Lochinvar: A Novel
Page 52
CHAPTER XLIX
THE CURATE OF DALRY
Peter McCaskill received the weight deftly, as though he had beenaccustomed all his life to be charged down upon without a moment'snotice by unconscious men.
"Easy does it, my lord," he said; "ye will soon be better. He's beenowertaken, ye see--a wee drappie does it on an empty stomach," heexplained to Jean Gordon. "Often hae I warned my folk--aye, even fraethe pulpit, the very horns o' the altar, as it were--no' to tak' drinkon an empty stomach!"
"Empty fiddlestick! Lay the laddie here!" cried Jean Gordon; "do ye no'see that the lad is deein' on his feet? He hasna seen drink for weeks,I'll wager--no, nor Christian meat either, by a' appearances."
She stopped to take off his boots. The soaked remnants of the sole cameaway in her hand.
"Mercy!" she cried, "the poor lad maun hae been in sore want. Tak' haudo' him soothly and tentily, Peter."
And so the kindly old lady, peering closely with her dim, short-sightedeyes, and the burly, red-gilled curate undressed Wat Gordon gently, andlaid him in the bed on which his mother had died--the flanking pillarsof which were hacked with the swords of the troopers from Carsphairnwho had come to seek him after the sentence of outlawry.
"Peety me!" said Jean Gordon, "what will we do wi' the puir laddie?I'll get him some broth gin he can tak' them."
So, in a trice, Wat, having come a little to himself, was sitting upand taking "guid broth o' the very best, wi' a beef-bane boiled toribbons intil't," as Jean Gordon nominated the savory stew, while shesat on the bed and fed him in mouthfuls with the only silver spoonGrier of Lag had left in the once well-plenished house of Lochinvar.
Wat sat fingering his gold heart and looking about him. He seemed likea man who has risen to the surface and finds himself unexpectedly in aboat after a nightmare experience of death in perilous deeps of the sea.
"Is there a horse about the house?" queried Wat, presently, looking atJean Gordon out of his hollow, purple-rimmed eyes.
She thought that he still dreamed or doted.
"A horse, my laddie!" she cried. "How should there be a horse abootthe house of Lochinvar? The stables were never so extensive that Iheard o'; and, troth, Rob Grier o' Lag, deil's lick-pot that he is,has no' left mony aboot the estates. There's a plough-horse ower byGordiestoun, if that's what ye want."
And in her heart she said, "It's a lee, Guid forgie me. But onything topacify the lad and get him asleep."
"I ken the best horse in a' this country-side," said the curate, goingback to his ale as if nothing had happened, "and that's muckle SandyGordon's chairger ower at the Earlstoun. He's roarin' at the Conventionin Edinburgh, I'se warrant, and he'll no' need 'Drumclog.' Gin ye hae anotion of the beast, I can borrow him for ye."
Wat started up with eager eyes.
"On the morning of the tenth have the horse at the loch-side, and Ishall be forever bound and obligated to ye."
The curate nodded his head like one that grants the smallest andeasiest favor.
"It shall be done; by six o' the clock Drumclog will be there, or myname is not Peter Mac--Eh! what is't, woman?" he exclaimed, turning alittle testily to Jean Gordon, who for the last minute had been nudginghim vehemently with her elbow to be quiet. "I'll no' haud my tonguefor a bletherin' auld wretch. I hae held my tongue ower often in thispairish. Gin the lad wants a horse, e'en let him hae a horse. It is aneo' the best symptoms that I ken o'. I mind weel, yince, when I was aladdie like him and in love--"
But the reminiscence of Peter McCaskill's early love was not destinedto be recorded, at least in this place, for Jean Gordon took the matterinto her own hands and pushed the indignant curate out of the room. Buteven as he went he turned in the doorway and said, "Bide ye still inyour bed the day, laddie. Ye shall find muckle Sandy Gordon's horse,Drumclog, at the west landing on the mornin' o' the tenth."
"Deil a fear o' ye," muttered Jean Gordon; "ye'll lie doucely andquietly in your bed till Jean gies ye leave to rise--tenth or no tenth!"
* * * * *
Then sleep descended like a brown hissing cloud upon the tortured souland weary body of Wat Gordon, and deep, dreamless, billowy oblivionheld him till the morrow. It was ten of the clock when he awoke, with afrenzied start, demanding how long he had slept.
