by Neil Munro
CHAPTER XVII
WITNESSES THE LAST OF A BLATE YOUNG MAN
And all this time it may well be wondered where was my remorse for ashot fired on the moor of Mearns, for two wretched homes created by mypassion and my folly. And where, in that shifting mind of mine, was theplace of Isobel Fortune, whose brief days of favour for myself (if that,indeed, was not imagination on my part) had been the cause of these mywanderings? There is one beside me as I write, ready to make allowancefor youth and ignorance, the untutored affection, the distraught mind,if not for the dubiety as to her feelings for myself when I was outlawedfor a deed of blood and had taken, as the Highland phrase goes, theworld for my pillow.
I did not forget the girl of Kirkillstane; many a time in the inwardvisions of the night, and of the day too, I saw her go about thatfar-off solitary house in the hollow of the hills. Oddly enough, 'twasever in sunshine I saw her, with her sun-bonnet swinging from itsribbons and her hand above her eyes, shading them that she might lookacross the fields that lay about her home, or on a tryst of fancy bythe side of Earn, hearing the cushats mourn in a magic harmony with hermelancholy thoughts. As for the killing of young Borland, that I kept,waking at least, from my thoughts, or if the same intruded, I found iteasier, as time passed, to excuse myself for a fatality that had been inthe experience of nearly every man I now knew--of Clancarty and Thurot,of the very baker in whose house I lodged and who kneaded the dough forhis little bread not a whit the less cheerily because his hands had beenimbrued.
The late Earl of Clare, in France called the Marechal Comte de Thomond,had come to Dunkerque in the quality of Inspector-General of the Armiesof France, to review the troops in garrison and along that menacingcoast. The day after my engagement with Father Hamilton I finished myFrench lesson early and went to see his lordship and his army on thedunes to the east of the town. Cannon thundered, practising at marks farout in the sea; there was infinite manoeuvring of horse and foot;the noon was noisy with drums and the turf shook below the hoofs ofgalloping chargers. I fancy it was a holiday; at least, as I recallthe thing, Dunkerque was all _en fete_, and a happy and gay populacegathered in the rear of the marechales flag. Who should be there amongthe rest, or rather a little apart from the crowd, but Miss Walkinshaw!She had come in a chair; her dainty hand beckoned me to her side almostas soon as I arrived.
"Now, that's what I must allow is very considerate," said she, eyeingmy red shoes, which were put on that day from some notion of propersplendour.
"Well considered?" I repeated.
"Just well considered," said she. "You know how much it would please meto see you in your red shoes, and so you must put them on."
I was young in these days, and, like the ass I was, I quickly set aboutdisabusing her mind of a misapprehension that injured her nor me.
"Indeed, Miss Walkinshaw," said I, "how could I do that when I did notknow you were to be here? You are the last I should have expected to seehere."
"What!" she exclaimed, growing very red. "Does Mr. Greig trouble himselfso much about the _convenances?_ And why should I not be here if I havethe whim? Tell me that, my fastidious compatriot."
Here was an accountable flurry over a thoughtless phrase!
"No reason in the world that I know of," said I gawkily, as red asherself, wondering what it was my foot was in.
"That you know of," she repeated, as confused as ever. "It seems tome, Mr. Greig, that the old gentleman who is tutoring you in the Frenchlanguage would be doing a good turn to throw in a little of the mannersof the same. Let me tell you that I am as much surprised as you can beto find myself here, and now that you are so good as to put me in mindof the--of the--of the _convenances_, I will go straight away home. Itwas not the priest, nor was it Captain Thurot that got your ear, forthey are by the way of being gentlemen; it could only have been thisIrishman Clancarty--the quality of that country have none of thescrupulosity that distinguishes our own. You can tell his lordship, nexttime you see him, that Miss Walkinshaw will see day about with him forthis."
She ordered her chairmen to take her home, and then--burst into tears!
I followed at her side, in a stew at my indiscoverable blundering, my_chapeau-de-bras_ in my hand, and myself like to greet too for sympathyand vexation.
"You must tell me what I have done, Miss Walkinshaw," I said. "Heavenknows I have few enough friends in this world without losing your goodopinion through an offence of whose nature I am entirely ignorant."
