of acting like ony quiet, decent, well-brought-up laddie, and walking
down to the school in time for the geometry" (the school believed that
the master's eye rested on William Dowbiggin), "ye jumped clothes and
all into the Tay." (There was evidently no extenuating feature, and
Peter's expression was hopeless.)
"Nor was that all. But the wicked speerit that's in ye, Peter McGuffie,
made ye swim out where the river was running strongest and an
able-bodied man wouldna care to go. And what for did ye forget yirsel
and risk yer life?" But for the first time there was no bravery left in
Peter to answer; his wickedness was beyond excuse, as he now felt.
[Illustration: "PETER DARED NOT LIFT HIS HEAD."]
"Just to save an orphan laddie frae a watery death. And ye did it,
peter; an' it ... beats a'thing ye've dune since ye came into muirtown
academy? as for you, duncan robertson, ye may say what ye like, but it's
my opinion that ye're no one grain better. Peter got in first, for he's
a perfect genius for mischief--he's aye on the spot--but ye were after
him as soon as ye could--you're art and part, baith o' ye, in the
exploit." it was clear now that dunc was in the same condemnation and
would share the same reward; whereat peter's heart was lifted, for
robertson's treachery cried to heaven for judgment.
"Boys of Muirtown, do you see those tablets?"--and Bulldog pointed to
the lists in gold of the former pupils who had distinguished themselves
over the world--prizemen, soldiers, travellers, writers, preachers,
lawyers, doctors. "It's a grand roll, and an honour to have a place in
it, and there are two new names to be added.
"Laddies"--and Bulldog came down from his desk and stood opposite the
culprits, whose one wish was that the floor might open beneath them and
swallow them up--"you are the sons of men, and I knew you had the
beginnings of men in you. I am proud ... to shake hands with you, and to
be ... your master. Be off this instant, run like mad to yir homes and
change yir clothes, and be back inside half an hour, or it will be the
worse for ye! And, look ye here, I would like to know ... how Nestie
is."
His walk through the room was always full of majesty, but on that day it
passed imagination, and from time to time he could be heard in a
soliloquy, "A pair of young rascals! Men of their hands, though, men of
their hands! Their fathers' sons! Well done, Peter!" To which the
benches listened with awe, for never had they known Bulldog after this
fashion.
When the school assembled next Monday morning the boys read in fresh,
shining letters--
"Peter McGuffie and Duncan R. S. Robertson, who at the risk of their own
lives saved a schoolfellow from drowning."
It stood before the school, so that all could see; but if anyone dared
to make a sign in that direction as he passed Speug's desk, his life was
not worth living for seven days, and it was felt that Speug never
completely recovered from the moral disgrace of that day.
NESTIE
III
It was understood that Nestie's mother was dead and that his father was
the Baptist minister of Muirtown--a denomination whose adherents were
few and whose practices were vaguely associated with the mill lade--and
for two years before he appeared at school Nestie and his father were
quite familiar to the boys. Nestie began his education at a ladies'
school, not far from the Seminary, where he was much petted by the big
girls, and his father could be seen waiting for him every afternoon at
dismissal time. A gentle, timid little man, apt to blush on being spoken
to, with a hesitating speech and a suggestion of lasting sorrow in his
eyes, Mr. Molyneux would sooner have faced a cannon than Miss Letitia
MacMuldrow's bevy of young women, and it was a simple fact that when,
meditating his sermon one day in the North Meadow, he flopped into their
midst and his son insisted on introducing him to the boarders and to
Miss Letitia, the poor man went home to bed and left the pulpit next
Sunday to an amateur exhorter. His plan of campaign was to arrive on
the opposite side of the terrace about a quarter to three, and, as the
hour drew near, reconnoitre the door from behind a clump of bushes at
the foot of the garden. Nestie usually made his appearance with a
bodyguard of maidens, who kissed him shamelessly, and then, catching
sight of the anxious face peeping through the laburnums, he would dash
down the walk and, giving his slaves a last wave, disappear round the
corner. The minister used to take a hasty survey lest they should become
a sport to the barbarians in a land where for a father to kiss his boy
was synonymous with mental incapacity, and then--it was a cat of a girl
who oversaw the meeting--they hugged one another for the space of a
whole minute, in which time it is wonderful what can be done if your
heart is in it and your hat is allowed to go without care. Had a
Seminary boy seen the sight--but the savages were caged at that
hour--his feet would have been glued to the ground with amazement, and
