dies Irae_, whiles," was all the information
she could give on that point. One would think it scarcely possible
that so penitential a chant could form the usual musical accompaniment
to Sunday Mass! A teacher of music from a neighboring glen used to
come over from time to time to practise the singers.
"I mind weel," said Bell, "he had a wand and a tunin' fork." Are these
not the recognized signs of ability, all the world over, to conduct a
band of singers? The practices were held in the priest's house;
sometimes the pastor would join in the singing, although Bell naïvely
remarked on that point:
"He hadna much ear for music, ye ken."
Of the priest of that day, "Mr." McGillivray, as the old style of
address ran, more will be said later. The figure next in prominence to
him in Bell's recollections was the old sacristan, Robbie Benzie. For
many years he acted as "clerk" at the altar, continuing to carry out
his duties when well advanced in years. During the week he carried on
his trade of weaver; on Sundays he was at his post betimes, carrying a
lantern with him, from which he took the light for the altar candles.
Bell describes him as a stalwart man with fine features and dark eyes.
Clad in his green tartan plaid, he always accompanied the priest round
the little chapel with the holy water for the Asperges, and with his
"lint-white locks" flowing onto his neck, he used to appear in Bell's
eyes "a deal mair imposin' lookin' ner the priest himsel'." His modest
and respectful bearing gained him the esteem of all. "I always think
of him," said Bell, "as one o' the saints of th' olden times, ye ken.
He was the model of a guid Catholic--pious, hard-workin', and aye happy
and contented."
In those far-off days Ardmuirland was entirely Catholic. The Faith, in
consequence, was an integral part of the life of the district, and the
priest the recognized potentate, whom every one was at all times ready
to serve--working on his croft, plowing, harvesting, and such
like--with cheerful promptitude. Any such labor, when required, was
requested by the priest from the altar on Sunday.
"I shall be glad to receive help this week on the glebe-land," he would
announce. "You will kindly arrange the division of labor among
yourselves."
The same would happen when the time came for cutting and storing up
peats for the winter fuel. The day and hour would be named, and all
who could possibly help would be at the hill punctually to take their
respective shares in the labor.
It was on one such occasion that the incident occurred which struck me
as the culminating point of Bell's recollections. I cannot give it as
dramatically as she did, and if I attempted to do so the pathos would
be marred by the broad Doric--unintelligible to southrons--in which her
narrative was told; but I will reproduce it as faithfully as possible
in my own words.
It was the "peat-casting" for the priest; every one had worked with a
will--young and old. Dinner had been sent up to the moss at noon by
the various housewives of the district. It was a sumptuous repast, as
usual on so great an occasion; chickens, oatcake, scones, cheese, and
abundance of milk had been thoroughly enjoyed by the workers. The
children--bearers of the dainties from their respective mothers--though
bashful in responding to the fatherly greetings of the old priest, were
yet secretly proud of the honor of his special notice. Shyly they
stood about in groups, watching for a time the resumed labors of
fathers and brothers, until afternoon was wearing away, and it was time
to betake themselves home to make ready for the still more important
event of the day. Gaily they rushed down the hill, their joyous
laughter and merry shouts--relieved as they were from the restraint
which good manners had imposed in the priest's presence--awaking the
echoes of the glen. For many of them would be allowed to take part in
the evening's festivity, and all might share in the preparations for
it. This event was the public supper in the priest's barn, when women
were welcomed with their husbands and brothers, and even the bigger
children were admitted. For the evening repast, as for that of
noonday, each family contributed its share of provisions, which were
always ample in quantity as well as excellent in quality.
Supper, on this particular occasion--as was usual--took some time, and
it was a serious business, when little conversation was encouraged.
