Chris said that she thought it wasn’t so bad, and they came to a little bare patch in the moor, where the whins drew aside their skirts and stood quiet, and right in the middle a great stone lay, maybe a thing from the antique times, and Chris sat on it and clasped her knees, and Cis looked at her and then sat at her feet, Chris with her gold eyes closed in the sun, the run and wheep of the wind in her hair, the sun on her face: she could listen to it now, aloof and sure and untroubled by things. And she said to Cis Is the boy Dod Cronin?
So she’d heard it all as she sat knee-clasped, there, in the play of the wind and the sun, a tale so old—oh, old as the Howe, everlasting near as the granite hills, this thing that brought men and women together, to bring new life, to seek new birth, on and on since the world had begun. And it seemed to Chris it was not Cis alone, her tale—but all tales that she harkened to then, kisses and kindness and the pain of love, sharp and sweet, terrible, dark, and the wild, queer beauty of the hands of men, and their lips, and the sleeps of desire fulfilled, and the dark, strange movements of awareness alone, when it came on women what thing they carried, darkling, coming to life within them, new life to replenish the earth again, to come to being in the windy Howe where the cloud-ships sailed to the unseen south. She fell in a dream that went far from Cis, looking up and across the slow-peopled parks at the scaurs of the Mounth and its flying mists, beyond these the moving world of men, and back again to those clouds that marched, terrible, tenebrous, their pillars still south. A pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night.
She said I must think, I’ll get Robert to help; and Cis said The minister? and looked still more troubled. Oh, Mrs Colquohoun, what have men to do with it, it’s not their concern, they don’t understand. Dod doesn’t—he’s frightened—for me or himself, but he doesn’t know this, how queer it all is, and sickening, and fine—maybe I’m sickening myself to say that?
Chris said she thought she was sweet to say it, and put her arm round the shoulders of Cis, and the girl looked up, and her lips came to Chris’s; and Chris thought at that moment that no men could kiss—not as they should, they’d no notion of kissing…. Oh men, they were clumsy from the day they were breeked to the day they took off their breeks the last time!
The wind was coming in great gusts now, driving the riven boughs of the broom, in times it rose to a scraich round about and the moor seemed to cower in its trumpet-cry. Cloud Howe of the winds and the rains and the sun! All the earth that, Chris thought at that moment, it made little difference one way or the other where you slept or ate or had made your bed, in all the howes of the little earth, a vexing puzzle to the howes were men, passing and passing as the clouds themselves passed: but the real was below, unstirred and untouched, surely, if that were not also a dream. Robert with his dream of the night before, that Face and that Figure he had seen in the woods, Chris had listened to him with her head bent low, knowing she listened to a madman’s dream. And Robert to dream it! Robert who once followed a dream that at least had the wind in its hair, not this creep into fear and the fancies of old. But she’d seen then, clear and clear as he spoke, the Fear that had haunted his life since the War, Fear he’d be left with no cloud to follow, Fear he’d be left in the day alone and stand and look at his naked self. And with every hoping and plan that failed he turned to another, to hide from that fear, draping his dreams on the face of life as now this dream of the sorrowing Face…. And she’d shivered again at the filth of the thing, not looking as she heard that crack in his voice, he was saying he could almost have touched the Figure— God, Chris, it was him, whom I’ve never believed! I’ve thought Him only a Leader, a man, but Chris—I’ve looked on the face of God….
She’d sat and said nothing till that was impossible, so to sit silent, and raised up her eyes, misty with pity, yet repulsion as well. Robert had said quiet, And you don’t believe? And she said I don’t know, I don’t know—oh, I’ll try! And gripped his hand tight that he mightn’t ask more—
She jumped up then from that seat in the moor—Come on, I’m so hungry! and the two of them went on, through the whins with the scud of the clouds overhead, that patched their faces in the sharp sun-fall, a snipe was sounding up by the Wairds as they came to the shaven lands of the Reisk, shaven and shorn in the greed of the War. So, as they climbed they came on the farm, with the three beech trees, and, beyond the horizon, poised and glistening, the tumbling sea.
