by Nan Shepherd
‘A likely lass,’ said Miss Barbara; and she clutched at Lindsay, who did not resist, but allowed herself to be drawn closer. ‘And are you seeking a place? Can you cook a tattie? A’ to dross?’
‘Hoots, Miss Barbara,’ cried Mrs Hunter, scandalised. ‘That’s nae a servant lass. That’s Miss Lorimer—Andrew Lorimer the solicitor’s daughter. Ye’re nae at yersel.’
Lindsay’s heart was beating fast. She said nothing, but stared at the great rough face above her. She had a feeling as though some huge elemental mass were towering over her, rock and earth, earthen smelling. Miss Barbara’s tweeds had been sodden so long with the rains and matted with the dusts of her land, that they too seemed elemental. Her face was tufted with coarse black hairs, her naked hands that clutched the fabric of Lindsay’s dress were hard, ingrained with black from wet wood and earth. ‘She’s not like a person, she’s a thing,’ Lindsay thought. The girl felt puny in her grasp, yet quite without fear, possessed instead by a strange exhilaration.
Held thus against Miss Barbara’s person and clothes, the outdoor smell of which came strongly to the heat of the parlour, Lindsay, her senses sharpened by excitement, was keenly aware of an antagonism in the room: as though the fine self-respecting solidity of generations of Lorimers and Craigmyles, the measured and orderly dignity of their lives, won at some cost through centuries from their rude surroundings, resented this intrusion into their midst of an undisciplined and primitive force. The girl waited to hear what Miss Theresa would say, sure that it was Miss Theresa who would act spokesman against this earthy relic of an older age.
But before Miss Theresa could speak, Stella Dagmar, angry at her interrupted play and offended that no one noticed her, began a counting rhyme, running about among the women and slapping each in turn:
I count you out
For a dirty dish-clout.
Miss Theresa’s wiry hands were on the culprit. ‘A clout on the lug, that’s what you would need. Francie hasn’t his sorrow to seek.’
Stella dodged and screamed. The whole room was in an uproar. And suddenly Miss Barbara, loosening her grasp on Lindsay, broke into a bellow of laughter; and in a moment was gone.
Miss Theresa was scarlet in the face from fury.
‘Saw you ever such an affront to put on a body?’ she cried, cudgelling Stella to the rhythms of her anger. ‘Coming into a body’s house at a New Year time a sight like yon. Coming in at all, and her not bidden. And I’m sure you needn’t all be making such a commotion now. You couldn’t tell what’s what nor wha’s Jock’s father.’
They were all talking together. Lindsay stood amazed. The voices became appallingly distinct, resounding in her very head; and the hot, lit room, the excited ladies in their rich apparel, burdened her. She wanted to run after Miss Barbara, to escape; and, picking up her crimson curtain, she said, ‘I’ll put this past.’
‘I kent it was you all the time,’ Stella flung at her. But Lindsay was already gone. She closed the door from the parlour and stood in the cold, still hall. Through the windows poured the light of full moon. And Lindsay had a vision of the white light flooding the world and gleaming on the snow, and of Miss Barbara convulsed with laughter in the middle of the gleam.
She threw the curtain about her, drew on a pair of galoshes, and ran into the night.
The night astonished her, so huge it was. She had the sense of escaping from the lit room into light itself. Light was everywhere: it gleamed from the whole surface of the earth, the moon poured it to the farthest quarters of heaven, round a third of the horizon the sea shimmered. The cold was intense. Lindsay’s breath came quick and gasping. She ran through the spruce plantation and toiled up the field over snow that was matted in grass; and, reaching the crest, saw without interruption to the rims of the world. The matted snow and grass were solid enough beneath her feet, but when she looked beyond she felt that she must topple over into that reverberation of light. Her identity vanished. She was lost in light and space. When she moved on it surprised her that she stumbled with the rough going. She ought to have glided like light over an earth so insubstantial.
Then she saw Miss Barbara.
Miss Barbara Paterson came swinging up the field, treading surely and singing to herself. Her heavy bulk seemed to sail along the frozen surfaces, and when she reached the dyke she vaulted across it with an impatient snort.
‘O wait for me!’ Lindsay cried. She too was by the dyke, and would have leaped it, but was trammelled with her curtain.
‘Wait for me,’ she cried. ‘I want to speak to you.’