he had gone away full of silent gratitude that Providence had cast his
lot north of the Tweed; but of course he had not reckoned that the
father and son had been separated for, say, six whole hours--or
almost--and it was necessary to re-establish relations. When this had
been done satisfactorily the two crossed a wooden bridge into the Meadow
arm-in-arm--Mr. Molyneux unconsciously wearing his hat with a rakish air
on the side of his head. Between this hour and sunset was their
pleasure in the summer time, and the things they did were varied and
remarkable. Sometimes they would disappear into the woods above
Muirtown, and return home very dirty, very tired, very happy, laden with
wild flowers and dank, earthy roots, which they planted in their tiny
garden and watered together with tender solicitude. Other times they
played what was supposed to be golf over a course of their own selection
and creation at the top of the Meadow, and if by any chance the minister
got a ball into a hole, then Nestie danced for a space and the minister
apologised for his insolent success. Times there were--warm, summer
days--when the minister would bring a book with him and read to Nestie
as they lay in a grassy hollow together. And on these days they would
fall a-talking, and it would end in a photograph being taken from a
case, and after they had studied it together, both would kiss the face,
which was as if Nestie had kissed himself. Regular frequenters of the
North Meadow began to take an interest in the pair, so that the golfers
would cry "Fore" in quite a kindly tone when they got in the way of the
balls, and one day old Peter Peebles, the chief of the salmon-fishers
and a man of rosy countenance, rowed them up to Woody Island, and then
allowed the boat to drop down with the tide past the North Meadow and
beneath the two bridges, and landed them at the South Meadow, refusing
all recompense with fierce words. Motherly old ladies whose families
were off their hands, and who took in the situation at a glance, used to
engage Mr. Molyneux in conversation in order to warn him about Nestie's
flannels and the necessity of avoiding damp at nightfall. And many who
never spoke to them, and would have repudiated the idea of sentiment
with scorn, had a tender heart and a sense of the tears of things as the
pair, strange and lonely, yet contented and happy, passed them in the
evening.
When the time came that Nestie had to leave Miss Letitia's, his father
began to hang round the Seminary taking observations, and his heart was
heavy within him. After he had watched a scrimmage at football--a dozen
of the aboriginal savages fighting together in a heap, a mass of legs,
arms, heads--and been hustled across the terrace in a rush of Russians
and English, from which he emerged without his hat, umbrella, or book,
and after he had been eyewitness of an encounter between Jock Howieson
and Bauldie over a misunderstanding in marbles, he offered to teach
Nestie at home.
"Those Scotch boys are very ... h-healthy, Nestie, and I am not sure
whether you are quite ... fit for their ... habits. There is a master,
too, called ... Bulldog, and I am afraid----" and Mr. Molyneux looked
wistfully at his boy.
"Why, pater, you are very n-naughty, and don't d-deserve two lumps of
sugar," for ever since they were alone he had taken his mother's place
and poured out the tea. "Do you think I am a coward? A boy must learn to
play games, you know, and they won't be hard on a little chap at first.
I'll soon learn f-football and ... the other things. I can play golf a
little now. Didn't you tell me, pater, that mother was as bwave as ... a
s-soldier?"
"Of course she was, Nestie," and Mr. Molyneux fell into the innocent
little snare. "If you had only seen the pony your mother used to ride on
her father's farm in Essex, where I saw her first! Do you know, nobody
could ride 'Gypsy' except its mistress. It r-reared and ... k-kicked,
Nestie"--the little man spoke with awe--"and once ran away; but your
mother could always manage it. She looked so handsome on 'Gypsy'; and
you have her spirit. I'm very ... t-timid."
"No, you aren't, not one little bit, pater, if there's real d-danger."
Nestie was now on his father's knee, with a hand round his neck. "Who
faced the cow on the meadows when she was charging, and the nurse had
left the child, eh? Now, pater, tell the truth."
"That was because ... the poor little man would have been killed ...
anyone would have d-done that, and ... I d-did not think what I was
d-doing...."
"Yes, I know," and Nestie mocked his father shamefully, even unto his
face; "and everybody read in the paper how the child wasn't near the
cow, and the cow was quite nice and well-behaved, and you ... ran away;
for shame, now!
"Did you go to the people that had the dip ... dip ... in the throat, or
not?--that's a word I can't manage yet, but I heard Miss Leti-titia and
the girls say you were like the soldiers 'at got the Vic--Victoria
Cwoss."
