CHAPTER XII
GRANNY TAKES A STRONG ATTITUDE
IF an Englishman’s house is his castle, a Scotchman’s cottage is his fortress. The custom prevailing in England by which the upper and middle classes will walk, uninvited and unabashed, into a poor man’s abode has never been tolerated by the prouder dwellers north of the Tweed. Here, proximity does not imply familiarity. It is true that the Englishman, or more probably the Englishwoman, who thus invades the labouring man’s family will often do so on a charitable errand; but, unless the Scot is already on friendly terms with his superior neighbour, he neither desires his charity nor his company. Once invited into the house, his visit will at all times be welcomed; but the visitor will do well to remember, as he sits in the best chair at the hearth, that he does so by privilege alone. The ethics of this difference in custom are not understood by parochial England, though its results, one would think, are plain enough. Among the working classes of European nations the Scot is the man who stands most pre-eminently upon his own feet, and it is likely that the Millennium, when it dawns, will find him still doing the same thing.
When Granny Stirk, months before, had stood at her door, and cried, ‘Haste ye back, then,’ to Gilbert Speid, she meant what she said, and was taken at her word, for he returned some days after the roup, and his visit was the first of many. Her racy talk, her shrewd sense, and the masterly way in which she dominated her small world pleased him, and he guessed that her friendship, once given, would be a solid thing. He had accepted it, and he returned it. She made surprising confidences and asked very direct questions, in the spring evenings when the light was growing daily, and he would stroll out to her cottage for half an hour’s talk. She advised him lavishly on every subject, from underclothing to the choice of a wife and her subsequent treatment, and from these conversations he learned much of the temper and customs of those surrounding him.
In the seven months which had elapsed since his arrival he had learned to understand his poorer neighbours better than his richer ones. The atmosphere of the place was beginning to sink into him, and his tenants and labourers had decided that they liked him very well; for, though there were many things in him completely foreign to their ideas, they had taken these on trust in consideration of other merits which they recognised. But, with his equals, he still felt himself a stranger; there were few men of his own age among the neighbouring lairds, and those he had met were as local in character as the landscape. Not one had ever left his native country, or possessed much notion of anything outside its limits. He would have been glad to see more of Fullarton, but the elder man had an unaccountable reserve in his manner towards him which did not encourage any advance. Crauford Fordyce he found both ridiculous and irritating. The women to whom he had been introduced did not impress him in any way, and four only had entered his life—the Miss Robertsons, who were his relations; Lady Eliza, who by turns amused, interested, and repelled him; and Cecilia Raeburn, with whom he was in love. The two people most congenial to him were Granny Stirk and Captain Somerville.
Between himself and the sailor a cordial feeling had grown, as it will often grow between men whose horizon is wider than that of the society in which they live, and, though Somerville was almost old enough to be Speid’s grandfather, the imperishable youth that bubbled up in his heart kept it in touch with that wide world in which he had worked and fought, and which he still loved like a boy. The episode at the dovecot of Morphie had served to cement the friendship.
Jimmy Stirk also reckoned himself among Gilbert’s allies. Silent, sullen, fervid, his mind and energies concentrated upon the business of his day, he mentally contrasted every gentleman he met with the laird of Whanland, weighed him, and found him wanting. The brown horse, whose purchase had been such an event in his life, did his work well, and the boy expended a good deal more time upon his grooming than upon that of the mealy chestnut which shared the shed behind the cottage with the newcomer, and had once been its sole occupant. On finding himself owner of a more respectable-looking piece of horseflesh than he had ever thought to possess, he searched his mind for a name with which to ornament his property; it took him several days to decide that Rob Roy being, to his imagination, the most glorious hero ever created, he would christen the horse in his honour. His grandmother, systematically averse to new notions, cast scorn on what she called his ‘havers’; but as time went by, and she saw that no impression was made upon Jimmy, she ended in using the name as freely as if she had bestowed it herself.
