his reproachful conscience. He regarded himself as a murderer in
desire, though actually guiltless of his wife's blood. The terrible
shock was his salvation. From that day he never more touched strong
drink. The formerly inveterate drunkard, a great portion of whose time
was spent in the cells, rose by degrees to the position of the smartest
soldier in his company. When his long service had to come to an end,
he took a situation as gardener for a time; but a desire which had come
upon him when his army service had been completed became still more
urgent. He longed to be able to devote himself to a penitential life,
as a means of making such atonement as was in his power for his past
transgressions. Even while in the army his life had been one of
rigorous mortification, dating from the day when he once more began to
practise his religion; he shunned no duty, however distasteful, and
shrank from no danger.
In response to the keen desire which dominated him, Archie threw up his
situation, and searching for some part of the country in which he would
not be known, yet where he should find life and surroundings not
entirely foreign to his experience, settled at length at Ardmuirland.
For about forty years his life was characterized by a rigorous
austerity. His pension was at once carried to the priest, as soon as
he received it, to be devoted to the offering of Masses for the soul of
his unhappy wife, and the relief of the poor--scarcely poorer than
himself. He never spent a penny upon his own needs; even the scanty
earnings of his labor, unless made in kind, went the same way as his
pension. The clothing, even, which charitable persons bestowed upon
him in pity soon passed into coin for the same end; no scolding of his
spiritual Father could prevail upon him to look better after his own
well-being.
"I've been a great sinner, Father," he would say. "I owe a big debt to
the justice of the Almighty!"
As he had lived, so he died, I had noticed that my brother had shown no
surprise, as I did, at the sight of the dying figure of the old man
stretched on the bare earth with a stone for his pillow; Val had become
familiar with the idea.
"My Saviour died on a Cross for me, and shall I, a vile sinner, be
content to die in my bed?" Thus he would always answer the
remonstrances of the priest.
Whenever I read the Gospel narrative of Lazarus--the wretchedly
clothed, ill-fed, diseased mendicant--who inspired loathing in the eyes
and nostrils of the delicately nurtured, sensual men who flocked past
his unlovely form to the banquets of the rich glutton at whose palace
gate he lay, my thoughts fly at once to my old friend, Archie the
penitent, and my prayers rise to Heaven on his behalf in the Church's
touching petition for the departed:
"Cum Lazaro, quondam paupere, eternam habeas requiem!"
"With Lazarus, once poor, now blest
May'st thou enjoy eternal rest!"
IV
GOLDEN DREAMS
"All the world is turning golden, turning golden
In the spring."
(_Nora Hopper--"April."_)
On a day when May was growing old, everything up at Ardmuirland was
green and gold except the sky, and that was mostly blue and gold.
Gorse and broom were in full blossom, so that on all sides the outlook
was glorious!
Looking through my field-glasses to discover the meaning of a column of
dense smoke, which seemed to be rising from a hill in the distance, I
found myself gazing at a forest in flames! Fire--a very wall of
fire--seemed to extend for miles along a dense tract of woodland! So
seemingly fierce the blaze that it lighted up with golden gleams the
tower of a distant church beyond the wood! Yet, as I looked steadily,
it became evident that the flames neither diminished nor increased;
presently I discovered that the column of smoke rose from a spot
entirely different--more to the foreground. In the end I had to
confess with reluctance that my eyes had been deceived; there was no
sensational forest fire at all! What I had seen was but the sunshine
on an expanse of yellow bloom on some rising ground beyond the belt of
woodland, and on the old church tower, while a rare cloud shaded the
nearer prospect.
What a silly goat I called myself! Looking nearer home I saw the same
red-gold glow, which needed but the sunshine to wake it into flame.
The disused quarry, not half a mile away, where the sun was bright,
might have been an open gold mine--so brilliant the shining of its
wealth of broom bushes! The hedge of gorse which bordered the road on
both sides had no speck of green to mar its splendor.
"All the world is turning golden, turning golden.
Gold butterflies are light upon the wing;
Gold is shining through the eyelids that were holden
Till the spring."
The graceful verse haunted me all that day, repeating spontaneously,
again and again, its tuneful refrain. For up at Ardmuirland we have to
wait till May for settled springtide.