"Go away!" she said, pushing my fingers from the side of her chair, thatwas now being borne towards the town.
"Indeed, and I shall not, Miss Walkinshaw, asking your pardon for thefreedom," I said, "for here's some monstrous misconception, and I mustclear myself, even at the cost of losing your favour for ever."
She hid her face in her handkerchief and paid no more heed tome. Feeling like a mixture of knave and fool, I continued to walkdeliberately by her side all the way into the Rue de la Boucherie. Shedismissed the chair and was for going into the house without letting aneye light on young persistency.
"One word, Miss Walkinshaw," I pleaded. "We are a Scottish man and aScottish woman, our leelones of all our race at this moment in thisstreet, and it will be hard-hearted of the Scottish woman if she willnot give her fellow countryman, that has for her a respect and anaffection, a chance to know wherein he may have blundered."
"Respect and affection," she said, her profile turned to me, her foot onthe steps, visibly hesitating.
"Respect and affection," I repeated, flushing at my own boldness.
"In spite of Clancarty's tales of me?" she said, biting her nether lipand still manifestly close on tears.
"How?" said I, bewildered. "His lordship gave me no tales that I knowof."
"And why," said she, "be at such pains to tell me you wondered I shouldbe there?"
I got very red at that.
"You see, you cannot be frank with me, Mr. Greig," she said bitterly.
"Well, then," I ventured boldly, "what I should have said was that Ifeared you would not be there, for it's there I was glad to see you. AndI have only discovered that in my mind since you have been angry with meand would not let me explain myself."
"What!" she cried, quite radiant, "and, after all, the red shoon werenot without a purpose? Oh, Mr. Greig, you're unco' blate! And, to tellyou the truth, I was just play-acting yonder myself. I was only makingbelieve to be angry wi' you, and now that we understand each ither youcan see me to my parlour."
"Well, Bernard," she said to the Swiss as we entered, "any news?"
He informed her there was none.
"What! no one called?" said she with manifest disappointment.
"_Personne, Madame_."
"No letters?"
Nor were there any letters, he replied.
She sighed, paused irresolute a moment with her foot on the stair, onehand at her heart, the other at the fastening of her coat, and looked atme with a face almost tragic in its trouble. I cannot but think she wason the brink of a confidence, but ere it came she changed her mind anddashed up the stair with a tra-la-la of a song meant to indicate herindifference, leaving me a while in her parlour while she changedher dress. She came back to me in a little, attired in a paleprimrose-coloured paduasoy, the cuffs and throat embroidered in apattern of roses and leaves, her hair unpowdered and glossy, wantoningin and out of a neck beyond description. The first thing she did onentrance was odd enough, for it was to stand over me where I loungedon her settee, staring down into my eyes until I felt a monstrousembarrassment.
"I am wonderin'," said she, "if ye are the man I tak' ye for."
Her eyes were moist; I saw she had been crying in her toilet room.
"I'm just the man you see," I said, "but for some unco' troubles thatare inside me and are not for airing to my friends on a fine day inDunkerque."
"Perhaps, like the lave of folks, ye dinna ken yoursel'," she went on,speaking with no sprightly humour though in the Scots she was given tofall to in her moments
of fun. "All men, Mr. Greig, mean well, but mostof them fall short of their own ideals; they're like the women in that,no doubt, but in the men the consequence is more disastrous."
"When I was a girl in a place you know," she went on even more soberly,"I fancied all men were on the model of honest John Walkinshaw--betterwithin than without. He was stern to austerity, demanding the lastparticle of duty from his children, and to some he might seem hard, butI have never met the man yet with a kinder heart, a pleasanter mind, amore pious disposition than John Walkin-shaw's. It has taken ten years,and acquaintance with some gentry not of Scotland, to make it plain thatall men are not on his model."
"I could fancy not, to judge from his daughter," I said, blushing at myfirst compliment that was none the less bold because it was sincere.
At that she put on a little mouth and shrugged her shoulders with ashiver that made the snaps in her ears tremble.