But when Miss Barbara turned back, there was nothing she could find to say.
‘Were you wanting over?’ asked Miss Barbara. She leaned across the dyke, lifted the girl in her arms and swung her in the air. ‘You’re like the deil, you’ll never hang, for you’re as light ’s a feather.’
‘Oh, put me down. But I want to go with you. Will you show me Knapperley?’
‘Ca’ awa’ then.’ Miss Barbara, without further ado, made off up the top of a furrow, pushing the girl firmly along by the elbow. Lindsay kept her footing with difficulty, sinking ever and again in the deep snow that levelled the furrows. She wondered what her mother would think. It was like an escapade into space. Her safe and habitual life was leagues away.
Miss Barbara made no attempt to speak. They passed through a woodland and came out by a gap.
‘There’s Knapperley for you,’ its owner said.
Lindsay stared. From every window of the tall narrow house there blazed a lamp. They blazed into the splendour of the night like a spurt of defiance.
‘But the Zepps,’ she gasped.
‘They don’t come this length.’
‘But they do. One did. And anyway, the law.’
‘That’s to learn them to leave honest folks alone.’
A spasm of terror contracted Lindsay’s heart. Miss Barbara had clambered on to the next dyke. She made little use of stile or gate, preferring always to go straight in the direction she desired. She stood there poised, keeping her footing with ease upon the icy stones, and pointed with an outstretched arm at the lights, a menacing figure. Then she bent as though to help Lindsay over.
‘Will she lift me again?’ thought the girl. The insecurity of her adventure rushed upon her.
‘Will she kidnap me and make me her servant girl? But I couldn’t live in a house with lights like that. There would be policemen if there weren’t Zepps.’
She twisted herself out of reach of the descending hand and fled, trailing the scarlet curtain after her across the snow.
THREE
Knapperley
Meanwhile in the Weatherhouse parlour Mrs Hunter was discussing Miss Barbara.
‘If she wasna Miss Barbara Paterson of Knapperley she would mak you roar. You would be handin’ her a copper and speirin’ if she wanted a piece.’
‘O ay, she’s fairly a Tinkler Tam,’ said Miss Theresa. ‘Coming into a body’s house with that old tweed. But she hasn’t any other, that’s what it is.’
‘That’s where you’re mistaken, Miss Craigmyle. She’s gowns galore: silk gowns and satin gowns and ane with a velvet lappet. Kists stappit fu’. But whan does she wear them? That’s the tickler. It’s aye the auld Lovat tweed. And aye the black trallop hangin’ down her back.’
‘It’s her only hat, that I can wager.’
‘It or its marra. Wha would say? She bought it for a saxpence from a wifie at the door and trimmed it hersel’ with yon wallopin’ trash. “If you would do that to your hat, Barbara Hunter, it would be grander.” “God forbid, Barbara Paterson, that I should ever wear a hat like that.” But she’s aye worn it sin’ syne. Some says it’s the same hat, and some says it’s its marra and the auld ane gaes up the lum on a Sabbath night whan there’s none to see.’
Mrs Hunter talked with enjoyment. She was entirely devoted to the spanking mare on whose land she and her husband held their croft, and entirely without compunction in her ridicule of Miss Barb
ara’s departures from the normal. She liked to talk too—gamesome cordial talk when her hard day’s work was over; and the Craigmyle ladies, with their natural good-heartedness, allowed her to talk on.
‘Auld Knapperley gave her an umbrella and her just the littlin, and she must bring it to the Sabbath school as prood’s pussy. “What’ll I do with my umbrella?”—hidin’ it in ahin her gown—“it’s rainin’.” “Put up vour umbrella, Barbara.” “I won’t put it up, Barbara. I won’t have it blaudit, and it new.” And aye she happit it in the pink gown. Me and her was ages and both Barbara Paterson then, and she took a terrible notion o’ me. If I had a blue peenie she must have a blue peenie as well. And syne I was servant lassie at Knapperley for a lot of years. I couldna but bide, her that fond of me and all.’
‘But you won’t let Maggie go, Mrs Hunter?’