"That's d-different, Nestie; that's my d-duty."
"Well, it's my d-duty to go to the S-Seminary, pater;" and so he went.
"What's your name?" Nestie was standing in the centre of the large
entrance hall where his father had left him, a neat, slim little figure
in an Eton suit and straw hat, and the walls were lined by big lads in
kilts, knickers, tweed suits, and tailless Highland bonnets in various
stages of roughness and decay.
"Ernest Molyneux, and for short, Nestie," and he looked round with a
bright little smile, although inwardly very nervous.
"Moly-havers," retorted Cosh, who had a vague sense that Nestie, with
his finished little manner, his English accent, his unusual dress, and
his high-sounding name, was an offence to the Seminary. "Get yir hat oot
o' there," and Cosh sent Ernest's straw skimming into the forbidden
"well."
Molyneux's face turned crimson, for he had inherited the temper which
mistressed "Gypsy," and boys who remembered Speug's first exploit
expected to see the newcomer spring at Cosh's face.
"You mean that for f-fun, I s'pose," he said an instant later, and he
recovered his hat very neatly. "I can leap a little, you know, not
m-much yet," and again he smiled round the ring.
Nothing quite like this had happened before in the Seminary, and there
was a pause in the proceedings, which was the salvation of Nestie, and
far more of Peter McGuffie. He had been arrested by the first sight of
Nestie and had been considering the whole situation in silence. Peter
had a sudden inspiration.
"Did ye say Nestie?" inquired Speug, with an almost kindly accent,
moving a little forward as for purposes of identification.
"My pater calls me that, and ... others did, but perhaps you would like
to say Molyneux. What is your name?"
"We 'ill call ye 'Nestie'; it's no an ill word, an' it runs on the
tongue. Ma name is Peter McGuffie, or Speug, an' gin onybody meddle wi'
ye gie's a cry." And to show the celerity of his assistance Peter sent
the remains of Cosh's bonnet into the "well" just as Bulldog came down
to his room.
"Bulldog's in," as that estimable man identified the owner of the bonnet
and passed on to his class-room. "In aifter him, an' gie yir name, afore
the schule comes."
"Will you come with me, P-Peter?" and that worthy followed him
mechanically, while the school held their breath; "it would be kind of
you to intwodoosh--it's a little difficult that word--me to the
master."
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Bulldog at the sight of the two,
for speech was paralysed in Speug and he was aghast at his own audacity.
"A new laddie ... ca'ed Molly, Mol ... a' canna mind it ... Nestie ...
he dinna know the way...." And Speug broke down and cast a despairing
look at the cane.
"Peter pwotected me from the other boys, who were making fun of me, and
I asked him to bwing me in to you, sir; he was very p-polite."
"Was he?" said Bulldog, regarding Speug's confusion with unconcealed
delight; "that is quite his public character in this school, and there's
nobody better known. My advice"--here Bulldog stopped, and looked from
Speug to Nestie as one who was about to say something and had changed
his mind--"is to ... be friends with Peter."
So when the school took their places Nestie was seated next to Speug,
and it was understood in a week that Nestie was ready to take his fair
share in any honest fun that was going, but that if one of the baser
sort tried to play the blackguard with Nestie, he had to balance
accounts with Speug, and that the last farthing would be faithfully
exacted.
As Nestie had at once settled in his mind that Speug was a young
gentleman of high conduct and excellent manners--and Nestie, with all
his sweetness, was as obstinate as a mule--nothing remained for Speug
but to act as far as he could up to his new character. With this example
of diligence by his side, he was roused to such exertion that he emerged
from long division and plunged into the rule of three, while Nestie
marvelled at his accomplishments--"for I'm not a clever chap like you,
P-Peter." Speug had also accumulated a considerable collection of pencil
sketches, mostly his own, in which life at Muirtown Seminary was treated
very broadly indeed, and as he judged this portfolio unlikely to be
appreciated by Nestie, and began himself to have some scruple in having
his own name connected with it, it was consigned to the flames, and any
offer of an addition, which boys made to Speug as a connoisseur in
Rabelaisean art, was taken as a ground of offence. His personal habits
had been negligent to a fault, and Nestie was absurdly careful about his
hands, so Peter was reduced to many little observances he had
overlooked, and would indeed have exposed himself to scathing criticism
had it not been that his sense of humour was limited and, so far as it
went, of a markedly practical turn.