"My good young man," said she, "there you go! If there's to be anyfriendship between you and Clementina Walkinshaw, understand there mustbe a different key from that. You are not only learning your French, butyou are learning, it would seem, the manners of the nation. It was thatmade me wonder if you could be the man I took you for the first day youwere in this room and I found I could make you greet with a Scots sang,and tell me honestly about a lass you had a notion of and her no' me.That last's the great stroke of honesty in any man, and let me tell youthere are some women who would not relish it. But you are in a companyhere so ready with the tongue of flattery that I doubt each word theyutter, and that's droll enough in me that loves my fellow creatures, andused to think the very best of every one of them. If I doubt them nowI doubt them with a sore enough heart, I'll warrant you. Oh! am I notsorry that my man of Mearns should be put in the reverence of suchcreatures as Clancarty and Thurot, and all that gang of worldlings? I donot suppose I could make you understand it, Mr. Paul Greig, but I feelmotherly to you, and to see my son--this great giant fellow who kens thetown of Glasgow and dwelt in Mearns where I had May milk, and speaks wi'the fine Scots tongue like mysel' when his heart is true--to see him theboon comrade with folks perhaps good enough for Clementina Walkinshawbut lacking a particle of principle, is a sight to sorrow me."
"And is it for that you seek to get me away with the priest?" I asked,surprised at all this, and a little resenting the suggestion of youthimplied in her feeling like a mother to me. Her face was lit, hermovement free and beautiful; something in her fascinated me.
She dropped in a chair and pushed the hair from her ears with a handlike milk, and laughed.
"Now how could you guess?" said she. "Am I no' the careful mother ofyou to put you in the hands o' the clergy? I doubt this play-actingrhetorician of a man from Dixmunde is no great improvement on the restof your company when all's said and done, but you'll be none the worsefor seeing the world at his costs, and being in other company thanClancarty's and Thurot's and Roscommon's. He told me to-day you weregoing with him, and I was glad that I had been of that little service toyou."
"Then it seems you think so little of my company as to be willing enoughto be rid of me at the earliest opportunity," I said, honestly somewhatpiqued at her readiness to clear me out of Dunkerque.
She looked at me oddly. "Havers, Mr. Greig!" said she, "just havers!"
I was thanking her for her offices, but she checked me. "You are welloff," she said, "to be away from here while these foolish manouvringsare on foot. Poor me! I must bide and see them plan the breaking downof my native country. It's a mercy I know in what a fiasco it will end,this planning. Hearken! Do you hear the bugles? That's Soubise goingback to the caserne. He and his little men are going back to eat anotherdinner destined to assist in the destruction of an island where you andI should be this day if we were wiser than we are. Fancy them destroyingBritain, Mr. Greig!--Britain, where honest John Walkinshaw is, thatnever said an ill word in his life, nor owed any man a penny: where thefolks are guid and true, and fear God and want nothing but to be left totheir crofts and herds. If it was England--if it was the palace of SaintJames--no, but it's Scotland, too, and the men you saw marching up anddown to-day are to be marching over the moor o' Mearns when theheather's red. Can you think of it?" She stamped her foot. "Where thewee thack hooses are at the foot o' the braes, and the bairns playingunder the rowan trees; where the peat is smelling, and the burns aresinging in the glens, and the kirk-bells are ringing. Poor Mr. Greig!Are ye no' wae for Scotland? Do ye think Providence will let a man likeThomond ye saw to-day cursing on horseback--do ye think Providence willlet him lead a French army among the roads you and I ken so well,affronting the people we ken too, who may be a thought dull in thematter of repartee, but are for ever decent, who may be hard-visaged,but are so brave?"
She laughed, herself, half bitterly, half contemptuously, at the pictureshe drew. Outside, in the sunny air of the afternoon, the bugles ofSoubise filled the street with brazen cries, and nearer came the roarof pounding drums. I thought I heard them menacing the sleep of eveningvalleys far away, shattering the calm of the hearth of Hazel Den.
"The cause for which--for which so many are exile here," I said, lookingon this Jacobite so strangely inconsistent, "has no reason to regretthat France should plan an attack on Georgius Rex."
She shook her head impatiently. "The cause has nothing to do with it,Mr. Greig," said she. "The cause will suffer from this madness more thanever it did, but in any case 'tis the most miserable of lost causes."
