Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times

by Robert William MacKenna

  *CHAPTER XVIII*

  *THE WISDOM OF A WOMAN*

  I saw no more of Mary that day, for ere the milking was over Andrewreturned from the fields and after studying me for a moment said: "Ithink it's time for your bed." Whereat he helped me carefully up theladder, and left me to disrobe myself. That night, when the moon cameout and filled my room with a glory that was not of this earth, I layand dreamed of Mary, and through the silence of my dream I could hearonce again the witching notes of her song.

  Day after day I was gently assisted down the ladder, and each day Ispent a longer time sitting by the peat fire. Most often my onlycompanion in the kitchen was the good wife, and between us an intimateunderstanding began to spring up. I felt she liked to have me sittingthere, and more than once she would look wistfully at me, and I knewfrom the sigh with which she turned again to her work that she wasthinking of her dead boy.

  Her face was attractive, though time had chiselled it deeply--and hereyes were shrewd and kindly. In repose her features were overcast by amask of solemnity, but at each angle of her mouth a dimple lurked, and aready smile, which started there or in her eyes, was perpetually chasingaway all the sterner lines.

  Mary came and went, busy at times on duties about the steading,sometimes on duties further afield, and more than once she set off ladenwith a well-filled basket and I knew that she was taking succour to somefugitive hill-man hidden on the moors. Always she treated me withkindness--with those innumerable and inexpressible little kindnessesthat mean nothing to most people, but which to one in love are as dropsof nectar on a parched tongue. Sometimes she would bring me flowerswhich she had gathered on the moor; and proud I was when on a day shefastened a sprig of heather in my coat.

  Sometimes of a night the dambrod was brought out and the old man wouldbeat me soundly once again.

  But an evening came when he had no heart to play. He had been moody allday long, and when I suggested a game he said with a groan: "No' thenicht! no' the nicht! I ha'e mair serious things in mind."

  I was at a loss to understand his reluctance, for hitherto he had alwaysbeen eager for a game, but when I began to urge him to play, his wifeinterrupted me saying:

  "Na, na, leave the man alane. If ye want to play, ye can play wi'Mary."

  I needed no second invitation, nor did the suggestion seem unwelcome toMary, who brought the board and the men and set them upon the table.Hers were the white men, mine the black: but after the first move or twothe grace of her hand as it poised above the board cast such a spellover me that I began to play with little skill, and she was an easyvictor. We played several games, all of which she won: and the onlysound that disturbed our tourney was the tinkle of her laugh when shecornered me, or the click of her mother's needles as she knitted in theingle-nook. But every now and then the old man groaned as though he werein great distress, and looking at him I saw that his head was buried inhis hands.

  When our tourney was over Mary gathered up the men and restored them toa drawer, and as she did so she turned to her mother and said:

  "Oh, mother, you ha'e never given the minister's Bible and his fluteback to the gentleman."

  "Nae mair I ha'e," said her mother. "Fetch them here," and Mary broughtthem to her. She took the Bible and handed it to me. It opened at theblood-stained page. Mary had come behind my chair; I was conscious thatshe was leaning over me. I could feel her hair touch my face, and thenwhen she saw the stain a hot tear fell and struck my hand. I lifted myface towards her, but she had turned away. Without a word I handed theopen book to her mother.

  "Eh, dear, the bluid o' a saint," she said, and she closed the bookreverently and gave it back to me.

  The silence was broken by the good man. "Ay, the bluid o' a saint," hegroaned--"ane o' the elect."

  And that night for the first time I was present at the "taking o' theBook." Evening after evening as I had lain in the garret, I had heardthese good folk at their worship. To-night I was permitted to take partin the rite, and though I have worshipped in the beautiful churches ofOxford and the storied Cathedrals of my own native land, I was nevermore conscious of the presence of God than in that little farm kitchenon the Galloway moors.

  One afternoon as I sat watching the good wife at her baking, I asked herhow it was that her husband and she had succeeded in escaping theattentions of the troopers.

