For all that hour I had lived for nothing but the fight. My cap had been whisked away by the wind, but I had never given it a thought. Now with my heart full I turned upon my Cousin Edie, and the sight of her took me back six years. There was the vacant staring eye and the parted lips, just as I had seen them in her girlhood, and her little hands were clenched until the knuckles gleamed like ivory.
“Ah, that captain!” said she, talking to the heath and the whin-bushes. “There is a man so strong, so resolute! What woman would not be proud of a man like that?”
“Aye, he did well!” I cried with enthusiasm.
She looked at me as if she had forgotten my existence.
“I would give a year of my life to meet such a man,” said she. “But that is what living in the country means. One never sees anybody but just those who are fit for nothing better.”
I do not know that she meant to hurt me, though she was never very backward at that; but whatever her intention, her words seemed to strike straight upon a naked nerve.
“Very well, Cousin Edie,” I said, trying to speak calmly, “that puts the cap on it. I’ll take the bounty in Berwick to-night.”
“What, Jack! you be a soldier!”
“Yes, if you think that every man that bides in the country must be a coward.”
“Oh, you’d look so handsome in a red coat, Jack, and it improves you vastly when you are in a temper. I wish your eyes would always flash like that, for it looks so nice and manly. But I am sure that you are joking about the soldiering.”
“I’ll let you see if I am joking.”
Then and there I set off running over the moor, until I burst into the kitchen where my mother and father were sitting on either side of the ingle.
“Mother,” I cried, “I’m off for a soldier!”
Had I said I was off for a burglar they could not have looked worse over it, for in those days among the decent canny country folks it was mostly the black sheep that were herded by the sergeant. But, my word, those same black sheep did their country some rare service too. My mother put up her mittens to her eyes, and my father looked as black as a peat hole.
“Hoots, Jock, you’re daft,” says he.
“Daft or no, I’m going.”
“Then you’ll have no blessing from me.”
“Then I’ll go without.”
At this my mother gives a screech and throws her arms about my neck. I saw her hand, all hard and worn and knuckly with the work she had done for my up-bringing, and it pleaded with me as words could not have done. My heart was soft for her, but my will was as hard as a flint-edge. I put her back in her chair with a kiss, and then ran to my room to pack my bundle. It was already growing dark, and I had a long walk before me, so I thrust a few things together and hastened out. As I came through the side door someone touched my shoulder, and there was Edie in the gloaming.
“Silly boy,” said she, “you are not really going.”
“Am I not? You’ll see.”
“But your father does not wish it, nor your mother.”
“I know that.”
“Then why go?”
“You ought to know.”
“Why, then?”
“Because you make me!”
“I don’t want you to go, Jack.”
“You said it. You said that the folk in the country were fit for nothing better. You always speak like that. You think no more of me than of those doos in the cot. You think I am nobody at all. I’ll show you different.”
All my troubles came out in hot little spurts of speech. She coloured up as I spoke, and looked at me in her queer half-mocking, half-petting fashion.
“Oh, I think so little of you as that?” said she. “And that is the reason why you are going away? Well then, Jack, will you stay if I am — if I am kind to you?”
We were face to face and close together, and in an instant the thing was done. My arms were round her, and I was kissing her, and kissing her, and kissing her, on her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes, and pressing her to my heart, and whispering to her that she was all, all, to me, and that I could not be without her. She said nothing, but it was long before she turned her face aside, and when she pushed me back it was not very hard.
“Why, you are quite your rude, old, impudent self!” said she, patting her hair with her two hands. “You have tossed me, Jack; I had no idea that you would be so forward!”
But all my fear of her was gone, and a love tenfold hotter than ever was boiling in my veins. I took her up again, and kissed her as if it were my right.
“You are my very own now!” I cried. “I shall not go to Berwick, but
I’ll stay and marry you.”
But she laughed when I spoke of marriage.
“Silly boy! Silly boy!” said she, with her forefinger up; and then when I tried to lay hands on her again, she gave a little dainty curtsy, and was off into the house.
CHAPTER IV.
THE CHOOSING OF JIM.
And then there came those ten weeks which were like a dream, and are so now to look back upon. I would weary you were I to tell you what passed between us; but oh, how earnest and fateful and all-important it was at the time! Her waywardness; her ever-varying moods, now bright, now dark, like a meadow under drifting clouds; her causeless angers; her sudden repentances, each in turn filling me with joy or sorrow: these were my life, and all the rest was but emptiness. But ever deep down behind all my other feelings was a vague disquiet, a fear that I was like the man who set forth to lay hands upon the rainbow, and that the real Edie Calder, however near she might seem, was in truth for ever beyond my reach.
For she was so hard to understand, or, at least, she was so for a dull-witted country lad like me. For if I would talk to her of my real prospects, and how by taking in the whole of Corriemuir we might earn a hundred good pounds over the extra rent, and maybe be able to build out the parlour at West Inch, so as to make it fine for her when we married, she would pout her lips and droop her eyes, as though she scarce had patience to listen to me. But if I would let her build up dreams about what I might become, how I might find a paper which proved me to be the true heir of the laird, or how, without joining the army, which she would by no means hear of, I showed myself to be a great warrior until my name was in all folks’ mouths, then she would be as blithe as the May. I would keep up the play as well as I could, but soon some luckless word would show that I was only plain Jock Calder of West Inch, and out would come her lip again in scorn of me. So we moved on, she in the air and I on the ground; and if the rift had not come in one way, it must in another.