And when they had finished with drinking their milk and eating their cakes Chris offered to pay. But the farmer’s wife shook her head, she’d not have it, she’d heard of Chris from her son, she said, he lived in London and wrote horrible books: but he and Chris were at college together. Chris couldn’t mind much of the son at all, she supposed they’d met some time or another, but she didn’t say that, she and Cis cried their thanks, and went on down the road, it was afternoon, then, the sun had wheeled round and was on the west slant.
Down in Arbuthnott they found a bus and with that were carried down the road to Bervie, where the old brig hung by the lazy drifts of smoke from the Mills that lay in the hollow—mills half-idle, as were those of Segget, Bervie above them, a rickle and clutter. They got from the bus and looked at the shops, then went down to the sea by a straggling lane, the sea was pounding into the bay where no boats came because of the rocks—it frothed and spumed like a well-beaten egg, out east a fisher boat went by, into the mist and the Gourdon smell. Chris sat on a rock and looked at the sea, very wakeful, but Cis went to sleep in the sun, till Chris waked her up and they went back again, and found a new bus to take them to Stonehaven, where they’d get yet another to take them back, up the long roads, to Spring-green Segget.
And so, by the fall of night, they came back; and Chris was tired, but her mind made up. Not even for Robert could she change and pretend, though she’d not say a thing that would hurt, could she help. She had found in the moors and the sun and the sea her surety unshaken, lost maybe herself, but she followed no cloud, be it named or unnamed.
NEXT SABBATH THE minister stood up in the pulpit and preached from the Sermon on the Mount to Segget, he said that the Christ still walked the earth, bringing the only message that endured—though all else faded, that was undying, they must search out the Christ, each soul by himself, and find in himself what the world denied, the love of God and the fellowship of men.
Folk listened and thought the man a fair scunner, damn’t! you wanted a minister with spunk, whatever had come over this childe Colquohoun, bleating there soft as a new-libbed sheep? Once he’d glowered as though he would like to gut you, and thundered his politics, and you’d felt kittled up, though you didn’t believe a word that he’d said. But this Sunday he blethered away in the clouds, folk came out and went home and were real disappointed, minding the time when he’d said from the pulpit, right out, that Hairy Hogg was a monkey—damn’t! he’d fair fallen away since then.
And some of the spinners that came to the kirk, they were few enough now, remembered the name they had called the minister a long time back, they said that Creeping Jesus was back, he’d got feared at the gentry, the same as some others. Old Cronin himself it was that said that, and by others he meant his own son Jock that had led the Strike but a two years back, and had aye been a right coarse brute, folk thought, though fair the apple of his father’s eye. But Jock had gotten on well in Glasgow, where he’d lived in sin with Miss Jeannie Grant, he’d gotten a job on a union there and went lecturing here and went blethering there, in a fine new suit and a bowler hat, and spats, right trig, and brave yellow boots. And he’d married Miss Grant, a three weeks back, and they had a fine house on the Glasgow hills; and wherever he went Jock Cronin would preach alliance between all employers and employed, and say to the folk that came to hear him that they shouldn’t strike, but depend on their leaders—like himself; and take a smug look at his spats. When news of that came up to old Cronin, he cursed his son in a sickening way, and he said he’d never guessed he had fathered a Judas that could sel
l out the workers for that—not even for silver or a hungered guts, but spats, and a house on the Glasgow hills, and a craze for a white-legged quean in his bed.
Folk took a good laugh when they heard the news, Jock Cronin was showing some sense, they said, he fair had changed since the days when he’d go and break up the meetings of MacDougall Brown. Next MacDougall himself got a sore stammy-gaster, and so did the whole of Segget; it gasped. That tale of old Leslie’s had had the truth in it, though you’d hardly believe it again when you heard it—it was all a damned lie and Cis a fine quean.
But then, when you met with her out in the street, and looked, and heard the news from the Manse, she and Dod Cronin to be wed in a week—your throat went dry, you went into the Arms and had a bit dram and swore at the bitch, all the folk said she was a foul creature, but they said it with something catching their throats, they’d been proud of Cis, all Segget had been, and here she was showing herself in that way, no better than that tink Else Queen at the Manse.