It occurred to Mr. Barclay, after leaving Fullarton, that, as Granny Stirk knew more about other people’s business than anyone he could think of, he would do sensibly in paying her a visit. That Gilbert often sat talking with her was perfectly well known to him, and if she had any ideas about the state of his affections and intentions, and could be induced to reveal her knowledge, it would be valuable matter to retail to Fordyce. Her roof had been mended a couple of months since, and he had made the arrangements for it, so he was no stranger to the old woman. It behoved him in his character of ‘man of business’ to examine the work that had been done, for he had not seen it since its completion. He directed his man to drive to the cottage, and sat smiling, as he rolled along, at the remembrance of Fordyce’s dilemma and his own simple solution of it.
Jimmy’s cart, with Rob Roy in the shafts, was standing at the door, and had to be moved away to enable him to draw up; it had been freshly painted, and the three divisions of the tailboard contained each a coloured device. In the centre panel was the figure of a fish; those at the sides bore each a mermaid holding a looking-glass; the latter were the arms of the town of Kaims. Barclay alighted, heavily and leisurely, from his phaeton.
‘How is the business, my laddie?’ he inquired affably, and in a voice which he thought suitable to the hearty habits of the lower orders.
‘It’s fine,’ said Jimmy.
‘The horse is doing well——eh?’
‘He’s fine,’ said Jimmy again.
‘And your grandmother? I hope she is keeping well this good weather.’
‘She’s fine.’
True to his friendly pose, the lawyer walked round the cart, running his eye over it and the animal in its shafts with as knowing an expression as he could assume. As he paused beside Rob Roy he laid his hand suddenly on his quarter, after the manner of people unaccustomed to horses; the nervous little beast made a plunge forward which nearly knocked Jimmy down, and sent Barclay flying to the sanctuary of the doorstep. His good-humour took flight also.
‘Nasty, restive brute!’ he exclaimed.
The boy gave him an expressive look; he was not apt to pay much attention to anyone, whether gentle or simple, beyond the pale of his own affairs, and Barclay had hitherto been outside his world. He now entered it as an object of contempt.
The sudden rattle of the cart brought Granny to the door.
‘That is a very dangerous horse of yours,’ said the lawyer, turning round.
‘Whisht! whisht!’ exclaimed she, ‘it was the laird got yon shelt to him; he’ll na thole[1] to hear ye speak that way.’
‘May I come in?’ asked Barclay, recalled to his object.
She ushered him into the cottage.
‘Yes, yes, I have heard about that,’ he remarked, as he sat down. ‘No doubt Jimmy is proud of the episode; it is not often a gentleman concerns himself so much about his tenant’s interests. I dare say, Mrs. Stirk, that you have no wish to change your landlord, eh?’
‘No for onybody hereabout,’ said the old woman.
‘Then I gather that you are no admirer of our gentry?’
‘A’ wasna saying that.’
‘But perhaps you meant it. We do not always say what we mean, do we?’ said Barclay, raising his eyebrows facetiously.
‘Whiles a’ do,’ replied the Queen of the Cadgers, with some truth.
‘You speak your mind plainly enough to Mr. Speid, I believe,’ said Barclay.
‘Wha tell’t ye that?’
‘Aha! everything comes round to me in time, I assure you, my good soul; my business is confidential—very confidential. You see, as a lawyer, I am concerned with all the estates in this part of the country.’
‘Where the money is, there will the blayguards be gathered together,’ said Granny, resenting the patronage in his tone.
‘Come, come! that is surely rather severe,’ said Barclay, forcing a smile. ‘You don’t treat the laird in that way when he comes to see you, I am sure; he would not come so often if you did.’
‘He canna come ower muckle for me.’
‘What will you do when he gets a wife? He will not have so much idle time then.’
‘Maybe she’ll come wi’ him.’
‘That’ll depend on what kind of lady she is,’ observed Barclay; ‘she may be too proud.’
‘Then Whanland ’ll no tak’ her,’ replied Granny decisively.
It did not escape Mrs. Stirk that Barclay, who had never before paid her a visit unconnected with business, had now some special motive for doing so. It was in her mind to state the fact baldly and gratify herself with the sight of the result, but she decided to keep this pleasure until she had discovered something more of his object. She sat silent, waiting for his next observation. She had known human nature intimately all her life, and much of it had been spent in driving bargains. She was not going to speak first.
‘Well, every man ought to marry,’ said Barclay at last; ‘don’t you think so, Mrs. Stirk?’