But after supper the real fun began. None love dancing more than
Scots; so dancing must needs form the climax of every gathering for
social enjoyment. The bashful roughness which characterized the
commencement had worn off; lads and lasses were thoroughly enjoying the
somewhat rare opportunity of taking part in so large an assembly;
Archie Cattanach, the piper, was throwing his whole soul into the
skirls and flourishes of his choice tunes; all was gaiety and innocent
enjoyment. The good priest sat looking on pleased because his people
were happy; now and again he would move his position to another group
of the older guests, so that he might chat with all in turn; his flock,
though they held their Pastor in that reverence which none but a priest
can inspire, were under no false restraint in his presence, but joined
in laugh and jest with ease and simplicity.
Loudly rang out Archie's pipes, merrily tripped the dancers, and joy
reigned supreme, when suddenly there came an unexpected check. The
outer door flew open, and a girlie of about ten, wild-eyed,
bare-headed, panting for breath, rushed into the midst of the
gathering. She was evidently laboring under the stress of some
unwonted excitement. There was no shyness now, in spite of the
priest's presence--in spite of the eager faces that sought hers in
anxious questioning.
"Mither, Mither!" she screamed shrilly, as she caught sight of the
familiar face she sought, and rushed toward her mother's open arms. It
was little Peggy, Bell's younger sister.
"Oh, Mither," she wailed through her sobs, "oor Jessie's nae to be
foond! She's nae at hame. I dinna ken wha she's gane!"
With her mother's arms around her, the child was able to give a more
coherent account of the circumstances which had led to this abrupt
cessation of the dance; for Archie's melody had trailed off into an
unmusical drone and speedily ceased, and the dancers had spontaneously
crowded round the child and her mother.
Peggy had been left in charge at home, for Bell was allowed to take
part in the "ball." Jessie, the youngest but one of the family, was a
little maid of four years. She had accompanied Peggy and her brothers,
with a crowd of other small folk, when the children went to the moss
with provisions for the workers. All had gone and returned in a body,
and no one noticed that Jessie was not with them. It was only when
Peggy began to assemble her own little charges, to conduct them to
their own house, that she missed the wee lassie. Peggy knew that her
father and mother, together with all her elders in the family, had
already started for the barn--some to help in the preparations, others
to chat with those who were assembling outside. It was growing dark,
for the children had delayed their homeward journey (as they often will
when a number are together) to play and sport.
There was no one to advise or help the child. Sending on
three-year-old Elsie and the other little ones in charge of Johnnie,
she ran back, half distracted, toward the hill they had left earlier in
the afternoon. Shouting out for Jessie by name, she wandered hither
and thither--terrified, self-accusing, disconsolate. But it was all to
no purpose. Darkness fell, and fearful and contrite, Peggy had no
resource but to seek her mother.
There was no more merriment that night. A search party was at once
organized by the younger men, who started with lanterns and some of
their collies to the peat-moss. All that night the anxious mother kept
weary vigil, while the men-folk searched the hill. Day broke, and no
trace had been found of the lost child. Weary and sad, the men
returned for some needful rest and others took their places. But
though they traversed the moors all day, and searched crevices and
water-courses with diligence, they met with no better success.
Sometimes a sound would break through the stillness which would stir
their hearts with renewed hope. The cry of a child! Weak and faint,
indeed, but telling of the continuance of life! But again and again,
after scaling heights or creeping down comes, they were doomed to
disappointment. It was but the bleat of a strayed lamb! That night a
larger party set out with lanterns and torches, and once more ranged
the hills shouting for the child; but once again morning dawned upon
disappointed hopes.
Then every one who could be of any possible use was pressed into the
service. The people flocked out of their homes from all that district,
and hand in hand they started in a long line stretching across a wide
tract of country, and moving slowly on until every inch of ground in
their way had been thoroughly explored.
It was after three nights and three days had passed that they came upon
the weak little body, lying stark and still under an overhanging rock,
and half buried in the heather. Moss was clutched in her clenched
hand, and shreds of moss were on her cold lips; the poor little bairn
had hungered for food, and had seized that which first came to hand to
satisfy her craving. She was quite dead.