Ake Ogilvie said it was only nature, Cis or Else or the whole jing-bang, what ailed the folk of Segget, he said, was that they’d seen Cis as they might have been—clean—and they’d liked her for what they had lost. He spoke that speak to John Muir, the roadman, Muir gleyed and skeuched and chewed the thing over, it didn’t make sense, Ake seldom did.
He went out to dig a bit grave after supper, the moon far up out over the Mounth, the sunset still far, though the lines lay long, in long slants across the hayfields of summer, and smoke drowsed low on the Segget roofs. In the kirkyard the grasses lay scythed as he’d left them, and he walked through that grass, there was some of it clover, bonnily scented with dead men’s manure. So he came to the kirkyard corner and stopped, and lighted his pipe and spat on his hands, and started in to dig the bit grave, for one of the old spinner wives of West Wynd.
All the land here about was thick with old graves, he’d soon have to stop or start carting the bones to a pit and bury them out and apart, to leave room for the rest of Segget down there, eating and sleeping and having its play, all coming to stour and a stink at the end. And Muir gleyed down at the grave and dug, and minded of Cis and the speak there was, Dod Cronin had been found a job in Dundon and he and the lass were moving up there, the best they could do to get out of their shame. God knew there wasn’t much shame in the thing, a lot overrated, this bedding with a quean—you worked yourself up and you got damned little, and where did it end then, all said and all done? Down here with the clay and the grass up above, be you rich, be you poor, unwedded like Cis, or as bonny as Mrs Colquohoun was bonny, or a shameless limmer like one of the queans that young Mr Mowat would bring to the House.
HE FAIR WAS a devil among women, young Mowat, gents were like that, Peter Peat said; but he’d time yet to settle down bravely in Segget and take his natural place at its head: and that was the Segget Conservative branch. Maybe he had had more queans than he should, but he’d settle down bravely yet, you would see. Ake Ogilvie said, No doubt—in his sharn, a tink-like speak, just what you expected, he was jealous as hell of the gentry, Ake, nearly as bad as that creature Moultrie that was now over stiff to crawl out at all.
One of the Mills had been idle for months, though young Mr Mowat had come back from his sail. He was no sooner back than a birn of the spinners went up to the House in a deputation. But when the deputation got there, and the servant had shown them into the hall, and they stood there twisting their caps, fell shy, they heard the crackle of a falling bottle and a hooting and laughing as though lunatics were loose; and out of a side-door a quean came running, without a stitch on, nothing but a giggle, she looked back and laughed at young Mowat behind her, running and laughing with his wee frog face; and up the stairs the two of them went.
Well, the deputation blushed from head to heel; syne one of them, the oldest operative there, said That’s where the cash goes we make in the Mills, and they looked from one to the other, old, hungry, and some of them were gey bitter, most of the dole, on starvation’s edge; and they stood in the rich, warm hall and looked round, at the log-wood fire and the gleam of deers’ heads, and the patterned walls and the thick, soft rugs. But the rest said nothing to the speak of the first, they knew it was useless trying to complain or to start that kind of socialist stuff that the Cronins of old had preached in the Mills, you’d seen the end of that with the Strike, young Mowat was the only hope of the Mills.
He came down at last and was charming, polite, and said it was Jahly to see them again. And he stood with his back to the fire and said Hwaw? and read them a lecture on the awful times, he said that taxation was killing the country, all they could hope at the coming election was that the Conservative folk would get back, stronger than ever in position and power, and reduce taxation on men like himself. Then perhaps he would manage to open the Mill. And he smiled at them, charming, with his horn-rimmed eyes, but he offered no drink, instead rang a bell, and the servant childe came and ushered them out; and young Mr Mowat said it had been Jahly; and that showed that he had a real good heart.
