Kitabı oku: «Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XXV
Turkey Plots

The next day, at breakfast, I told my father all the previous day’s adventures. Never since he had so kindly rescued me from the misery of wickedness had I concealed anything from him. He, on his part, while he gave us every freedom, expected us to speak frankly concerning our doings. To have been unwilling to let him know any of our proceedings would have simply argued that they were already disapproved of by ourselves, and no second instance of this had yet occurred with me. Hence it came that still as I grew older I seemed to come nearer to my father. He was to us like a wiser and more beautiful self over us,—a more enlightened conscience, as it were, ever lifting us up towards its own higher level.

This was Sunday; but he was not so strict in his ideas concerning the day as most of his parishioners. So long as we were sedate and orderly, and neither talked nor laughed too loud, he seldom interfered with our behaviour, or sought to alter the current of our conversation. I believe he did not, like some people, require or expect us to care about religious things as much as he did: we could not yet know as he did what they really were. But when any of the doings of the week were referred to on the Sunday, he was more strict, I think, than on other days, in bringing them, if they involved the smallest question, to the standard of right, to be judged, and approved or condemned thereby. I believe he thought that to order our ways was our best preparation for receiving higher instruction afterwards. For one thing, we should then, upon failure, feel the burden of it the more, and be the more ready to repent and seek the forgiveness of God, and that best help of his which at length makes a man good within himself.

He listened attentively to my story, seemed puzzled at the cry I had heard from the cottage, said nothing could have gone very wrong, or we should have heard of it, especially as Andrew had been to inquire, laughed over the apparition of Miss Adam, and my failure in rescuing Jamie Duff. He said, however, that I had no right to interefere with constituted authority—that Adam was put there to protect the trees, and if he had got hold of a harmless person, yet Jamie was certainly trespassing, and I ought to have been satisfied with Turkey’s way of looking at the matter.

I saw that my father was right, and a little further reflection convinced me that, although my conduct had a root in my regard for Jamie Duff, it had a deeper root in my regard for his sister, and one yet deeper in my regard for myself—for had I not longed to show off in her eyes? I suspect almost all silly actions have their root in selfishness, whether it take the form of vanity, of conceit, of greed, or of ambition.

While I was telling my tale, Mrs. Mitchell kept coming into the room oftener, and lingering longer, than usual. I did not think of this till afterwards. I said nothing about her, for I saw no occasion; but I do not doubt she was afraid I would, and wished to be at hand to defend herself. She was a little more friendly to me in church that day: she always sat beside little Davie.

When we came out, I saw Andrew, and hurried after him to hear how he had sped the night before. He told me he had found all perfectly quiet at the cottage, except the old woman’s cough, which was troublesome, and gave proof that she was alive, and probably as well as usual. He suggested now that the noise was all a fancy of mine—at which I was duly indignant, and desired to know if it was also Missy’s fancy that made her go off like a mad creature. He then returned to his former idea of the cock, and as this did not insult my dignity, I let it pass, leaning however myself to the notion of Wandering Willie’s pipes.

On the following Wednesday we had a half holiday, and before dinner I went to find Turkey at the farm. He met me in the yard, and took me into the barn.

“I want to speak to you, Ranald,” he said.

I remember so well how the barn looked that day. The upper half of one of the doors had a hole in it, and a long pencil of sunlight streamed in, and fell like a pool of glory upon a heap of yellow straw. So golden grew the straw beneath it, that the spot looked as if it were the source of the shine, and sent the slanting ray up and out of the hole in the door. We sat down beside it, I wondering why Turkey looked so serious and important, for it was not his wont.

“Ranald,” said Turkey, “I can’t bear that the master should have bad people about him.”

“What do you mean, Turkey?” I rejoined.

“I mean the Kelpie.”

“She’s a nasty thing, I know,” I answered. “But my father considers her a faithful servant.”

“That’s just where it is. She is not faithful. I’ve suspected her for a long time. She’s so rough and ill-tempered that she looks honest; but I shall be able to show her up yet. You wouldn’t call it honest to cheat the poor, would you?”

“I should think not. But what do you mean?”

“There must have been something to put old Eppie in such an ill-temper on Saturday, don’t you think?”

“I suppose she had had a sting from the Kelpie’s tongue.”

