WHILE Granny had shaken the curtains in Gilbert’s bedroom her mind had worked as hard as her hands; there was no doubt in it of one thing; namely, that, by hook or by crook, he must be brought home. It was a large idea for her to have conceived, because she scarcely knew where he was and had no idea how he might be reached. She understood that Barclay had means of communication with him, but, since the visit he had paid her, ostensibly to examine her mended roof, and, really to pry into Speid’s affairs, she had distrusted him fundamentally. The matter was intimate and needed the intervention of someone upon whom she could depend. As the Laird of Fullarton was uncle to the person she wished to circumvent, he also was an impossible adviser. The Miss Robertsons, under any aspect but that of being Gilbert’s relations, she looked upon as futile. ‘Twa doited auld bodies wha’s lives is nae object to them,’ as she had described them, were not worth consideration in such a case. In her strait she suddenly bethought herself of Captain Somerville. He had three special advantages; he was her idol’s friend, he was exceedingly civil to herself, and she had once seen him in uniform. This last qualification gave him something of the weight and security of a public character. Also, a person who had fought the French—all foreigners were French to her—in every quarter of the world, must surely be able to put his hand on any part of it at a moment’s notice.
As a matter of fact, she could hardly have made a better choice. The sailor, who bore a most human love to his kind, had appraised many men and women in his time, and he had a vast admiration for Granny. Gallant himself, to the core of his simple soul, he loved the quality in others, and the story of her fight with circumstances and final mastery of them had struck him in a sensitive place. On that memorable day on which she had seen him in uniform he was returning from Aberdeen, where he had gone to meet an official person, and his chaise passed her cottage. As he drove by, he saw the little upright figure standing on the doorstep, and, remembering her history, with a sudden impulse, he raised his hand and saluted her.
Though he was not, perhaps, so renowned a warrior as the Queen of the Cadgers supposed, Captain Somerville had seen a good deal of service, and had lost his leg, not in the doing of any melodramatic act, but in the ordinary course of a very steadily and efficiently performed duty. As a boy, he had gone to sea when the sea was a harder profession than it is now and when parents had had to think, not twice but many times, before committing their sons to it. He had run away and smuggled himself upon a merchantman lying in the harbour near his home, and before she sailed, he had been discovered by the first mate. His irate father, to whom he was returned, thinking to cure him of an infatuation he could not, himself, understand, arranged with the captain that he should be taken on the voyage—which was a short one—and made to work hard. ‘It would show the young fool,’ he said, ‘that the Church’—for which he was destined—‘was a more comfortable place than a ship.’ But the treatment produced an exactly contrary result. Finally, the family three-decker received the person of a younger brother, and, after much discussion, His Majesty’s Navy that of a new midshipman. More than fifteen years afterwards he got into a young man’s scrape in an obscure seaport, and emerged from it with Mrs. Somerville in tow. It was one from which a less honourable man would have escaped more fortunately. The lady was accustomed to say, in after times, that she had been ‘married from the schoolroom,’ but many who heard her suspected that there had never been a schoolroom in the matter. He had now been Coastguard Inspector at Kaims for over seven years.
The sailor was sitting at the breakfast-table next morning opposite to his wife, portions of whose figure were visible behind the urn; Miss Lucilla was away on a visit. The house stood a little back from the High Street, and, though the room was quiet, a cart which had stopped at the foot of the strip of garden was unnoticed by the pair.
‘If ye please,’ said the parlour-maid, looking in, ‘there’s a fishwife wad like to speak wi’ you.’
‘We require nothing to-day,’ said Mrs. Somerville.
‘She’s no sellin’. She’s just needing a word wi’ the Captain. It’s Mrs. Stirk—her that bides out by Garviekirk.’
‘It’s Her Majesty of the Cadgers, my dear,’ said the Inspector; ‘we must ask her to come in.’
The parlour-maid smiled.
‘She says she wad like to see ye alone, sir. “It’ll no keep,” she says.’
‘Impertinent woman!’ exclaimed Mrs. Somerville, ‘what can she have to say that I am not supposed to hear?’
‘I would do a good deal to oblige her,’ said Somerville, dragging himself up. ‘Show her into the next room.’
Granny Stirk had put on her pebble brooch; the little woollen shawl, crossed over her chest with its long ends tied behind the waist, was of a bright red and black check; her head was bare and her thick iron-gray hair held by a black net; her gold earrings shone. An indefinable rush of fresh air, brine, and tar came in with her.
‘Sit down, Mrs. Stirk,’ said Somerville, as he stumped in. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Sir,’ said she, ‘could ye tell me what’s come of the Laird o’ Whanland?’
‘God bless me!’ exclaimed the astonished sailor, ‘I think he’s in Spain.’
‘Does he no write ye? A’ mind he was aye billies[1] wi’ you.’
‘I have heard nothing of him since he left.’
She made a gesture of dismay.
‘Mr. Barclay must know where he is,’ said he. ‘I could get his direction for you, I dare say, if it was anything urgent.’
‘Fie, na!’ she exclaimed. ‘Lord’s sake! dinna say a word to the like o’ him!’
‘But what is the trouble, my good woman?’
Before replying, Granny drew her chair close to his, throwing a searching look round the room and at the door; unfortunately, she could not see through the latter, but had she been able to do so, she would have noticed Mrs. Somerville standing on the door-mat.
She plunged into her tale.
‘Did ye no ken that the Laird was just deein’ for yon lassie o’ her ladyship’s? A’ ken’t it fine, but he tell’t me no to speak a word, and, dod! a’ didna. Well, he cam’ in-by to me and tell’t me he was gangin’ awa’ for she wadna tak’ him. That was the way o’t; that was what gar’d the puir lad gang. Did ye ken that, sir?’