Later on I strolled across to her cottage to have a chat with "Bell o'
the Burn." I found her busy at her washtub on the threshold of the
door, but none the less ready to enter into conversation, as I leaned
on the garden fence watching her tireless pink hands, as they worked up
the snowy soapsuds.
"You've maybe haird the news, sir?" she began, a note of inquiry in her
tone.
I had seen yesterday's _Scotsman_, but not in those pages did any of
our folk look for news. They read--those, at least, who possess that
accomplishment--the stories in the _People's Friend_ and the like, if
they were young; those who were older scanned the columns of the local
newspaper, published in the county town, and believed firmly in the
absolute truth of everything that was asserted there. But "news" meant
something more intimate--something which affected our own immediate
circle by its relation to the daily life and interests of those around
us.
So, knowing this, I did not dream about any startling political crisis,
recent mining disaster, or railway collision; Bell knew nothing about
such events. Experience had taught me to allow her to enlighten me in
her own way. So I put a question to that end.
"Have you heard some news?" I said.
Bell's delight at being first in the field was evident.
"Christian Logan's come intil a fortune!" she replied, with no little
delight.
"That is good news, indeed!" I cried impulsively. For Christian was,
beyond doubt, one of the poorest of our neighbors, and the most
deserving.
"But where did the fortune come from, Bell?" I asked.
"Her mon," explained Bell, "had a cousin oot in Ameriky as fowks allays
said wes gey rich. But he niver so much as sent a word to Donal' for
years, till juist aboot a week afore the puir mon met wi' his accident,
ye ken. An' he says in the letter," continued the old woman, warming
up with the interest attaching to her subject, "as Donal' wes the only
kin left him, an' he'd find himsel' nane the worse o' that. Alexander
Gowan, they callit him."
"And so this cousin is dead, I suppose?"
"Na, na, sir," replied Bell. "Gowan's on his wye back frae Ameriky, ye
ken, an' Christian's had word to expect him. Maybe he'll be up here in
twa, three days after he lands, like."
This was news with a vengeance! An American who was "gey rich" might
be a millionaire! All kinds of rosy visions began to float through my
brain. Thoughts of the manifold additions and improvements which Val
was dying to make in the church; of the shinty club we were so anxious
to start, but could not for want of means; of the hall we planned to
build some day for concerts and social gatherings in the long winter
evenings--all started into new life at the prospect of a wealthy
Catholic returning to his native land with gold in his pocket and a
ready hand to scatter it liberally for the benefit of his kinsfolk!
"I suppose he's a Catholic," was the remark to which my mental plans
gave birth.
"Aye," said Bell, in a reproachful tone, "the Gowans wes all strict
Catholics. The mon would nae turn agen his chapel oot there, I'm
thinkin'."
(In Ardmuirland, be it known, "chapel" means the Catholic Church, and
"church"--or more frequently "kirk"--denotes exclusively a Protestant
place of worship; thus do penal laws leave their trail behind them!)
"Not likely!" I exclaimed boldly. For Bell began to look anxiously at
me, as though the staunch Catholicism of this particular Gowan might be
open to question. "Our religion is as free out there as any other;
that's one good quality in republican America which our government
lacks at present."
Still, my own mind misgave me a little. I knew of more than one of my
countrymen who had been "strict Catholics" once, but who had lamentably
fallen off through knocking about the world. However, we were not
justified in classing Gowan with such.
"And will this good man put up at Christian's cottage?" I asked.
"Na, na, Mr. Edmund," said Bell, astonished, "Christian's nae ower weel
provided wi' sheets and siclike, ye ken. Na! he's to stay wi' Mistress
Dobie at Larrigie Inn. They've redded up the best rooms, and kindled
fires and a', to be ready gin he comes soon. The fowks say as Gowan
'll likely have ane o' they motors, like the Squire's at the toon, so
as he can drive aboot the countryside and see a' the changes that's
come sin' he left."
The world was "turning golden," indeed! My cogitations as I made my
way home were touched by the sheen.
Val took it all very calmly (as he is wont, dear boy! whenever I
rhapsodize).
