*CHAPTER XVII*
*AN ADOPTED SON*
It is needless to trace day by day the events of the next fortnight.Each morning found me with increasing strength. The good wife of thehouse was continually solicitous for my welfare, and had I been son ofhers she could not have bestowed more care upon me. She took a pride inevery sign of returning strength. Daily she brought me shreds of familygossip; news of the crops; news of the cattle; told me, with housewifelypride, how many chickens had come from her last sitting of eggs.
More than once, in our talk, I tried to turn the conversation to Mary;but never with much success. Shyness kept me from advances too direct.Sometimes she would tell me of the hill-men; and once she told me, withpride flashing in her eyes, of her son.
"He died," she said, "at Drumclog. It was a short, sharp fecht, and thedragoons reeled and fled before the Bonnets o' Blue. My laddie was sairwounded, and died in the arms o' guid Maister Main. His last words were:'Tell my mither no' to greet. It's been a graun' fecht, and oor side'swinnin'.'" There were no tears in her eyes as she told me the tale, butwhen she had finished she laid a hand upon my head and gently stroked myhair. "He was sic' anither as you, when he fell," and she turned andleft me. Of an evening the farmer would sometimes come up, bringingwith him a dambrod, and many a well-fought game we had together. Heplayed skilfully and usually won, which gave him considerablesatisfaction.
"Ye canna' beat Daldowie on the dambrod," he would say, with a twinklein his eyes. "Scotland owes little enough to Mary Stuart, the Jezebel,but she or some o' her following brocht this game wi' them, and that issomething they'll be able to say for themselves on the Judgment Day.They'll mak' a puir enough show that day, or I'm mistaken, but thedambrod will coont on their side."
When we had played for a week, and Saturday night came, he brought up aslate with a record of the score.
"It's like this, ye see," he said. "We've played a score and half o'games. I ha'e won a score and seven, and you won three--which yeshouldna' ha'e done ava' if I had opened richt and no foozled some o'the moves wi' my king. So ye're weel bate, and it's as weel for youthat I dinna' believe in playin' for money, or it is a ruined lad ye'dbe the nicht."
There was a gleam of satisfaction in his grey eyes, and I could see thatto have beaten me so soundly had given him great pleasure.
"We'll no play the nicht; it's gettin' ower near the Sabbath," hecontinued, "but I'll bate ye even better next week."
I should have been lacking in gratitude if I had not begun to develop awarm affection for my friends. Simple folks, their joys were simpleones, but they were both filled with the zest of life; and in spite ofthe daily peril in which they lived, sunshine, rather than clouds,seemed to overhang their dwelling.
There came a day when, after examining my ankle with care, the old mansaid: "I think we micht try to get ye on your legs," and he raised me inhis arms and set me on my feet. The garret spun round me, and the floorrose like the billows of the sea and would have swept me down had it notbeen for his strong arm.
"Steady lad, steady," he said. "Ye'll fin' your feet in a wee. Justshut your een for a minute and then open them again. I'll haud ye fast;dinna' be feart!"
I did as he bade me and found that the floor had become steady again;then, supported by his arm, I essayed to walk. To my joy I discoveredthat, though the effort cost me pain, I was able to walk from one end ofthe room to the other. The old man was delighted.
"Jean," he cried, "come awa' up to the laft. Bryden can walk," and I sawthe trap-door rise to admit her.
She stood with her hands on her hips: "It bates a'," she said. "Thenicht ye cam' I never thocht to see you on your legs again, but ha'e acare, Andra, the lad's weak yet; help him back intil his bed and I'llfetch him a bowl o' sheep's-heid broth for his supper."
And when I was comfortably settled once more, she was as good as herword.
Next day she brought me a strong ash stick, and with its help and theaid of her arm I was able to walk round the loft in some comfort.
Day by day my strength grew and I began to look forward to the hour whenI should be able to join my friends in the kitchen below, when I hopedto see Mary face to face. It may have been nothing more than acoincidence--though, as I listened eagerly, I flattered myself it mightbe for joy that I was so far recovered--that on the night I first beganto walk again, I heard Mary singing a song.
As the hour drew nearer when I should meet her, I began to be coveredwith confusion. How would she receive me?
At last the great day came. In the late afternoon Andrew brought me asuit of clothes.
"The wife sent ye them," he said. "She thocht they were nearer yoursize than the meenister's," and he laid them on the stool beside my bedand turned his back upon me: then brushing a sleeve across his eyes, hesaid: "I'm thinkin' it cost Jean a lot to tak' them oot o' the drawer;ye see they were Dauvit's."
Had I needed any proof of the love they bore me, I had it now. I was toenter the circle round their hearth clad in the garments of their deadson. I had learned enough of the quiet reserve of these hill-folks toknow that any words of mine would have been unseemly, so I held mypeace, and with the help of the good man put the garments on. Thenleaning on my stick and aided by his strong arm I walked to thetrap-door. Slowly I made my way down the ladder, guided at every step byAndrew who had preceded me, and by and by my feet touched the flaggedfloor of the kitchen. The old woman hurried to my side, and betweenthem they guided me to a large rush-bottomed chair set in the ingle-nookbeside the fire.
"Nae sae bad, nae sae bad," said the good wife. She looked at me when Iwas seated and with a sudden "Eh, my!" she turned and shoo'd with herapron a hen that had wandered into the kitchen.