‘I guessed it,’ said the Inspector, enormously surprised at this beginning.
‘Well,’ continued the Queen of the Cadgers, leaning forward and solemnly shaking his knee to compel attention, ‘well, she’s to be married in April month an’ she’s greetin’ hersel’ to death for the Laird.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Somerville.
‘A’ was puttin’ on a bittie fire at Whanland yesterday—a’ do that, whiles—an’ she cam’ ridin’ up. “Oh, Granny, let me come in-by!” says she. “What way are ye no here?” says I. “What way did ye let the Laird gang?” An’ she just began greetin’ till I was near feared at her; it was aye the Laird—the Laird. I wager she canna thole yon lad she’s to get. Says I, “Wad ye tak’ him if he was to come back i’ the now?” “Oh!” says she, “div ye think I wadna? Oh! if he was hame! If he was hame!” A’ could hae greetit mysel’, Captain.’
‘But why did she not marry him at the beginning?’
‘I askit her that. “Granny,” says she, “a’ canna tell ye; a’ couldna help mysel’. There’s things a’ canna speak o’. A’ wish a’ was dead,” she says.—An’ there’s Whanland that doesna ken it!’ continued the old woman. ‘Sir, we’ll need to get him hame afore it’s ower late.’
Somerville was silent, feeling as though he were being invited to plunge into a torrent. He was certain that every word Granny said was true, for, though he had only seen Cecilia once since the news of her engagement was public, that once had been enough to show him that she was wretched. Some miserable tragedy was certainly brewing.
‘Suppose Mr. Speid has forgotten her?’ he hazarded.
‘Him forget?’ cried Granny, rising with a movement which made her earrings swing. ‘By Jarvit, Captain, a’ didna think ye was sic a fule!’
‘Perhaps I’m not,’ said he, rather nettled; ‘but what made you come to me?’
‘Was a’ to gang to the Laird o’ Fullarton that’s uncle to yon red-faced loon? Was a’ to gang to yon tod Barclay that’s aye wi’ him an’ that doesna like the Laird—a’ ken fine he doesna. Was a’ to gang to they twa auld maidies i’ the Close that doesna understand naething? Not me!’ said Granny, tossing her earrings again.
Captain Somerville put his hand on the back of his neck and ran it up over the top of his head till his nose got in the way; his hair looked like a field of oats after a rain-shower. Things did seem bad.
‘Ye’ll need to write him—that’s what ye’ll need to do. Tell him if he doesna come hame, it’ll be ower late,’ continued Granny.
‘But he may not want to come, Mrs. Stirk—he may have changed his mind. Remember, it is more than a year and a half since he left.’
‘Have a’ no tell’t ye?’ cried she. ‘There’s naebody kens the Laird as a’ ken him. Gang yer ain gait, sir, but, when Whanland kens the truth, an’ when yon lassie’s awa’ wi’ the wrang lad, you an’ me’ll need to think shame o’ oursels!’
There was scarcely anyone who could more fitly appreciate the horror of Cecilia’s position than the sailor. Long years of a companionship, whose naked uncongenialness he had decently draped with loyalty, were behind him to give point to Granny’s words; also, he thought of her face as he had last seen it; and he had that highest and rarest courage, the courage that is not afraid of responsibility. The rock on which second-rate characters go to pieces had no terrors for him.
The silence now was so deep that Mrs. Somerville, on the mat outside, began to fear a move and made as quiet a retreat as she could to the breakfast-room. She had heard enough to interest her considerably. Though the talk was resumed before she was out of earshot, she did not dare to return, for she saw, looking at the clock, that the maid might come up at any moment to clear the breakfast-table.
‘I will find out where to write to him,’ said the sailor. ‘We must lose no time, for the letter may take weeks to reach him. I am afraid it is a forlorn hope, Mrs. Stirk, but we’ll do our best. I shall write very urgently to Miss Raeburn and tell her what I have done.’
‘That’s you!’ exclaimed the old woman.
‘I must send the letter out to Fullarton to be addressed,’ continued he, ‘I have not heard where she is lodging in Edinburgh.’
‘Dinna hae ony steer wi’ that Barclay,’ said Granny. ‘He’s aye keekin’ an’ speerin’ about what doesna concern him, an’ makin’ work wi’ Mr. Fordyce.’
‘I will go to the Miss Robertsons this afternoon,’ said he, half to himself. ‘I know Miss Hersey writes to Speid. I suppose that, when I send my letter to him, I may say you have been here, Mrs. Stirk, and speak of your meeting with Miss Raeburn?’
‘Ye can that,’ replied she, preparing to go, ‘for a’m terrible pleased a’ did it. A’ll awa’ now, sir, an’ thank ye.’
Mrs. Somerville, looking out of the window, watched the Queen of the Cadgers walk down to her cart. A sneer touched the lady’s face as the old woman got in beside her grandson and was driven away.
‘Well,’ said she, as her husband entered, ‘what did that impudent old creature want? You were a long time listening to her.’
‘She was consulting me about private matters, my dear; and I don’t consider Mrs. Stirk an impudent person.’
‘You are so fond of being mixed up with common people,’ rejoined his wife, ‘I am sure I never could understand your tastes.’
Had the sailor never been mixed up with common people Mrs. Somerville would not have been sitting where she was.
His feelings were stirred a good deal and he was in a mood in which pettinesses were peculiarly offensive to him. Besides that, he was inclined to think Granny’s acquaintance something of an honour.
‘If there were more people in the world like Mrs. Stirk, it would be a good thing for it,’ he said shortly. ‘You are an uncommon silly woman sometimes, Matilda.’