It was after Christmas, but the winter had been mild, with just frost enough to make it safe walking over the peat bogs. One fresh morning Edie had been out early, and she came back to breakfast with a fleck of colour on her cheeks.
“Has your friend the doctor’s son come home, Jack?” says she.
“I heard that it was expected.”
“Ah! then it must have been him that I met on the muir.”
“What! you met Jim Horscroft?”
“I am sure it must be he. A splendid-looking man — a hero, with curly black hair, a short, straight nose, and grey eyes. He had shoulders like a statue, and as to height, why, I suppose that your head, Jack, would come up to his scarf-pin.”
“Up to his ear, Edie!” said I indignantly. “That is, if it was Jim. But tell me. Had he a brown wooden pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth?”
“Yes, he was smoking. He was dressed in grey, and he has a grand deep strong voice.”
“Ho, ho! you spoke to him!” said I.
She coloured a little, as if she had said more than she meant.
“I was going where the ground was a little soft, and he warned me of it,” she said.
“Ah! it must have been dear old Jim,” said I. “He should have been a doctor years back, if his brains had been as strong as his arm. Why, heart alive, here is the very man himself!”
I had seen him through the kitchen wi
ndow, and now I rushed out with my half-eaten bannock in my hand to greet him. He ran forward too, with his great hand out and his eyes shining.
“Ah! Jock,” he cried, “it’s good to see you again. There are no friends like the old ones.”
Then suddenly he stuck in his speech, and stared with his mouth open over my shoulder. I turned, and there was Edie, with such a merry, roguish smile, standing in the door. How proud I felt of her, and of myself too, as I looked at her!
“This is my cousin, Miss Edie Calder, Jim,” said I.
“Do you often take walks before breakfast, Mr. Horscroft?” she asked, still with that roguish smile.
“Yes,” said he, staring at her with all his eyes.
“So do I, and generally over yonder,” said she. “But you are not very hospitable to your friend, Jack. If you do not do the honours, I shall have to take your place for the credit of West Inch.”
Well, in another minute we were in with the old folk, and Jim had his plate of porridge ladled out for him; but hardly a word would he speak, but sat with his spoon in his hand staring at Cousin Edie. She shot little twinkling glances across at him all the time, and it seemed to me that she was amused at his backwardness, and that she tried by what she said to give him heart.
“Jack was telling me that you were studying to be a doctor,” said she. “But oh, how hard it must be, and how long it must take before one can gather so much learning as that!”
“It takes me long enough,” Jim answered ruefully; “but I’ll beat it yet.”
“Ah! but you are brave. You are resolute. You fix your eyes on a point and you move on towards it, and nothing can stop you.”
“Indeed, I’ve little to boast of,” said he. “Many a one who began with me has put up his plate years ago, and here am I but a student still.”
“That is your modesty, Mr. Horscroft. They say that the bravest are always humble. But then, when you have gained your end, what a glorious career — to carry healing in your hands, to raise up the suffering, to have for one’s sole end the good of humanity!”
Honest Jim wriggled in his chair at this.
“I’m afraid I have no such very high motives, Miss Calder,” said he. “It’s to earn a living, and to take over my father’s business, that I do it. If I carry healing in one hand, I have the other out for a crown-piece.”
“How candid and truthful you are!” she cried; and so they went on, she decking him with every virtue, and twisting his words to make him play the part, in the way that I knew so well. Before he was done I could see that his head was buzzing with her beauty and her kindly words. I thrilled with pride to think that he should think so well of my kin.
“Isn’t she fine, Jim?” I could not help saying when we stood outside the door, he lighting his pipe before he set off home.
“Fine!” he cried; “I never saw her match!”
“We’re going to be married,” said I.
The pipe fell out of his mouth, and he stood staring at me. Then he picked it up and walked off without a word. I thought that he would likely come back, but he never did; and I saw him far off up the brae, with his chin on his chest.
But I was not to forget him, for Cousin Edie had a hundred questions to ask me about his boyhood, about his strength, about the women that he was likely to know; there was no satisfying her. And then again, later in the day, I heard of him, but in a less pleasant fashion.
It was my father who came home in the evening with his mouth full of poor Jim. He had been deadly drunk since midday, had been down to Westhouse Links to fight the gipsy champion, and it was not certain that the man would live through the night. My father had met Jim on the highroad, dour as a thunder-cloud, and with an insult in his eye for every man that passed him. “Guid sakes!” said the old man. “He’ll make a fine practice for himsel’, if breaking banes will do it.”
Cousin Edie laughed at all this, and I laughed because she did; but I was not so sure that it was funny.
On the third day afterwards, I was going up Corriemuir by the sheep-track, when who should I see striding down but Jim himself. But he was a different man from the big, kindly fellow who had supped his porridge with us the other morning. He had no collar nor tie, his vest was open, his hair matted, and his face mottled, like a man who has drunk heavily overnight. He carried an ash stick, and he slashed at the whin-bushes on either side of the path.