As Nestie never ceased to exalt this paladin of chivalry, and all the
virtues which he had discovered at school, Mr. Molyneux hungered to see
him, and so Speug was invited to tea on a Saturday evening--an
invitation he accepted with secret pride and outward confusion of face.
All the time which could be saved that day from the sermons was devoted
by Mr. Molyneux and his son to the commissariat, and it was pretty to
see the Molyneuxs going from shop to shop collecting the feast. With
much cunning Nestie had drawn from Speug that fried sausages (pork) with
mashed potatoes, followed up by jam tarts and crowned with (raisin)
cake, was a meal to live for, and all this they had, with shortbread and
marmalade, thrown in as relishes. When Nestie was not watching at the
upper window for Peter's coming he was gloating over the table, and
pater, putting last touches to his exposure of Infant Baptism, ran out
and in to see that nothing had been forgotten, for they did not give
many feasts, and this was one of gratitude. Peter was late, because he
had gathered his whole establishment to dress him, including the old
groom, who wished him to go in corduroy breeches and top boots, and
Speug was polished to the extent of shining. He was also so modest that
he would not speak, nor even look, and when Nestie began to discourse on
his goodness he cast glances at the door and perspired visibly, on which
occasions he wiped his forehead with a large red handkerchief. Amid all
his experiences on land and water, on horseback and among boys--_i. e._,
savages--he had never yet been exalted as a hero and a philanthropist,
and he felt uncomfortable in his clothes. He was induced, however, to
trifle with the tea, and in the end did very fairly, regaining his
native composure so far as to describe a new horse his father had
bought, and the diabolical wickedness of the tame fox at the stables.
Afterwards Nestie took Speug to his room and showed him his various
treasures--a writing-desk with a secret drawer; _The Sandalwood Traders_
by Ballantyne; a box of real tools, with nails and tacks complete; and
then he uncovered something hidden in a case, whereat Speug was utterly
astonished.
"Yes, it's a watch; my mother left it to me, and some day I'll wear it,
you know; your mother's g-gone, too, Peter, isn't she?"
"Aye," replied Peter, "but a' dinna mind o' her." And then, anxious to
change the subject, he produced a new knife with six blades. Before
leaving he promised to give Nestie a pair of rabbits, and to guide him
in their upbringing after a proper fashion. Without having ventured into
the field of sentiment, there is no doubt Peter had carried himself in a
way to satisfy Mr. Molyneux, and he himself gave such an account of the
tea to Mr. McGuffie senior, that night, that the horsedealer, although
not given to Pharisaical observance of the Sabbath, attended the little
Baptist chapel next day in state, sleeping through the sermon, but
putting five shillings in the plate, while Peter, sitting most demurely
at his father's side, identified two of his enemies of McIntyre's
Academy and turned various things over in his mind.
If anyone, however, supposed that the spirit had gone out of Peter
through his friendship with Nestie, he erred greatly, and this Robert
Cosh learned to his cost. What possessed him no one could guess, and
very likely he did not know himself, but he must needs waylay Nestie in
Breadalbane Street one day after schooltime and speak opprobriously to
him, finishing up--
"Awa' wi' ye; yir father's a meeserable yammering (stammering) dookie
(Baptist) minister."
"My father's one of the best men living"--Nestie was in an honourable
temper--"and you are an ill-bred c-cad."
Poor Nestie would have been half-killed before Cosh had done with him
had not Speug arrived on the scene, having been in the gundy (candy)
shop not far off, and then there were circumstances. Cosh had a poor
chance at any time with Peter, but now that worthy's arm was nerved with
fierce indignation, and Nestie had to beg for mercy for Cosh, whose
appearance on arriving home was remarkable. His story was even more so,
and was indeed so affecting, not to say picturesque, that Bailie Cosh
came into Bulldog's room with his son two days afterwards to settle
matters.
"A' called, Maister MacKinnon," he said, in tones charged with dignity,
"to explain the cause of my son Robert's absence; he was in bed with a
poultice on his face twenty-four hours, an' he'll no be himself for
days."
[Illustration: "'YOU ARE AN ILL-BRED C-CAD.'"]
"He is no in condeetion to lose time wi' his lessons, a' can tell ye,
Bailie; ye're richt to bring him back as sune as ye could; was't
toothache?"
"No, it wasna toothache, but the ill-usage o' one of your scholars, the
maist impudent, ill-doing, aggravating scoondrel in Muirtown."