The bereaved mother mourned her darling with a grief that none but a
mother can know. But the child had been her father's special pet of
all his little flock.
"His heart," said Bell, the rising tears witnessing to the sadness of
the memories called back by her story, "was well-nigh broke. He burst
into tears at the sight of her wee white face, and sobbed like a bairn
wi' the rest of us."
And poor little Peggy! How touching the story! She never ceased to
reproach herself for what she considered her carelessness in losing
sight of Jessie on that fatal day. No single creature attached a
shadow of blame to her; on the contrary, it was the dearest wish of all
to try to console her and assure her of her innocence in that respect.
But it was of no avail. Her unceasing grief fretted away her strength,
and six months later she was borne to St. Mungo's ancient burying
ground to share Jessie's grave.
"It's nigh on sixty years sin'," said Bell apologetically, as she wiped
her streaming eyes with her apron; "but the thocht o' that time brings
the tears up yet."
III
ARCHIE
"Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie."
(_Pope--"Ode to Solitude"_)
He was an unusually wretched semblance of a man. A tattered coat--some
one's cast-off overcoat--green, greasy, mud-stained, clung round his
shaking knees; trousers which might have been of any hue originally,
but were now "sad-colored," flapped about his thin legs and fringed his
ankles; shoes, slashed across the front for ease, revealed bare feet
beneath; an antique and dirty red woolen muffler swathed his neck
almost to the ears. Surmounting these woeful garments appeared a
yellow, wrinkled face surrounded by a straggling fringe of gray
whisker; gray locks strayed from an old red handkerchief tied round the
brows under a dilapidated wide-awake hat. To add to his woe-begone
aspect, the poor wretch was streaming with wet, for a Scottish mist had
been steadily falling all the morning.
Leaning on his stick, the man slowly shuffled up the central path
toward the porch in which I was sitting, striving to get the nearest
possible approach to an open-air pipe. Touching his sorry headgear, he
looked at me with mild eyes of faded blue, and smiled benignly as he
asked:
"Could I see himsel'?"
I had not long come to that part of the country, and I was not
thoroughly conversant with the terminology of the people, but it
flashed upon me what he meant.
"Did you wish to see the priest?" I rejoined.
"Aye," replied the old vagrant--for so I deemed him. The smile seemed
stereotyped, for it never faded. His face, when one regarded it
attentively, had a quite attractive pleasantness.
"I'm sorry to say he's out just now," I said. "But you may go round to
the back and get something to eat, if you wish."
It struck me as strange that he did not ask for money, but thanked me
profusely and politely, as he touched his wretched hat once more and
shuffled off toward the kitchen quarters.
He did not reappear for so long a time that I began to think it would
be prudent to investigate. Traveling gentry of such a class are not
always desirable visitors when the kitchen happens to be unoccupied for
the nonce. As I made my way in that direction through the little hall
I heard voices through the half-open door beyond.
"It'll be all right, Archie," Penny was saying. "The priest shall have
the money as soon as he comes in, and if he can't say the Mass
to-morrow, I'll take care to send you word by Willy. Now, mind you get
a bit of fire lighted when you get back home. You must be wet through!"
"Thank ye kindly, Mistress Spence," came the slow response in the
quavering voice of the old man. "It's yersel' that's aye kind and
thochtful!"
I waited till I heard the door close upon the supposed "tramp" before
venturing to make the inquiries that rushed to my lips. And even then
I paused a while. When needing information from Penny, one has to be
circumspect; she has a way of shutting off the supply with ruthless
decision, yet with a seeming absence of deliberate purpose, whenever
she suspects a "pumping" operation.
"I'm one that won't be drove," I've often heard her say. So we old
fellows are often obliged to have recourse to diplomacy in dealing with
our old nurse.
Consequently I lounged casually, as it were, into Penny's domain with
the remark, "That poor old chap looked awfully wet, Penny."