"If he happens to be a millionaire, Ted," he remarked--and a twinkle
shone through his glasses--"you may give up all hope of getting
anything out of him. It is proverbial that such gentry haggle over a
six-pence when it comes to gratuities!"
During the week that followed the whole countryside had no more
interesting subject of conversation than the coming of the rich cousin
to "make a lady" of Christian Logan.
Christian certainly deserved any good fortune that might fall to her.
She was the young widow of an under-gamekeeper at Taskerton, an estate
in our neighborhood. Donald Logan had met with an accident, by the
discharge of a gun, and had died of lock-jaw, consequent on the wound.
He had not been very thrifty, poor fellow, for he was too fond of
whiskey; the result was that very little means remained for the support
of the family when the bread-winner had been taken. The proprietor of
Taskerton was generally an absentee, and the casual tenants of the
place had little interest in those employed on the estate.
Consequently, Christian had to do her best to support herself and her
three young children by her own efforts. Tam and Kirsty, aged
respectively twelve and eleven, had to continue at school for a year or
two at least; the youngest, Jeemsie, who was only eight, had been deaf
and dumb from his birth.
Luckily, the agent of the estate, being a man of kindly feelings, was
willing to allow the poor woman to remain for a time in the cottage
they had occupied, and Val had approached the proprietor on the subject
of a pension. At present, however, beyond a liberal donation for
Christian's benefit, nothing definite had been settled. We had all
subscribed to buy her a sewing-machine, and as she was a clever
seamstress she was able to make ends meet by dressmaking. She had her
cow, and her few hens, so altogether, with the sale of eggs and
occasionally of milk, she was able to provide for her little ones for
the present. She was such a cheery, kindly little body that every one
at Ardmuirland was her friend; this accounted in great measure for the
unusual interest in her prospects.
I felt that it would be but neighborly to offer Christian my
congratulations upon her approaching good fortune. Her little house
stood near a belt of trees on a rising ground, a few feet from the road
that led higher up the hill. No other habitation was within a mile of
it, and its solitary position was quite enough by itself to suggest to
any one that a man who had made money across the "drink"--as I heard an
American once irreverently style the Atlantic--would scarcely be likely
to stay for any considerable time in such an out-of-the-world spot. To
my mind it seemed incredible that he could be content for long with the
comparative luxury of Mrs. Dobie's inn.
Christian sat at her machine in her clean little kitchen when I arrived
there, and she called to me cheerily through the open doorway to enter,
and rose to receive me. She was a plain little woman, about forty
years old, probably; she bore the marks of her many anxieties on her
brow--too early scored with wrinkles. I could not help thinking, as I
saw her, that no fine clothes that her rich relative might buy for her
would ever make her anything else than a plain country body; in silks
and satins, even, she would still be the same homely Christian.
"I came over to say how glad I am to hear of your good fortune," I said
when the usual greetings had passed, and I was seated in the chair of
state by the fire--for the hillside was chilly, and fires were seldom
wanting up there even in the summer weather.
"Thank you kindly, sir," was her answer. "Father Fleming was in
himself yesterday, for the same reason. It is very good of the priest
and yourself, sir, as well as our neighbors aboot, to take sic an
interest in us. Indeed, I'm very thankful that God has been sae guid
to us. It looks as though our troubles are coming to an end, with this
guid news!"
"When do you expect your cousin?" I asked.
Christian took a letter from the mantelpiece, where a china dog had
been guarding it.
"This is his last letter, sir," she said, with a touch of honest pride,
as she handed it to me to read. "You will see what he says. He was to
sail on the 14th, and that was about a fortnight ago. Mistress Dobie
had a message to say that he would be there about the first of June.
He has business in Glasgow, which will keep him there a bit."
"It's a kind, friendly letter," I remarked, as I handed it back. "He
speaks very nicely about you all."
"If only for the sake of the bairns, sir, I'm very thankful that we've
foond sae guid a friend," she said with much feeling.
Jeemsie peeped in at the door just then. He was quite a handsome
little chap, with regular features and a rather intelligent face.
"Jeemsie will be provided for now," I said, beckoning the child to me.
He came, shyly smiling, and put his hand in mine.