‘Whiles it’s so easy done,’ said she; ‘ye havna managed it yersel’, Mr. Barclay.’
‘Nobody would have me, you see,’ said the lawyer, chuckling in the manner of one who makes so preposterous a joke that he must needs laugh at it himself.
‘Ye’ll just hae to bide as ye are,’ observed Granny consolingly; ‘maybe it would be ill to change at your time of life.’
Barclay’s laugh died away; he seemed to be no nearer his goal than when he sat down, and Granny’s generalities were not congenial to him. He plunged into his subject.
‘I think Mr. Speid should marry, at any rate,’ he said; ‘and if report says true, it will not be long before he does so.’
A gleam came into the old woman’s eye; she could not imagine her visitor’s motives, but she saw what he wanted, and determined instantly that he should not get it. Like many others, she had heard the report that Gilbert Speid was paying his addresses to Lady Eliza Lamont’s adopted niece, and, in her secret soul, had made up her mind that Cecilia was not good enough for him. All femininity, in her eyes, shared that shortcoming.
‘He’ll please himsel’, na doubt,’ she observed.
‘But do you think there is any truth in what we hear?’ continued Barclay.
‘A’ll tell ye that when a’ ken what ye’re speirin’ about.’
‘Do you believe that he is courting Miss Raeburn?’ he asked, compelled to directness.
‘There’s jus’ twa that can answer that,’ said Granny, leaning forward and looking mysterious; ‘ane’s Whanland, and ane’s the lassie.’
‘Everybody says it is true, Mrs. Stirk.’
‘A’body’s naebody,’ said the old woman, ‘an’ you an’ me’s less.’
‘It would be a very suitable match, in my opinion,’ said the lawyer, trying another tack.
‘Aweel, a’ll just tell Whanland ye was speirin’ about it,’ replied Granny. ‘A’ can easy ask him. He doesna mind what a’ say to him.’
‘No, no, my good woman; don’t trouble yourself to do that! Good Lord! it does not concern me.’
‘A’ ken that, but there’s no mony folk waits to be concairned when they’re seeking news. A’ can easy do it, sir. A’ tell ye, he’ll no tak’ it ill o’ me.’
‘Pray do not dream of doing such a thing!’ exclaimed Barclay. ‘Really, it is of no possible interest to me. Mrs. Stirk, I must forbid you to say anything to Mr. Speid.’
‘Dod! ye needna fash yersel’; a’ll do it canny-like. “Laird,” a’ll say, “Mr. Barclay would no have ye think it concairns him, but he’d like fine to ken if ye’re courtin’ Miss Raeburn. He came here speirin’ at me,” a’ll say——’
‘You will say nothing of the sort,’ cried he. ‘Why I should even have mentioned it to you I cannot think.’
‘A’ dinna understand that mysel’,’ replied Granny.
All Barclay’s desire for discovery had flown before his keen anxiety to obliterate the matter from his companion’s mind. He cleared his throat noisily.
‘Let us get to business,’ he said. ‘What I came here for was not to talk; I have come to ask whether the repairs in the roof are satisfactory, and to see what has been done. I have had no time to do so before. My time is precious.’
‘It’ll do weel eneuch. A’ let Whanland see it when he was in-by,’ replied she casually.
‘It’s my duty to give personal inspection to all repairs in tenants’ houses,’ said he, getting up.
She rose also, and preceded him into the little scullery which opened off the back of the kitchen; it smelt violently of fish, for Jimmy’s working clothes hung on a peg by the door. Barclay’s nose wrinkled.
She was pointing out the place he wished to see when a step sounded outside, and a figure passed the window. Someone knocked with the head of a stick upon the door.
‘Yon’s the laird!’ exclaimed Granny, hurrying back into the kitchen.
Barclay’s heart was turned to water, for he knew that the old woman was quite likely to confront him with Speid, and demand in his name an answer to the questions he had been asking. He turned quickly from the door leading from scullery to yard, and lifted the latch softly. As he slipped out he passed Jimmy, who, with loud hissings, was grooming Rob Roy.
‘Tell your grandmother that I am in a hurry,’ he cried. ‘Tell her I am quite satisfied with the roof.’