"Wet enough he was, Mr. Edmund," replied the unsuspecting Penny, "and I
have just been giving him a good hot cup of tea; for he never touches
wine or spirits."
She was evidently betrayed by my apparent lack of inquisitiveness into
a relation of the details I was longing to hear.
"To think," she continued, "of the creature walking down in such
weather, and he such a frail old mortal, too, just to make sure of Mass
to-morrow for his wife's anniversary. I can't help thinking, Mr.
Edmund, that some of us might take an example in many things from poor
old Archie McLean!"
"Does he live far away?" I asked--just to encourage the flow of the
narrative.
"A good three miles--and his rheumatism something hawful," exclaimed
Penny, now thoroughly started on her recital. I had but to lend an
ear, and my curiosity would be satisfied.
Archie, it appeared, had been a soldier in his young days, but when he
came to settle in Ardmuirland his time of service had expired; that was
long ago, for he was now quite an elderly man. He took up his
residence in a deserted mill, by the Ardmuir Burn. As he proved to be
thoroughly quiet and inoffensive, the neighbors--true to their national
character, not speedily attracted by strangers--began in course of time
to make his acquaintance, and he eventually became a great favorite
with all. When younger, Penny had been told, he had been "a wonderful
good gardener," and for trifling payment, or in return for a meal,
would always "redd-up" the gardens of the district. Thus he acquired
the designation of "Airchie Gairdener," and by that was usually known.
What his neighbors could not comprehend was how Archie spent these
small earnings, but more especially to what use he had put his army
pension, which every one knew he once received regularly. He had no
occasion to buy food, for kindly neighbors would always exchange for
meal or eggs the varied produce of his well-cultivated garden. His
clothes cost him nothing; for he had worn the same old garments for
years past, and though no self-respecting tramp would have accepted
them, he never seemed anxious to replace them. If any others were
given him, he would use them for a time, out of compliment to the
donor, but the ancient attire would always reappear after a short
interval.
"As to where his money goes," summed up Penny, "I've a notion that his
Reverence knows more than any one else except Archie himself. Poor
Archie often asks for the priest, and I've heard his Reverence speaking
to him in quite an angry way--for him," she added quickly; "but there's
never any change in Archie's way of living. Some of the people here
think he's a perfect saint, and I'm not so sure that they're far wrong!
However, I think he ought to take ordinary care of his 'ealth; that
seems to me a duty even for saints!"
I tried to glean more details from Val, but found him strangely
reticent.
"Poor old fellow! A good soul, if ever there was one!" was the only
remark I could elicit.
This air of mystery made me more than ever desirous of learning
something about Archie's antecedents. It was this curiosity which led
me, in the first instance, to visit his tumbledown dwelling. It was a
quaint establishment. A moderately large garden surrounded it on three
sides, roughly fenced in from the woodland, its fence interwoven with
gorse branches to keep out rabbits. The varied supplies of vegetables
were evidence of Archie's industry, in spite of his rheumatism. It was
by the produce of this garden that the old man obtained in return the
oatmeal and milk which formed his staple food; for he could no longer
work for others.
The house itself was a picture! Its aged roof seemed to have bent
beneath the weight of years; for the ridge had sunk in the middle of
its mossy, grass-grown expanse, and threatened to fall upon its
occupant to the peril of his life. A small barrel served for a
chimney. One window possessed still two small panes of glass; the
other openings were filled in with bits of boarding, as was the whole
of the other window.
There was something quite uncanny about the silence of the place. The
monotonous ripple of the burn below seemed to intensify it. I stood in
hesitation for a moment or two before venturing to knock at the door.
When at last I had done so, shuffling footsteps sounded within, and
Archie opened the door; the same bland smile which I had noticed when I
first saw him appeared on his wrinkled face, and the faded blue eyes
lighted up.
"Come ben, sir; come ben!" he said hospitably. "Ye're kindly welcome,
tho' 'tis but a puir hoosachie for ane o' the gentry."