  "Oh," she said, "we ha'ena' escaped. Lag often gi'es us a ca', butthere's a kin' o' understandin' between him and me. It's this way, yesee; before she got married my mother was a sewing-maid to his mother,and when my faither deid and she was left ill-provided, and wi' me tothink o', she went back to Mistress Grierson and tellt her her trouble.Weel, Mrs. Grierson liked my mother and she took her back, and she said:'Mrs. Kilpatrick,' says she, 'if you will come back, you can bring weeJean wi' ye. What a bairn picks will never be missed in a hoose likethis, and the lassie can play wi' my Robert. Ye see he has neitherbrither nor sister o' his ain, and is like to be lonely, and yourlassie, bein' six or seeven years aulder than him, will be able to keephim oot o' mischief.'

  "And so it cam' aboot, and for maybe eight years I was as guid as asister to him. But he was aye a thrawn wee deevil--kind-hearted attimes, but wi' an awfu' temper. Ye see his mother spoiled him. Even asa laddie he was fond o' his ain way, and he was cruel then tae. I min'weel hoo he set his dog on my white kittlin, but I let him ken aboot it,because when the wee thing was safe in the kitchen again I took him bythe hair o' the held and pu'd oot a guid handfu'. My mither skelped meweel, but it was naething to the skelpin' I gie'd him the first chance Igot. His mother never correkit him; it was 'puir Rob this, and puir Robthat,' and if it hadna' been that every noo and then, when my mither'spatience was fair worn oot, she laid him ower her knee, I'm thinkin' Lagwould be a waur man the day than he gets the blame o' bein'. There'sguid in him; I'm sure o't, for even the de'il himsel' is no' as black ashe's painted: but his heid has been fair turned since the King sent forhim to London and knighted him wi' his ain sword.

  "I bided in his mother's hoose till I was maybe seventeen years auld,and then my mither got mairrit again and left Dunscore to come and livenear Dairy. Weel, I had never seen Lag frae that day till maybe a yearsin', when the troopers began to ride through and through thiscountry-side. Ae day I was oot-bye at the kirn when I heard the soondo' horses comin' up the loanin', and turnin', I saw Lag ridin' at theheid o' a company o' armed men. There was a scowl on his face, and whenI saw him and minded the ill wark that I heard he had done in itherpairts, I was gey feart. He shouted an order to his troop and they a'drew rein. Then he cam' forrit tae me. 'Woman,' he said, 'Where's yerman?'

  "'Fegs," says I, 'Rab Grier, that's no' a very ceevil way to address anauld frien'. Woman indeed! I am Mistress Paterson that was JeanKilpatrick, that has played wi' ye mony a day in yer mither's hoose atDunscore.' 'Guid sakes,' he cried, vaultin' oot o' his saddle, 'JeanKilpatrick! This beats a'.' And he pu'd aff his ridin' gloves and heldoot his hand to me. Then he shouted for ane o' his troopers to come andtak' his horse, and in he walks to the kitchen. Weel, we cracked andcracked, and I minded him o' mony o' the ploys we had when we were weansthegither.

  "Syne, Mary cam' in wi' a face as white as a sheet. She had seen thetroopers, and was awfu' feart: but I saw her comin' and I said: 'Marylass, tak' a bowl and fetch my auld frien' Sir Robert Grier a drink o'buttermilk.' And that gie'd the lassie courage, for she took the bowland went oot-bye to the kirn, and in a minute she cam' back wi' thebuttermilk; so I set cakes and butter afore him and fed him weel, and ashe ate he said: 'Ay, Jean, ye're as guid a baker as your mither. D'yemind how you and me used to watch her at the bakin' in the old kitchenat Dunscore, and how she used to gie us the wee bits she cut off whenshe was trimming the cake, and let us put them on the girdle ourselves?'And as he talked he got quite saft-like and the scowl went aff his facea' thegither.

  "Then he began to tak' notice o' Mary. 'So this is your dochter,' h
esaid. He looked her up and doon: 'I see she favours her mither, but I'mthinkin' she's better lookin' than you were, Jean. Come here, my prettydoo!' he says, and as Mary went towards him I could see she was a' o' atremble. He rose frae his chair an' put his arm roon' her shoulder andmade as though to kiss her. Wed, I could see Mary shrinkin' frae histouch, and the next minute she had gie'd him a lood skelp on the side o'his face wi' her haun, and wi' her chin in the air, walked oot o' thedoor. I looked at Lag. There was anger on his broo, but he pu'dhimsel' thegither and dropped back in his chair, sayin': 'Jean, ye'vebrocht her up badly. That's puir hospitality to a guest.' 'Weel, Rob,'says I, 'the lassie's no' to blame. It maun rin in her blood, for monya guid skelpin' my mither has gi'en ye,--I ha'e skelped ye masel', andnoo ye've been skelped by the third generation.' Whereat he let a roaro' laughter oot o' his heid that shook the hams hangin' frae the baulks.And that set his memory going, and he said, 'D'ye mind the day I set mydog on your kitten, and you pu'd a handfu' o' hair oot o' my heid?' andhe took his hat off, saying, 'I am thinkin' that is the first place onmy pow that is going bald.' 'Ay,' says I, 'weel I mind it, and thelickin' I got.' 'Yes,' says he, laughin', 'but ye paid me back double.'And he roared wi' laughter again.