‘I will not that. She was queer enough whan the auld man was livin’, and she’s a sight queerer now. I was there whan he dee’d and whan Mrs Paterson dee’d an’ a’. Ay, I mind fine, poor body, her thinkin’ she would get him to mak her laddie laird o’ the placie and nae Miss Barbara. She liked her laddie a sight mair than ever she liked her lassie. But she married Donnie Forbes for love and Knapperley for a downsit. And she thought, poor soul, that she had nae mair a-do than bid him say the word and Knapperley would be her laddie’s. But she aye put off the speirin’. And syne whan she kent she wouldna rise again, she bids Knapperie in to her bedside. “What’s that you’re sayin’?” says he. “Say’t again, for I’m surely nae hearin’.” So she says it again. “And him a Forbes,” she says, “a family of great antiquity.” “O ay, like the shore porters o’ Aberdeen, that discharged the cargo from Noah’s Ark.” “You’re mockin’ me,” she says. “I’ll grant you this,” he says, “there was never a murder in this parish or the next but there was a Forbes in it. There was Forbes of Portlendie and Forbes of Bannochie, and a Forbes over at Cairns that flung his lassie’s corp ahin a dyke. But there’s been nae murder done at Knapperley and nae Forbes at Knapperley—” “But there wasna aye a Paterson at Knapperley, and some that kens,” she says, meanin’-like, “says the first that ocht the place didna rightly owe the name.” “It’s a scant kin,” he says, “that has neither thief nor bastard in it, and for my part I’d rather have the bastard than the thief. The lassie’ll mak as good a laird as the laddie. The place is hers, and you needna set any landless lads on thievin’ here. I’ll keep my ain fish-guts for my ain sea-maws.” She didna daur say mair, but aye whan he gaed by her door there cam the t’ither great sigh. “You can just sigh awa’ there,” he would say. And whiles he said, “Jamie Fleeman kent he was the Laird o’ Udny’s feel.” Well, well, he was a Tartar, auld Knapperie. But he’s awa’ whaur he’ll have to tak a back seat. He dee’d in an awfu’ hurry.’
‘And Mr Benjamin has never come back since.’
‘O ay. O fie ay. He cam’ back. But just the once. “This is a great disappointment to me, Barbara. Bawbie’s getting near. You see the weather it is, and you could hold all the fire in the lee of your hand. There’s the two of us, one on either side, and greatcoats on to keep us warm. And nothing but a scrap end of candle to light you to your bed.” “You may thank your stars, Mr Benjamin, she didna stand and crack spunks or you were in ower.” So he never cam again. But he let his laddie come.’
‘She’ll be making him her heir,’ said Miss Annie.
‘I wouldna wonder. They’re chief, Miss Barbara and Mr Garry.’
‘A halarackit lump,’ Theresa said.
‘O, a gey rough loon. Mair like auld Knapperie’s son than Mr Benjamin’s. But a terrible fine laddie. Me and Mr Garry’s great billies. “Will you dance at my wedding, Mrs Hunter? I’ll give you a new pair of shoes.” “I will do that, laddie. But wha is the bonny birdie?”’
‘Yes, who?’ thought Mrs Falconer. She made a running excursion into the past. Once she had fancied that Kate was not indifferent to Garry Forbes. At one time they had been much together, when he came on holiday to Fetter-Rothnie. But Theresa’s tongue had been so hard on the boy—the intimacy ceased. Mrs Falconer remembered her own impotent fury against her sister. And, after all, Kate had given no sign. ‘Another dream of mine, I suppose,’ thought Mrs Falconer. And she sighed. It was not easy to include Kate in any dream. ‘And she’s all I have to love,’ thought her mother wistfully.
Mrs Hunter ran on. ‘ “O, that’s to see,” he says. “I’ve never found a lassie yet that I love like your ain bonny self.” “You flatterer,” I says. “Unless it would be my aunt.” And we both to the laughin’. But he’s fair fond of her, mind you. There’s nae put-on yonder.’
‘He would be,’ said Theresa. ‘Sic mannie sic horsie. She’s a Hielan’ yowe yon.’
Mrs Hunter bridled. ‘She’s a good woman, Miss Craigmyle. There’s worse things than being queer. There’s being bad. There’s lots that’s nae quite at themsels and nae ill in them, and some that’s all there and all the worse for that. There’s Louie Morgan, now—queer you must allow she is, but bad she couldna be.’
Whether because the affront put on her by Miss Barbara’s rash incursion was still rankling, or whether by reason of the naturally combative quality of her mind, Miss Theresa stormed on the suggestion.