"Peter McGuffie, come out here," which showed Bulldog's practical
acquaintance with affairs. "Did ye give Robert Cosh a licking?"
No answer from Speug, but a look of satisfaction that was beyond all
evidence.
"Was that just yir natural iniquity, Peter, or had ye a justification?"
Dogged silence of Speug, whose code of honour had one article at
least--never to tell on a fellow.
"Please, sir, may I speak?" cried Nestie, as he saw the preparations for
Peter's punishment and could not contain himself.
"Were you in this job, too, Nestie? You didn't tell me that there were
two at puir Robert, Bailie; if Nestie got his hand on your son, he's sic
a veeciously inclined character that it's a wonder Robert's leevin.'
"Now, Bailie, we'll conduct a judeecial investigation. Robert Cosh, what
have ye to say? Speak up like a man, an' I'll see justice done ye, be
sure o' that; but mind ye, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth."
Robert Cosh declined to contribute even the smallest morsel of truth in
any shape or form, and, in spite of strong encouragement from the
magistrate, preserved an impenetrable silence.
"This," said Bulldog, with a shrewd glance, "is mair than ordinary
modesty; we 'ill take another witness. Ernest Molyneux, what have ye got
to say?"
"Cosh called my father names, and ... I lost my t-temper, and ... and
... I said things ... the pater's ill, sir, so I ... and Cosh stwuck me
once or twice--but I don't mind that; only Peter, you see, sir, wanted
to help me. I'm afraid he h-hurtit Cosh, but that was how it happened."
"Stand beside Nestie, Cosh ... so; half a head taller and much broader
and four years older. Ye called his father names, and then cut his lip
when he answered. Just so. There are some pretty little scratches on yir
own face. That would be Peter. Well, Bailie, the case is pretty plain,
and we 'ill go to judgment.
"Ernest Molyneux, yir father's a good man, and it does not matter two
brass peens what Robert Cosh says about him, and ye're no an
ill-disposed laddie yersel.' Ye may go to your seat.
"Peter McGuffie, ye're aye meddlin' wi' what doesna concern ye, and ye
seem to think that Providence gave Nestie into yir chairge. One day ye
pull him oot o' the river, and anither ye take him oot o' the hands o'
Robert Cosh. But ye've done your wark sae neatly this time that I havena
the heart to thrash ye. Ye may go to your seat, too; and, Peter, ma
man, just one word of advice. Yir head is thick, but yir heart is richt;
see that ye always use yir fists as well as ye did that day.
"Robert Cosh, ye've had a fair trial, and ye have been convicted of
three heinous sins. First, ye miscalled a good man--for that three
strokes with the cane; next, ye ill-used the quietest laddie in the
whole school--for that three strokes; and, lastly, being moved of the
devil, ye went home and told lies to a magistrate--for that six strokes.
Three on each hand to-day and to-morrow will just settle the count.
Right hand first."
"Mr. MacKinnon, I protest...."
"What?" and Bulldog turned on the magistrate; "would ye interfere with
the course o' justice in another man's jureesdiction, and you a
magistrate?" And Bulldog's eyes began to rotate in a fearsome manner.
The Bailie allowed it to be understood that he had changed his mind, and
Robert, who had expected great things from the magistrate's protection,
abandoned himself to despair and walked humbly for many days to come.
Next day Nestie was not in his place, and Bulldog, growing uneasy,
called on his way home.
"Aye, aye," and the landlady's voice sank into the minor key of Scots
sympathy, "Maister Mollynoox (for such an outlandish name was ever a
trial) is far through wi't; the doctor says he never had much to come
an' go on, and noo this whup o' inflammation is the feenish.
"The doctor doesna expect him to see mornin', an' he's verra sober
(weak); but his head's clear, an' the laddie's wi' him. Ma hert is wae
(sorry) for him, for the twa hev been that bund up thegither that a'm
dootin' Nestie 'ill never get ower the pairtin'."
The gentle little minister was not far from his end, and Nestie was
nursing him as best he could. He sponged his father's face--threatening
to let the soap get into his eyes if he were not obedient--and dried it
with a soft towel; then he brushed the soft, thin brown hair slowly and
caressingly, as he had often done on Sundays when his father was weary.
Turning round, he saw Bulldog, and instead of being afraid, Nestie
smiled a pathetic welcome, which showed either what a poor actor the
master was, with all his canings, or that his English scholar was a very
shrewd little man.