“Why, Jim!” said I.
But he looked at me in the way that I had often seen at school when the devil was strong in him, and when he knew that he was in the wrong, and yet set his will to brazen it out. Not a word did he say, but he brushed past me on the narrow path and swaggered on, still brandishing his ash-plant and cutting at the bushes.
Ah well, I was not angry with him. I was sorry, very sorry, and that was all. Of course I was not so blind but that I could see how the matter stood. He was in love with Edie, and he could not bear to think that I should have her. Poor devil, how could he help it? Maybe I should have been the same. There was a time when I should have wondered that a girl could have turned a strong man’s head like that, but I knew more about it now.
For a fortnight I saw nothing of Jim Horscroft, and then came the
Thursday which was to change the whole current of my life.
I had woke early that day, and with a little thrill of joy which is a rare thing to feel when a man first opens his eyes. Edie had been kinder than usual the night before, and I had fallen asleep with the thought that maybe at last I had caught the rainbow, and that without any imaginings or make-believes she was learning to love plain, rough Jock Calder of West Inch. It was this thought, still at my heart, which had given me that little morning chirrup of joy. And then I remembered that if I hastened I might be in time for her, for it was her custom to go out with the sunrise.
But I was too late. When I came to her door it was half-open and the room empty. Well, thought I, at least I may meet her and have the homeward walk with her. From the top of Corriemuir hill you may see all the country round; so, catching up my stick, I swung off in that direction. It was bright, but cold, and the surf, I remember, was booming loudly, though there had been no wind in our parts for days. I zigzagged up the steep pathway, breathing in the thin, keen morning air, and humming a lilt as I went, until I came out, a little short of breath, among the whins upon the top. Looking down the long slope of the farther side, I saw Cousin Edie, as I had expected; and I saw Jim Horscroft walking by her side.
They were not far away, but too taken up with each other to see me. She was walking slowly, with the little petulant cock of her dainty head which I knew so well, casting her eyes away from him, and shooting out a word from time to time. He paced along beside her, looking down at her and bending his head in the eagerness of his talk. Then as he said something, she placed her hand with a caress upon his arm, and he, carried off his feet, plucked her up and kissed her again and again. At the sight I could neither cry out nor move, but stood, with a heart of lead and the face of a dead man, staring down at them. I saw her hand passed over his shoulder, and that his kisses were as welcome to her as ever mine had been.
Then he set her down again, and I found that this had been their parting; for, indeed, in another hundred paces they would have come in view of the upper windows of the house. She walked slowly away, with a wave back once or twice, and he stood looking after her. I waited until she was some way off, and then down I came, but so taken up was he, that I was within a hand’s-touch of him before he whisked round upon me. He tried to smile as is eye met mine.
“Ah, Jock,” says he, “early afoot!”
“I saw you!” I gasped; and my throat had turned so dry that I spoke like a man with a quinsy.
“Did you so?” said he, and gave a little whistle. “Well, on my life, Jock, I’m not sorry. I was thinking of coming up to West Inch this very day, and having it out with you. Maybe it’s better as it is.”
“You’ve been a fine friend!” said I.
“Well now, be reasonable, Jock,” said he, sticking his hands into his pockets and rocking to and fro as he stood. “Let me show you how it stands. Look me in the eye, and you’ll see that I don’t lie. It’s this Way. I had met Edi — Miss Calder that is — before I came that morning, and there were things which made me look upon her as free; and, thinking that, I let my mind dwell on her. Then you said she wasn’t free, but was promised to you, and that was the worst knock I’ve had for a time. It clean put me off, and I made a fool of myself for some days, and it’s a mercy I’m not in Berwick gaol. Then by chance I met her again — on my soul, Jock, it was chance for me — and when I spoke of you she laughed at the thought. It was cousin and cousin, she said; but as for her not being free, or you being more to her than a friend, it was fool’s talk. So you see, Jock, I was not so much to blame, after all: the more so as she promised that she would let you see by her conduct that you were mistaken in thinking that you had any claim upon her. You must have noticed that she has hardly had a word for you for these last two weeks.”
I laughed bitterly.
“It was only last night,” said I, “that she told me that I was the only man in all this earth that she could ever bring herself to love.”
Jim Horscroft put out a shaking hand and laid it on my shoulder, while he pushed his face forward to look into my eyes.
“Jock Calder,” said he, “I never knew you tell a lie. You are not trying to score trick against trick, are you? Honest now, between man and man.”
“It’s God’s truth,” said I.
He stood looking at me, and his face had set like that of a man who is having a hard fight with himself. It was a long two minutes before he spoke.
“See here, Jock!” said he. “This woman is fooling us both. D’you hear, man? she’s fooling us both! She loves you at West Inch, and she loves me on the braeside; and in her devil’s heart she cares a whin-blossom for neither of us. Let’s join hands, man, and send the hellfire hussy to the right-about!”
But this was too much. I could not curse her in my own heart, and still less could I stand by and hear another man do it; not though it was my oldest friend.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 352