"Yes, thank God!" was the poor mother's reply. "It's been a trouble to
me to know what to do for him, and especially what'll happen to the
bairn when I'm taken. But Father Fleming says his cousin can put him
to some kind of institution for a year or two, where they can teach him
to read and write and coont as well as any bairn wi' all his senses.
For he's nae daft!" she exclaimed, with motherly pride. "He's just as
sensible as can be aboot most things. He kens as weel as Tam aboot
searching for the eggs, and he loves to fetch water from the well in
his little pail for me, bless him!"
"Yes, it's a great thing for the child that his cousin is coming to
look after you all. Jeemsie will be made a man of. I once knew a
postman who was afflicted like Jeemsie, and he did his work better than
any of the other men in the same office. The postmaster was quite
proud of him. He couldn't talk, poor man, so there was no danger of
his wasting time in gossip."
I took my leave after chatting a while, and rejoiced as I pictured to
myself on the way home the lightening of so many burdens which had
pressed heavily on the shoulders of that brave little woman.
A week later and we heard through Willy that Mr. Gowan had arrived at
Larrigie Inn.
"An' a freer mon wi' his money, Mistress Dobie says, ye'd niver wish to
see," was his estimate of the newcomer. "He was treatin' the fellows
wi' drams a' roond, the nicht he cam'; he wes sae glad to be bock i'
the auld place. He wes a loon o' fafteen when him an' his farther went
an' to mak' their fortune in Ameriky, ye ken."
"I don't like to hear about that dramming business," was Val's comment
to me later. "There's too much of that kind of thing already about
here. However, we must make allowance for the man's natural joy at
seeing his old haunts once more."
"Including the inn, I suppose! But he was too young when they left to
have cultivated a very intimate acquaintance with that one!"
Gowan proved to be but one of our own rough crofters who had acquired
so thin a veneer of civilization that it scarcely concealed the reality
beneath. With a somewhat boisterous geniality he made instant friends
with all of his former class in the neighborhood. With Val and myself
he was not altogether at his ease. An abrupt awkwardness of manner,
which we put down to shyness, characterized our intercourse, which was
of rare occurrence.
He drove up to Mass on a Sunday, not in a motor, but in the ordinary
"machine" belonging to the inn--a kind of small wagonette, drawn by a
single horse--in which he always occupied the seat next the driver,
good-humoredly conveying any persons from that direction who might be
coming up our way, either to kirk or "chapel."
We heard glowing accounts of his kindness to Christian and the
children--of constant excursions to the town; of the purchase of
unlimited clothing for all the family, and of many costly presents,
such as watches for Christian and Tam, pretty trinkets for little
Kirsty, and toys for each of the bairns. He seemed to be never happy
out of their company; when they were not driving about the country,
visiting neighbors, or picnicking on the hills, they took their more
important meals at the inn. The two elder children seemed to have left
school for good; we heard later that Gowan had arranged matters with
the authorities, stating that he meant to take the family back to
America with him, or at any rate to find them a home elsewhere should
he make a lengthy stay in Scotland.
Things had gone on thus for three weeks before Val alluded to Gowan, or
anything connected with him. But his words showed me as soon as he
began to speak that he had been thinking much on the subject.
"I don't like this prolonged carnival of Gowan's," he remarked to me.
"It's doing no good. I hear of unlimited drinks at Larrigie day after
day for all who choose to ask. Many of our young fellows are getting
into the habit of dropping in there of nights and listening to the
man's stories of life 't'other side.' He seems capable of standing a
good deal of liquor himself, as he is never really overcome--only more
coarse and noisy, the more he takes. I have had complaints from
several of the fathers of families about the harm he is doing."
"That's rather bad!" was my answer. "But what about the Logans? I
hear that he means to take them off with him, and he doesn't appear to
be a desirable guardian for those children, by all accounts."
"It is that I'm most anxious about," said Val.
And thereupon he became communicative. Things were really worse than I
had thought. Gowan, it is true, still came to Mass, but he was fond of
boasting to his boon companions that they had got beyond "all that
nonsense in the States!" He had certainly, on his own showing, ceased
to be a practical Catholic for years, and it was probable that his
attendance at Mass and contribution of half a sovereign to the
offertory every Sunday was merely the result of a desire to stand well
in the estimation of the more staid members of the community, and might
be classed with the free drinks and other signs of friendliness to the
district. The character of the man rendered Val naturally anxious
about the future of Christian Logan and her children, if they were to
depend upon him for support in a strange land among strangers.