‘Sit down, Whanland,’ said Granny, dusting the wooden armchair as though the contact of the lawyer’s body had made it unfit for Gilbert’s use; ‘yon man rinnin’ awa’s Mr. Barclay. Dinna tak’ tent o’ him, but bide ye here till a’ tell ye this.’
The sun was getting low and its slanting rays streamed into the room. As Gilbert sat down his outline was black against the window. The light was burning gold behind him, and Granny could not see his face, or she would have noticed that he looked harassed and tired.
It was pure loyalty which had made her repress Barclay, for curiosity was strong in her, and it had cost her something to forego the pleasure of extracting what knowledge she could. But though she had denied herself this, she meant to speak freely to Gilbert. The lawyer had escaped through her fingers and robbed her of further sport, but she was determined that Speid should know of his questions. She resented them as a great impertinence to him, and as an even greater one to herself. She was inclined to be suspicious of people in general, and everything connected with her landlord made her smell the battle afar off, like Job’s war-horse, and prepare to range herself on his side.
‘Laird, are ye to get married?’ said she, seating herself opposite to the young man.
‘Not that I am aware of,’ said Gilbert. ‘Why do you ask, Granny? Do you think I ought to?’
‘A’ couldna say as to that, but Mr. Barclay says ye should.’
‘What has he to do with it?’ exclaimed Gilbert, his brows lowering.
‘Fegs! A’ would hae liked terrible to ask him that mysel’. He came ben an’ he began, an’ says he, “A’ve heard tell he’s to get married,” says he; an’ “What do ye think about it?” says he. A’ was that angered, ye ken, laird, an’ a’ just says till him, “Just wait,” says I, “an’ a’ll speir at him,” says I, “an’ then ye’ll ken. A’ll tell him ye’re terrible taken up about it—impident deevil that ye are.” A’ didna say “deevil” to him, ye ken, laird, but a’ warrant ye a’ thocht it. What has the likes of him to do wi’ you? Dod! a’ could see by the face o’ him he wasna pleased when a’ said a’d tell ye. “My good woman,” says he—here Granny stuck out her lips in imitation of Barclay’s rather protrusive mouth, “dinna fash yersel’ to do that;” an’ syne when ye came in-by, he was roond about an’ up the road like an auld dog that’s got a skelp wi’ a stick.’
‘Did he say anything more?’ inquired Gilbert gravely.
‘Ay, did he—but maybe a’ll anger ye, Whanland.’
‘No, no, Granny, you know that. I have a reason for asking. Tell me everything he said.’
‘Ye’ll see an’ no be angered, laird?’
‘Not with you, Granny, in any case.’
‘Well, he was sayin’ a’body says ye’re courtin’ Miss Raeburn. “Let me get a sicht o’ the roof,” says he “that’s what a’ come here for.” By Jarvit! he didna care very muckle about that, for a’ the lang words he was spittin’ out about it!’
Gilbert got up, and stood on the hearth with his head turned from the old woman.
‘A’ve vexed ye,’ she said, when she saw his face again.
‘Listen to me, Granny,’ he began slowly; ‘I am very much annoyed that he—or anyone—should have joined that lady’s name and mine together. Granny, if you have any friendship for me, if you would do me a kindness, you will never let a word of what you have heard come from your lips.’
As he stood looking down on the Queen of the Cadgers the light from the evening sun was full upon her marked features and the gold ear-rings in her ears.
‘Ye needna fear, Whanland,’ she said simply.
‘I will tell you why,’ burst out Gilbert, a sudden impulse to confidence rushing to his heart like a wave; ‘it is true, Granny—that is the reason. If I cannot marry her I shall never be happy again.’
Sitting alone that night, he asked himself why he should have spoken.
What power, good or evil, is answerable for the sudden gusts of change that shake us? Why do we sometimes turn traitor to our own character? How is it that forces, foreign to everything in our nature, will, at some undreamed-of instant, sweep us from the attitude we have maintained all our lives? The answer is that our souls are more sensitive than our brains.
But Gilbert, as he thought of his act, did not blame himself. Neither did eternal wisdom, which watched from afar and saw everything.