Eagerly I looked round, but there was no sign of Mary. The peat smokewhich circled in acrid coils round the room stung my eyes and blurred myvision, but I was able to take note of the things around me. The kitchenwas sparsely furnished and scrupulously clean. Against one wall stood adresser with a row of china bowls, and above them a number of pewterplates. A "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked in a corner near. A settle stood onthe other side of the peat fire from that on which I was seated, and atable, with well-scoured top, occupied the middle of the floor.
The good man having satisfied himself that I was all right, went out,and his wife, taking a bowl from the dresser, filled it with water. Iwatched her as she proceeded with her baking. As she busied herself shetalked briskly.
"Ye ken," she said, "you ha'e been under this roof weel ower a month,and yet ye've never tellt us a word aboot yersel', mair than we fandoot. Hae ye got a mither o' your ain, and hoo did you, an Englishman,fin' yer way to this pairt o' the country? Weel I ken that, ever sinceScotland gi'ed ye a king, Scotsmen ha'e been fond o' crossin' theborder, but I never heard tell o' an Englishman afore that left his aincountry to come North, unless," she added, with a twinkle in her eye,"he cam' as a prisoner."
It was an invitation to unbosom myself, of which I was ready enough toavail me, and I told her some of my story. "So ye're College bred," shesaid. "That accounts for your nice ceevility.
"They tell me," she continued, "that England's a terrible rich country,that the soil is far kindlier than it is up here and that farmer bodieshaena' sic' a struggle as we ha'e in Scotland." She did not wait for myreply, but added: "I am thinkin' maybe that is why, as I ha'e heard, theEnglish ha'e na' muckle backbane, and are readier to listen to sic'trash as the Divine Richt o' Kings."
I tried to explain to her that it was the strain of monarchs whom we hadimported from Scotland who laid most stress upon this right, but, as Italked, a shadow filled the doorway, and, looking up, I saw Mary. Witha struggle I raised myself to my feet.
"Sit doon, sit doon," said the good-wife, "it's only oor Mary."
"You forget," I answered, "it is to your daughter, who found me, that Iowe my life. By rights I should kneel at her feet."
"Hear to him! If it
hadna' been for Mary's mither and the wey shelooked efter ye and fed ye wi' chicken soup and sheep's-heid broth,forby parritch and buttermilk and guid brose made by her ain hand, yewadna' be sittin' there!"
"Wheesht, mither, wheesht," said Mary: and with a smile in her eyes thatmade me think of the stars of the morning in a rose tinged sky, she heldout both her hands to me. I took them and bent to kiss them, but theywere hastily withdrawn, and looking up I saw a flush upon her cheeks,but I did not read resentment in her eyes.
"Ha'e ye fetched in the kye, Mary?" asked her mother.
"Aye," she replied, "they're a' in their stalls."
Indeed, one could hear the rattle of chains and the moving of hoofs onthe other side of the wall.
"Weel, ye'd better start the milkin'. I'll be oot in a wee to help ye,"and without a word more Mary took her departure. My ears were allalert, and, in a moment, I heard her slapping the flank of a cow. Thenher stool grated on the cobbles, and I caught the musical tinkle of themilk as it was drawn into the pail; and to my delight Mary began tosing.
I listened eagerly. She was singing a love song! The old woman heardher too, for she said: "Dae ye ken ocht aboot kye?" I hastened to tellher that I knew nothing. "Weel," she said, "it's a queer thing, but yecan aye get mair milk frae a coo if ye sing at the milkin'. If ye singa nice bricht tune ye'll get twa or three mair gills than if ye dinnasing ava. Noo, that's Meg she's milkin', and Meg has got near as mucklesense as a human being. On Sabbath, ye ken, it would be a terrible sinto sing a sang to the coo when ye're milkin' her, so I've got to fa'back on the psalms. But ye've got to be carefu'. For instance, if yesang the 'Auld Hundred' to Meg, ye wadna' get near sae muckle milk,because it's solemn-like, than ye wad if ye sang her a psalm that runsto the tune o' 'French.' Forby, I aince had a servant-lass that sang aparaphrase when she was milkin' Meg, and the puir cratur' was that upsetthat she was milked dry before the luggy was a quarter filled, and whenI went masel' to strip her, she put her fit in the pail--a thing I'venever kent her dae afore or since."
I laughed.
"Ay," she continued, "an' waur than that, the lass poured the luggy thatshe had drawn frae Meg among the other milk, and the whole lot turned.Sic' wastry I never kent afore, and ye may be sure that nae paraphrasehas ever been sung in my byre since. The guid man was that upset--no'wi' the loss o' the milk--but at the thocht that a paraphrase had beensung in his byre to his coo on the Sabbath day that on the Monday hegi'ed the wench notice."
"I should have thought," I said, "that Mary's voice would persuade themilk from the most reluctant cow."
"I dinna' ken aboot that," she answered: "She's no as guid a milker asher mother, and though my voice is timmer noo I'll guarantee to get mairmilk at a milkin' than ever Mary'll fetch ben the hoose."
I would fain have continued the conversation, but the baking was over,and the good woman left to join her daughter. Mary still sang on and Isat in rapture, my heart aglow.
Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times Page 17