"Prince Charlie-"
"Once it was the cause with me, now I would sooner have it Scotland,"she went on, heedless of my interruption. "Scotland! Scotland! Oh, howthe name of her is like a dirge to me, and my heart is sore for her!Where is your heart, Mr. Greig, that it does not feel alarm at theprospect of these _crapauds_ making a single night's sleep uneasy forthe folks you know? Where is your heart, I'm asking?"
"I wish I knew," said I impulsively, staring at her, completelybewitched by her manner so variable and intense, and the strayingtendrils of her hair.
"Do you not?" said she. "Then I will tell you. It is where it ought tobe--with a girl of the name of Isobel Fortune. Oh, the dear name! oh,the sweet name! And when you are on your travels with this priest do notbe forgetting her. Oh, yes! I know you will tell me again that all isover between the pair of you, and that she loved another--but I am notbelieving a word of that, Mr. Greig, when I look at you--(and will yesay 'thank ye' for the compliment that's there?)--you will just go onthinking her the same, and you will be the better man for it. There'ssomething tells me she is thinking of you though I never saw her, thedear! Let me see, this is what sort of girl she will be."
She drew her chair closer to the settee and leaned forward in frontof me, and, fixing her eyes on mine, drew a picture of the girl ofKirkillstane as she imagined her.
"She will be about my own height, and with the same colour of hair-"
"How do you know that? I never said a word of that to you," I cried,astonished at the nearness of her first guess.
"Oh, I'm a witch," she cried triumphantly, "a fair witch. Hoots! do Ino' ken ye wadna hae looked the side o' the street I was on if Ihadna put ye in mind o' her? Well, she's my height and colour--but,alack-a-day, no' my years. She 'll have a voice like the mavis forsweetness, and 'll sing to perfection. She'll be shy and forward inturns, accordin' as you are forward and shy; she 'll can break yourheart in ten minutes wi' a pout o' her lips or mak' ye fair dizzy withdelight at a smile. And then"--here Miss Walkinshaw seemed carried awayherself by her fancy portrait, for she bent her brows studiously as shethought, and seemed to speak in an abstraction--"and then she'll be amanaging woman. She'll be the sort of woman that the Bible tells ofwhose value is over rubies; knowing your needs as you battle with theworld, and cheerful when you come in to the hearthstone from the turmoiloutside. A witty woman and a judge of things, calm but full of fire inyour interests. A household where the wife's a doll is a cart with onewheel, and your Isobel will be the perfect woman. I think she must havetrave
lled some, too, and seen how poor is the wide world compared withwhat is to be found at your own fire-end; I think she must have hadtrials and learned to be brave."
She stopped suddenly, looked at me and got very red in the face.
"A fine picture, Miss Walkinshaw!" said I, with something drumming at myheart. "It is not just altogether like Isobel Fortune, who has long syneforgot but to detest me, but I fancy I know who it is like."
"And who might that be?" she asked in a low voice and with a somewhatguilty look.
"Will I tell you?" I asked, myself alarmed at my boldness.
"No! no! never mind," she cried. "I was just making a picture of agirl I once knew--poor lass! and of what she might have been. But she'sdead--dead and buried. I hope, after all, your Isobel is a nobler womanthan the one I was thinking on and a happier destiny awaiting her."
"That cannot matter much to me now," I said, "for, as I told you, thereis nothing any more between us--except--except a corp upon the heather."
She shuddered as she did the first time I told her of my tragedy, andsucked in the air again through her clenched teeth.
"Poor lad! poor lad!" said she. "And you have quite lost her. If so, andthe thing must be, then this glass coach of Father Hamilton's must takeyou to the country of forgetfulness. I wish I could drive there myselfthis minute, but wae's me, there's no chariot at the _remise_ that'll dothat business for John Walkinshaw's girl."
Something inexpressively moving was in her mien, all her heart was inher face as it seemed; a flash of fancy came to me that she was alone inthe world with nothing of affection to hap her round from its abrasions,and that her soul was crying out for love. Sweet beyond expression wasthis woman and I was young; up to my feet I rose, and turned on her aface that must have plainly revealed my boyish passion.
"Miss Walkinshaw," I said, "you may put me out of this door for ever,but I'm bound to say I'm going travelling in no glass coach; Dunkerquewill be doing very well for me."