"The one redeeming feature in his character," summed up Val, "is his
genuine affection for the children. His wife died about two years ago,
it seems, and he is too old to marry again. So he appears to have
devoted himself to the idea of practically adopting these three little
Logans."
"It seems to me a case of body versus soul for the poor little kids, if
they are to trust to that old heathen for a proper bringing up. But
the mother is a good woman, and has a will of her own."
"That's where it is so difficult to do anything," said Val sadly. "She
does not understand the state of the case properly, though I've tried
to make it plain to her. The fellow is an avowed Free Mason. He can
not practise his religion, and in a kind of self-defense he rails
against it--though not openly to Catholics, I believe. She is deluded
enough to imagine that the influence of herself and the children will
win him over to the right path again. But it's far more likely that he
will win the children over to unbelief, if he is to become their
practical parent. Christian acknowledges that his indulgence is
spoiling Tam already."
It was almost dramatic that at that moment a knock at the room door
should prove to be from Elsie, who announced the presence of Christian
Logan in the "priest's room" asking for a few minutes' conversation
with his Reverence.
The interview proved to be somewhat long. Val gave me an account of it
later in the day. Gowan had proposed that Jeemsie should be placed
without delay in an English institution for the deaf and dumb, while
the others traveled a little about Scotland before starting for
America, as he had now decided to do. He had made his money in
horse-dealing, it appeared, and was not satisfied with his present
prosperous condition, but longed to make more money; probably, too, he
was tired of idling, after a rather strenuous life spent in business.
Christian was willing to part with the little fellow for a time, but
only on condition that he should go to a Catholic institution, of which
Val had told her previously. The idea infuriated Gowan. What did
religion matter? Protestant institutions of the kind were far in
advance of Catholic. It was ridiculous to think of sending the boy
anywhere except to a place thoroughly up-to-date. Finally he had
refused to do anything in the matter unless he had free scope to place
the child where he should think best.
The poor woman's eyes were opened at last. She was absolutely
determined that Jeemsie should be given up to no authority that was
incapable of teaching him all that was necessary for the practice of
his religion. She had come to pour out her difficulties to Val, and to
ask further advice. He, of course, applauded her decision, and
strengthened her in the resolution she had made, even though it might
lead to a temporary withdrawal of Gowan's liberality. Val was
convinced that the man was too much attached to the children to break
altogether with the Logans.
Gowan had expressed his intention of going up to settle definitely with
Christian about the matter of Jeemsie, and she was most anxious for Val
to be present. To this he had at once consented; for he felt it a
foremost duty to protect the faith of the little lad. So next morning
the interview would come off.
"It was a stormy conference!" was Val's first remark, when we met for
lunch next day. "But we've won the victory for the little chap's
faith, though it has cost us Gowan's further patronage!"
The man had refused to be persuaded to allow the priest to choose some
institution to which Jeemsie might safely be sent--merely because it
was a priest who wished to have a voice in the matter, Val was inclined
to think; for the Protestant Home which Gowan favored was in no way
superior. They discussed the question in all its bearings, and
eventually Gowan lost his temper and showed his hand. He meant to
bring up all the children Protestants! He had learned by experience
what a hindrance it was to have to submit in everything to the
dictation of priests, and he was determined to have no more of it!
It was at that stage that Christian interposed. Very quietly but
firmly she spoke her mind.
"If you expect me to risk the loss of my children's souls as well as my
own for the sake of worldly advantages, Cousin Aleck, I may as well
speak plainly. I would rather stay here and work myself to death than
take your money."
This produced a terrific storm of abuse from Gowan. He called her
"priest-ridden" and every kind of fool and idiot. She would soon learn
to repent of her folly, for he would go straightway to a lawyer and
change his will! Not a penny would she get--now or later--from him, as
she would find one day to her cost! Then he dashed away without
further discussion.
"The fellow is a brute!" was Val's conclusion. "They are well rid of
him! What a blessing he showed himself in his true colors before it
was too late!"