Now, that was the first Peter Peat had heard about young Mr Mowat and the wishes he had that the Tory Party should get back again, they’d been holding office but a bare five years and hadn’t yet had time to set things right, being busied with breaking strikes and the like, and freeing the working men from their unions, and seeing that we had a real strong navy, and trying to get the coarse foreign tinks to reduce their armies, a danger to Europe…. Peter Peat had these facts at his finger-tips and went up to the House to see Mr Mowat, and ask a subscription for the Segget branch. And Mr Mowat said it was Jahly to see him, Rahly Jahly, and sipped at his wine, and the quean did the same, exploding a giggle, sitting bare-legged on the back of his chair. Yes, he believed in Devolution for Scotland, but not this mad nationalism now rampant, only the Unionist Party would see that Scotland got her just dues in the end. And he told Peter more of the coarse new Nationalists, not the flower of the country’s gentry, as once, Scotland had lost her chance once again, the new leaders a pack of socialists and catholics, long-haired poets, a fellow called Grieve, and Mackenzie and Gunn, hysterical Highlandmen. Well, he had Jahly soon finished with them, and would be glad to give a donation some time to the branch of the Unionist Party in Segget.
And Peter Peat was fell happy at that—ay, the old blood flowed in the gentry’s veins.
THE AUTUMN CAME, the Election’s results, and Segget was fair stammy-gastered at them, the Labour tinks had gotten in power, led by that coarse brute Ramsay MacDonald. You minded him and the things he had said, long before, when the War was on?—that we shouldn’t be fighting the Germans, no, no, but leave them a-be, they were much too strong. Ay, that’s what he’d said and here he was now, at the head of the country, lording it about, and not even maybe saying Sir to the King. But others said the creature would fairly swank now, and get the King to make him a lord, or a duke or something: and Ake Ogilvie said he’d heard the title was Lord Loon of Lossie.
But that was just one of his ill-natured speaks, damn’t! was he against this Government as well?—after going to all that stour to vote Liberal, instead of decent and Tory like others. Hardly any of the spinners had voted at all, they just hung about and smoked their bit fags, or dug in their gardens back of the wynds, or stared at the Mills with their hungry eyes. But Ake Ogilvie had said he was voting Liberal, and had canvassed Segget for the Liberal childe, doing him a sight more harm than good, he said there was good in none of the parties, Labour or Tory or Liberal or any: but the Tory name fair stank in your throat, it was built on the purses and pride of the kind of half-witted loon that mismanaged the Mills; the Liberals were damn little better, he knew, but they had a great name that was worthy a vote.
Hardly a soul paid heed to his blethers, just smiled at him canny and said Well, we’ll see; and got ready for the polling day to come to ride to Laurencekirk in the Tory cars. Ake Ogilvie borrowed a Liberal car, and its driver, and waited in Segget Square; and the Tory cars pil
ed black with folk, getting off to vote for the gentry childes that had promised them reischles and reischles of tariffs; but not a damn soul looked near Alec Ogilvie, sitting with a sneering look in his car. And then the door of the Moultrie shop was flung wide open and who should come out, hoasting and hirpling slow on his stick, but that thrawn old billy, Rob Moultrie himself, leaning on a stick and his old wife’s shoulder, he hobbled and hirpled over to the car, near bent down double, Jess Moultrie beside him. Ake jumped from his seat and helped the two in, and stood back with a queer-like grin on his face—were these all who championed Liberty here?
But there was a fourth; Ake had grown tired and was crying to the shover that they might as well go, when he heard a hail and looked over his shoulder. And there was Mrs Colquohoun of the Manse, crossing the Square, running like a lad, with a spray of blood on her dark, soft skin. Sorry I’m late, Ake, she said, and jumped in; and Ake got in himself and could nearly have cuddled her.
But the Liberal man got a mighty few votes, the Tory got in, as you knew he would do, if the rest of the country had done half as well, where would these tinks of socialists have been? Selling spunks in the London streets, or that coarse brute Ramsay MacDonald’s tracts. And the Provost said in the Segget Arms ’twas an ill day this for our Scottish land. What was it the poet Robert Burns had written?—an ancestor, like, of the Hoggs, Rabbie Burns. A man’s a man for a’ that, he wrote, and by that he meant that poor folk of their kind should steer well clear of the gentry and such, not try to imitate them at all, and leave them to manage the country’s affairs.
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