It was indeed a sorry place to live in. The roof was so unsound that,
as I learned later from Bell, it was difficult to find a dry spot for
his wretched bed in wet weather. Added to this, as the same informant
assured me, the place was a happy hunting-ground for rats.
"The rats is that bould, sir," she said, "that he's fairly to tak' a
stick to bed wi' him o' nichts, to keep the beasts off. It's a wonder
they rats hasna' yokit on him afore this!"
But on this, my first visit, no rat put in an appearance.
I gave no motive for looking in, nor did Archie seem to be surprised at
my call. He was evidently much pleased to see me; but I could not help
thinking at the time that his cordial welcome was due in great measure
to my relationship to Val.
That first visit was short, but it was succeeded by others. It soon
became quite customary to wind up my daily walk with a chat with the
"hermit"--as I got into the way of calling him. For beyond the mystery
attaching to the man--or perhaps I ought to say intensifying it--was
the fact that he was a really attractive personality. He could talk
about the various countries he had seen with a degree of intelligence
unlooked for in one of his condition; moreover, he could season his
remarks with much spice of sound, earnest wisdom, which amused while it
edified me. It did not take long to discover that Archie "Gairdener"
was a man out of the common.
That Archie was a good Christian was self-evident. No weather, however
tempestuous, could keep him from Sunday Mass, and I noticed with some
surprise that he received Holy Communion at least once and sometimes
more frequently every week, but always on a week-day, when our
congregation consisted chiefly of our household and Bell.
"I suppose Archie 'Gairdener' finds it more convenient to come to the
Sacraments on a week-day," I remarked one day to Val, "because of the
late hour of Mass on Sunday."
"Scarcely that," was his quiet answer. "I happen to know from other
sources that he still keeps up the old practice he found in use when he
first came here. In those days no one dreamed of breaking fast on a
Sunday until the priest himself did. Every one came to Mass fasting,
as Archie still does--though I believe he is the only one nowadays."
During the two or three years that followed I saw a good deal of
Archie. We became such cronies, indeed, that Val was considerably
amused that I should take so much pleasure in the company of one with
whom I could have few ideas in common. But there was something that
attracted me to the old fellow from the first, which I can not define
in words.
A severe winter made it almost impossible for the old man to get to
Sunday Mass at all; he would do his best, but it was evident, as I
could see more plainly in my visits, that he was growing very feeble.
I happened to be seedy myself at that time, and did not manage to get
out so frequently as before, owing to the trying weather.
It came with no surprise when Val told me in early spring that Archie
was growing worse, and that the doctor gave little hope of his
regaining strength; in the circumstances, Val thought it well not to
delay the Last Sacraments any longer. I tried to accompany him when he
went to the old mill for that purpose, but I had to give it up. It was
about a week later that I was able to visit the old man.
Winter seemed to have departed for good on that day in mid-April. A
bright sun was shining; deluded little birds were flitting about as
though summer had come; even on the hill the air was mild and balmy.
The brooding silence seemed accentuated in the neighborhood of Archie's
hermitage. An unusual sign of life was to be seen at the mill-house
itself; smoke was rising from the extemporized chimney; for Bell, as I
knew, had installed herself as nurse and was doing her best to render
the last days of the old recluse more restful than they could have been
during his more active period.
It was Bell who answered to my knock. With a gesture imploring silence
she led me in. I was startled at the sight which met my eyes. The old
man lay stretched on the bare earthen floor, his head pillowed upon a
large stone. His body was covered by blankets, but his arms were
crossed on his breast outside of them and embraced his crucifix. His
eyes were closed, but he was still breathing fitfully. Bell whispered,
in response to my amazed look of inquiry:
"He wouldna' rest till Wully and I lifted him oot o' bed before Wully
went for the priest. He'd been keepin' yon big stane for years to
serve him at the last."
Val appeared very soon. Archie showed no sign of recognition, even
when the well-known voice began the prayers he seemed to have been
waiting for before departing.