  "We were crackin' as crouse as twa auld cronies, when he said: 'And noo,Jean, a word in yer lug. I had nae thocht when I cam' up here I was gaunto meet an auld frien'. I cam' to ask you and your man, will ye tak'the Test. But I am no' gaun to ask the question o' ye. For the sake o'the auld days, this hoose and they that live in it are safe, so far asRobert Grierson o' Lag is concerned. But that is between you and me.Dinna be lettin' your man or your dochter, the wee besom, consort wi'the hill-men. The times are stern, and the King maun be obeyed. But yecan trust me that I will not do your hoose a mischief. Whaur's yourguid man?' 'He's oot on the hills wi' the sheep,' says I, 'but he willbe back before lang,' and I went to the door to look, and there he wascomin' doon the brae face. He had seen the troopers and I'm tellin' yehe was gey scared. I waved to him to hurry, and he, thinkin' that I wasin danger, cam' rinning. 'Come awa ben the hoose,' says I. 'There's anauld frien' o' mine come to see us,' and I brocht him in, and presentedhim to Lag.

  "Lag was gey ceevil to him, and said naething aboot oaths or tests, buttalked aboot sheep and kye, and syne said: 'And noo I'll ha'e to beawa'. I will tak' anither sup o' your buttermilk, Jean,' and then heshook me by the haun' and would ha'e shaken Andra's tae, but Andra wadnatak' a haun' that was stained wi' innocent blood. It was an affront toLag, but a man like that aye respects anither man wi' courage, and hewalked oot o' the door. He sprang into the saddle and the troop formedup and clattered doon the loanin', and the last I saw o' Lag he hadturned his heid and was wavin' his haun as he gaed roond the corner atthe brae-fit."

  "And what of Mary," I said. "What was she doing in the meantime?"

  Her mother laughed. "We looked high and low for her and at last wefound her in a hidie-hole in the haystack, greetin' like a wean. Shehad made up her mind, puir lassie, that Lag would shoot baith herfaither and me, because she had boxed his lugs."

  "And have you had no trouble since?" I asked, for I knew that thepromise given by Lag would be binding on none but himself, and should atroop Captain like Winram or Claver'se come to Daldowie, disaster mightfall on the household.

  "Oh, ay," she said, "we've seen Lag mair than aince since then. He washere twa or three weeks sin' when you were lyin' up in the laft, and heasked aboot you. He speired whether we had seen ocht o' a young man ina trooper's uniform wanderin' aboot the moors. Ye were up in the laftsleepin' as cosy as a mowdie, but I telt him I'd seen nae young man inony trooper's uniform. I wasna fule enough to tell him that I'd seen atrooper in the meenister's claes. 'Weel,' he said, 'should ye see sican ane, dinna forget there's a price upon his heid. He is a deserter,and Rab Grier mak's short work o' deserters.'

  "So, ye see, so far as Lag's concerned, Daldowie's safe enough. ButAndra, puir stubborn buddy, is no' sure o' the richts o't. He is aqueer man, Andra, and like lots mair o' the hill-men he wad sooner wearthe martyr's crown than his ain guid bannet. But I'm no' made that way.I find the world no' a bad place ava, and I'm content to wait in it tillit pleases the Almichty to send for me: and I'm no' forcin' His haun byrinnin' masel' into danger when a bowl o' buttermilk and a farle o'oatcake serves wi' a jocose word to mak' a frien' o' ane that micht be abitter enemy. That was a wise word o' Solomon's--maybe he learned itfrae ane o' his wives--'Every wise woman buildeth her house: but thefoolish plucketh it down with her hands.' Even Andra daur'na say thatJean Paterson, his wife, is a fule."