‘Louie!’ she said. ‘Hantle o’ whistlin’ and little red land yonder. And you don’t call it bad to bedizen herself with honours and her never got them?’
‘Meaning’ what, Miss Craigmyle?’
‘This tale of her engagement,’ said Theresa with scorn.
‘Poor craitur! That was a sore heart to her. Losin’ young Mr Grey that road, and them new promised. It’ll be a while or she ca’ ower’t.’
‘She never had him.’
‘Havers, Miss Theresa, she has the ring.’
‘Think of that, now.’
‘She let me see the ring.’
‘She bought it.’
‘She didna that, Miss Theresa. It’s his mother’s ain ring, that she showed me lang syne, and said her laddie’s bride would wear whan she was i’ the mools.’
Miss Theresa took the check badly. To be found in the wrong was a tax she could not meet. She had grown up with a hidden angry conviction that she was in the wrong by being born. As third daughter, she had defrauded her father of a son. It was after Theresa’s birth that James Craigmyle set himself to turn Annie into as good a farmer as himself. He never reproached Tris to her face, but the sharp child guessed her offence. When he was dead, and she in the Weatherhouse had power and authority for the first time in her life, she developed an astounding genius for being in the right. To prove Theresa wrong was to jeopardise the household peace.
She was therefore dead set in her own opinion by Mrs Hunter’s apparent proof of her mistake. The matter, to be sure, was hardly worth an argument. Louie Morgan was a weak, palavering thing, always playing for effect. The Craigmyle ladies knew better than to be taken in with her airs and her graces, that deceived the lesser intellects; but they had, like everyone else, accepted the story of her betrothal to David Grey, a young engineer brought up in the district, although David Grey was already dead before the betrothal was announced. Even Theresa had not openly questioned the story before. Irritation made her do it now, and the crossing of her theory drove her to conviction.
‘It’s as plain as a hole in a laddie’s breeks,’ she said. ‘There was no word of an engagement when the young man was alive, was there?’
The whole company, however, was against her. The supposition was monstrous, and in view of Mrs Hunter’s evidence upon the ring, untenable.
‘And look at the times she’s with auld Mr Grey,’ said Mrs Hunter, ‘that bides across the dyke from us, and him setting a seat for her that kindly like and cutting his braw chrysanthemums to give her.’
‘She had sought them,’ said Theresa.
‘Oh, I wouldna say. She’s fit for it, poor craiturie. But she wouldna tell a lee.’ Mrs Hunter frankly admitted the failings of all her friends, but thought non
e the worse of them for that. ‘She’s her father’s daughter there. A good man, the old Doctor, and a grand discourse he gave. It was worth a long traivel to see him in the pulpit, a fine upstandin’ man as ever you saw. “Easy to him,” Jake says. Jake’s sair bent, Miss Craigmyle. “Easy to him, he’s never done a stroke of work in his life.” His wife did a’ thing—yoked the shalt for him whan he went on his visitations, and had aye to have his pipe filled with tobacco to his hand when he got hame.’
‘Where’s Lindsay gone to?’ Theresa cut abruptly across the conversation. ‘She’s taking a monstrous while to put away her cloak. And it’s time these bairns were home.’ She pulled the coloured streamers from the tree out of Stella’s hands.
They called for Lindsay, but had no answer. When it became plain she was not in the house, there was a flutter of consternation.
‘Out?’ said Miss Annie. ‘But she’ll get her death. And what could she be seeking out at this time of night?’
Only Mrs Falconer held her peace. A light smile played over her features, and her thoughts were running away by the upland paths of romance. She had a whole history woven for herself in a moment—a girl in love and escaping into moonshine on such a pure and radiant night as this: did one require pedestrian excuse?
She said, ‘I’ll put on my coat and take these children home. I’m sure to meet her on the way.’
Like Lindsay, she had the sense of escaping into light. She went along with a skipping step, her heart rejoicing; and almost forgot that she had come to look for a runaway whose absence caused concern.
She delivered over the children to Francie, who shut the door on them and said, ‘I’ll show you a sight, if you come up the park a bit.’ Mrs Falconer followed, caring little where she went in that universal faerie shimmer. It seemed to her that she was among the days of creation, and light had been called into being, but neither divisions of time nor substance, nor any endeavours nor disturbances of man.