Her lips trembled; her cheek turned pale; she placed a hand upon herbreast, and there was I contrite before her anger!
"Is this--is this your respect and your esteem, Mr. Greig?" she askedbrokenly.
"They were never greater than at this moment," I replied.
"And how are they to be manifested by your waiting on in Dunkerque?" sheasked, recovering her colour and some of her ordinary manner.
How indeed? She had no need to ask me the question, for it was alreadyringing through my being. That the Spoiled Horn from Mearns, an outlawwith blood on his hands and borrowed money in his pocket, should havethe presumption to feel any ardour for this creature seemed preposterousto myself, and I flushed in an excess of shame and confusion.
This seemed completely to reassure her. "Oh, Mr. Greig--Mr. Greig, was Inot right to ask if ye were the man ye seemed? Here's a nice display o'gallantry from my giant son! I believe you are just makin' fun o' thisauld wife; and if no' I hae just one word for you, Paul Greig, and it'sthis that I said afore--jist havers!"
She went to her spinet and ran her fingers over the keys and broke intoa song--
Oh, what ails the laddie, new twined frae his mither? The laddie gallantin' roun' Tibbie and me?--
with glances coquettish yet repelling round her shoulder at me as Istood turning my _chapeau-de-bras_ in my hand as a boy turns his bonnetin presence of laird or dominie. The street was shaking now with thesound of marching soldiers, whose platoons were passing in a momentarysilence of trumpet or drum. All at once the trumpets blared forthjust in front of the house, broke upon her song, and gave a heavensentdiversion to our comedy or tragedy or whatever it was in the parlour.
We both stood looking out at the window for a while in silence, watchingthe passing troops, and when the last file had gone, she turned with achange of topic "If these men had been in England ten years ago," shesaid, "when brisk affairs were doing there with Highland claymores, yourUncle Andrew would have been there, too, and it would not perhaps beyour father who was Laird of Hazel Den. But that's all by with now. Andwhen do you set out with Father Hamilton?"
She had a face as serene as fate; my heart ached to tell her that Iloved her, but her manner made me hold my tongue on that.
"In three days," I said, still turning my hat and wishing myselfelsewhere, though her presence intoxicated.
"In three days!" she said, as one astonished. "I had thought it had beena week at the earliest. Will I tell you what you might do? You are mygreat blate bold son, you know, from the moors of Mearns, and I will bewae, wae, to think of you travelling all round Europe without a friendof your own country to exchange a word with. Write to me; will you?"
"Indeed and I will, and that gaily," I cried, delighted at the prospect.
"And you will tell me all your exploits and where you have been and whatyou have seen, and where you are going and what you are going to do, andbe sure there will be one Scots heart thinking of you (besides Isobel,I daresay), and I declare to you this one will follow every league uponthe map, saying 'the blate lad's there to-day,' 'the blate lad's to behere at noon to-morrow.' Is it a bargain? Because you know I will writeto you--but oh! I forgot; what of the priest? Not for worlds would Ihave him know that I kept up a correspondence with his secretary. Thatis bad."
She gazed rather expectantly at me as if looking for a suggestion, butthe problem was beyond me, and she sighed.
"Of course his reverence need not know anything about it," she saidthen.
"Certainly," I acquiesced, jumping at so obvious a solution. "I willnever mention to him anything about it."
"But how will I get your letters and how will you get mine without hissuspecting something?"
"Oh, but he cannot suspect."
"What, and he a priest, too! It's his trade, Mr. Greig, and this FatherHamilton would spoil all if he knew we were indulging ourselves soinnocently. What you must do is to send your letters to me in a way thatI shall think of before you leave and I shall answer in the same way.But never a word, remember, to his reverence; I depend on your honourfor that."
As I was going down the stair a little later, she leaned over thebannister and cried after me:
"Mr. Greig," said she, "ye needna' be sae hainin' wi' your red shoeswhen ye're traivellin' in the coach. I would be greatly pleased to bethinkin' of you as traivellin' in them a' the time."
I looked up and saw her smiling saucily at me over the rail.
"Would you indeed?" said I. "Then I'll never put them aff till I see yeagain, when I come back to Dunkerque."
"That is kind," she answered, laughing outright, "but fair reediculous.To wear them to bed would be against your character for sobriety."