Bell lighted the blessed candle, which was in readiness, and knelt with
Willy on one side of the quiet form, while I knelt on the other near to
the priest.
"Go forth, Christian soul, out of this world, in the name of God the
Father Almighty, Who created thee: in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son
of the Living God, Who suffered for thee"--thus the quiet voice
continued until those prayerful words: "Pity his sighs, pity his tears,
trusting in nothing but thy mercy"--when the last long breath, like a
sigh of relief, passed from the dying man's lips as his soul departed.
I could not shake off a sense of loss as keen as though some dearly
loved friend had been taken from me. Val and I walked home in unbroken
silence through the shadow of the wood, newly decked in tender green
buds, up to the rising ground beyond. My brother seemed as much
touched as I.
It was not until our meal was over, and we sat on either side of the
still necessary fire, though we had dined without a lamp, and still
preferred the dusk for a quiet talk, that Val spoke of Archie.
"Now that the poor old fellow is at rest," he said, "I will tell you,
by his express desire, something about his history. He wanted me to
promise to make it public, but that I resolutely refused to do, for
many reasons. 'Let Mr. Edmund know, at least,' he said. 'I do not
want him to have too good an opinion of me, or he will not pray as much
as I should wish for my poor soul.' So you have a right to know, Ted."
And with that he unfolded the story of Archie McLean's early years.
Archie had been a wild boy in his youth, with a strong propensity for
drink--hereditary, unfortunately--which he was not so well able to
satisfy on his father's croft, in Banffshire; so, to gain more liberty,
he ran off and enlisted. When scarcely more than twenty he took up
with a girl he met in one of the provincial towns in which he happened
to be stationed, and eventually married her. He had asked no
leave--indeed, at his age it would not have been granted; his wife,
therefore, was not "on the strength of the regiment"--in other words,
depended entirely upon his pay, and what little she might earn, for the
necessaries of life, and even for traveling expenses, in case of
removal elsewhere. The girl was a negligent Protestant, and he a
non-practising Catholic. They had been married before a Registrar, and
neither of them entered a church as long as the woman lived. The one
child born to them died a week later, unbaptized.
Such a marriage could not possibly prove happy, but it was more
unfortunate in its results than could have been imagined. The man's
craving for drink grew with its indulgence. His wife, neglected by
him, followed his example and took to that sorry comforter; before long
she had acquired habits of drunkenness that disgusted even him. Soon
she had fallen so low that her life was a crying scandal for its
unrestrained vices.
The man's companions took a savage pleasure in taunting him about his
wife's depravity, until the very mention of her name was hateful to
him. He acknowledged that he himself was bad enough, but her conduct
had reached the extreme of vileness. The result was what might have
been foreseen. Quarrels and recriminations were perpetual. The man
hated the woman because of her vicious life; he hated himself because,
as his conscience reminded him in lucid intervals, he was responsible
for her downfall.
The regiment was on the eve of removing to other quarters, and much as
he would have liked to leave his wife behind to shift for herself, he
dare not face the consequences. Coming to her lodgings, therefore, to
arrange about her journey, he found the woman hopelessly incapable.
His mad rage against her was inflamed by the drink he had just taken;
in his anger he was strongly tempted to rid himself of the burden she
had become. Nothing could be easier! No one had seen him enter the
house, and there was every chance of his being able to steal away
unperceived, in the dusk of the evening. An uncontrollable loathing
for the woman urged him on; conscience was disregarded. He seized one
of the pillows of the bed. It was merely necessary to press it over
her face, hold it there till life was extinct, and creep away, a free
man!
It must have been the ever-watching Angel Guardian of that wretched man
who touched his heart at that moment of danger, by a sudden grace. He
faltered; threw down the pillow, and swiftly ran from the room and from
the house--pursued by remorse.
An hour later, when he ventured to return, he was met on the threshold
with the tidings that his wife had been found dead of heart failure.