Jean Gordon, in whose hands was the morning porridge-spurtle (and, asit were, the care of all the churches), tried the method of sarcasm.
"Weel, laddie," she said, "ye juist cam' here yestreen, and ginyesterday was the eighth, as Peter telled ye, ye will maybe be able tomak' oot that this will be the ninth. And come off the dead-cauld flagsthis instant with your bare feet, and you in a pour of sweat. There'snae sense ava in the callant! What are ye in sic a fyke for aboot thetenth and the tenth? Are the eleventh and the twelfth no' as guid days?Did the same Lord no' make them a'?"
Wat went back obediently to bed.
"Mind," he said, "if you are lying to me, you shall fry in hell-firefor that lie. For a man's life and soul are on your truth."
"The boy's fair dementit," cried Jean; "what for should auld JeanGordon lee to him? Tell me your trouble, laddie," she said, goingnearer to him. "For I've had trouble o' my ain a' my life, and weel Iken there are few things so evil that they canna be mended--that is, ifye are minded to stroke them the richt way o' the hair."
At this point Peter McCaskill was heard shuffling along the passage,but Jean was over quick for him. She rose and very promptly andunceremoniously shut the door in his face.
"Gae 'way wi' ye the noo, Peter," she said, peremptorily; "tak' thefish-pole and fetch in a fry o' trouts for the breakfast. Ye'll getnaething else to eat gin ye dinna."
"Noo, laddie," she said, sitting down beside Wat, with a world ofsympathetic invitation in her voice, "tell me a' your heart's trouble."
So, with a great sense of relief, Wat told the tale to the old lady,whose own love-trouble of fifty years before had kept her maiden allher life.
As he spoke, Jean stroked the hand which hung over the edge of the bed.
"Laddie, my laddie!" were all the articulate words she said, but shesoothed Wat with a little, low, continuous murmur of sound as hefretted and fumed at his helplessness.
"Ye shall get your lass--fear ye not that," she said, when he hadfinished. "I hae heard o' the wedding. They say the lass does naethingbut bide in her chamber and greet. She has fallen away to a shadow.But be that as it may, there is a great repair o' folk to the house o'Balmaghie. I saw a heap o' the queer, daftlike folk o' the north ridingby, wi' feathers in their checked bonnets, and tartan trews on theirhurdies--aye, trews of bonny tartan claith--ye never saw the like. Butye shall hae your lass, were it only to spite the menseless crew. Peterand me will help ye to her."
In what manner Jean Gordon was to help him Wat Gordon knew not--nor,for the matter of that, Peter McCaskill either--save by gettinghim the loan of his cousin Sandy's horse, and even that might be aHighlandman's loan--taken without the asking. But Wat said nothing,only laid him down contentedly, while Jean Gordon set off to providethe breakfast she had so abruptly denied to the curate.
Presently Peter came in with his trouts, for in the loch of Lochinvarthe spotted beauties were infinitely less shy and infrequent than inlater days they have become.
"_Benedictus benedicat!_" quoth Peter, who knew his Latin by ear, andsat him down.
"That's a daft, heathen-like grace," said Jean. "I shouldna wonder ginthe folks did rabble ye and tear your white clouts ower your head, ifye gied them balderdash like that in the pulpit."
The curate smiled a wry, discomfortable smile at the prophecy, butnevertheless he proceeded to take his breakfast with some fortitude,looking up occasionally to see that the trouts did not burn as theymade a pleasant skirling noise in the pan.
"There's nocht like a loch trout newly catched, in a' this bonny God'swarld," he said. "I wonder how men can be haythens and ill-doers whenthere's sic braw loch trout in Gallowa'! And burn trout are just asguid--in fact, there's some
that actually prefers them!"
All this day Jean Gordon might have been heard in solemn confabulationwith the curate, while Wat lay and listened to the din of their voices,sometimes uplifted in controversy, sometimes hushed in gossip, but evercoming to him pleasantly dulled and harmonized through the thick wallsand long echoing passages of the house of Lochinvar. It was a windy dayalso, and the water sang him a lullaby of his childhood, as it lappedand swished all about him, with a noise like the leafy boughs of treesbrushing against the foundations of his ancient castle.
"To-morrow! To-morrow! To-morrow!" said Wat, over and over to himself."To-morrow my die will be cast for life or death."