“No, Ranald, that’s not it. I had heard whispers going about; and last Saturday, after we came home from John Adam’s, and after I had told Elsie about Jamie, I ran up the street to old Eppie. You would have got nothing out of her, for she would not have liked to tell you; but she told me all about it.”

“What a creature you are, Turkey! Everybody tells you everything.”

“No, Ranald; I don’t think I am such a gossip as that. But when you have a chance, you ought to set right whatever you can. Right’s the only thing, Ranald.”

“But aren’t you afraid they’ll call you a meddler, Turkey? Not that I think so, for I’m sure if you do anything against anybody, it’s for some other body.”

“That would be no justification if I wasn’t in the right,” said Turkey. “But if I am, I’m willing to bear any blame that comes of it. And I wouldn’t meddle for anybody that could take care of himself. But neither old Eppie nor your father can do that: the one’s too poor, and the other too good.”

“I was wondering what you meant by saying my father couldn’t take care of himself.”

“He’s too good; he’s too good, Ranald. He believes in everybody. I wouldn’t have kept that Kelpie in my house half the time.”

“Did you ever say anything to Kirsty about her?”

“I did once; but she told me to mind my own business. Kirsty snubs me because I laugh at her stories. But Kirsty is as good as gold, and I wouldn’t mind if she boxed my ears—as indeed she’s done—many’s the time.”

“But what’s the Kelpie been doing to old Eppie?”

“First of all, Eppie has been playing her a trick.”

“Then she mustn’t complain.”

“Eppie’s was a lawful trick, though. The old women have been laying their old heads together—but to begin at the beginning: there has been for some time a growing conviction amongst the poor folk that the Kelpie never gives them an honest handful of meal when they go their rounds. But this was very hard to prove, and although they all suspected it, few of them were absolutely certain about it. So they resolved that some of them should go with empty bags. Every one of those found a full handful at the bottom. Still they were not satisfied. They said she was the one to take care what she was about. Thereupon old Eppie resolved to go with something at the bottom of her bag to look like a good quantity of meal already gathered. The moment the door was closed behind her—that was last Saturday—she peeped into the bag. Not one grain of meal was to be discovered. That was why she passed you muttering to herself and looking so angry. Now it will never do that the manse, of all places, should be the one where the poor people are cheated of their dues. But we roust have yet better proof than this before we can say anything.”

“Well, what do you mean to do, Turkey?” I asked. “Why does she do it, do you suppose? It’s not for the sake of saving my father’s meal, I should think.”

“No, she does something with it, and, I suppose, flatters herself she is not stealing—only saving it off the poor, and so making a right to it for herself. I can’t help thinking that her being out that same night had something to do with it. Did you ever know her go to see old Betty?”

“No, she doesn’t like her. I know that.”

“I’m not so sure. She pretends perhaps. But we’ll have a try. I think I can outwit her. She’s fair game, you know.”

“How? What? Do tell me, Turkey,” I cried, right eagerly.

“Not to-day. I will tell you by and by.”

He got up and went about his work.

CHAPTER XXVI
Old John Jamieson

As I returned to the house I met my father.

“Well, Ranald, what are you about?” he said, in his usual gentle tone.

“Nothing in particular, father,” I answered.

“Well, I’m going to see an old man—John Jamieson—I don’t think you know him: he has not been able to come to church for a long time. They tell me he is dying. Would you like to go with me?”

“Yes, father. But won’t you take Missy?”

“Not if you will walk with me. It’s only about three miles.”

“Very well, father. I should like to go with you.”

My father talked about various things on the way. I remember in particular some remarks he made about reading Virgil, for I had just begun the Æneid. For one thing, he told me I must scan every line until I could make it sound like poetry, else I should neither enjoy it properly, nor be fair to the author. Then he repeated some lines from Milton, saying them first just as if they were prose, and after that the same lines as they ought to be sounded, making me mark the difference. Next he did the same with a few of the opening lines of Virgil’s great poem, and made me feel the difference there.

“The sound is the shape of it, you know, Ranald,” he said, “for a poem is all for the ear and not for the eye. The eye sees only the sense of it; the ear sees the shape of it. To judge poetry without heeding the sound of it, is nearly as bad as to judge a rose by smelling it with your eyes shut. The sound, besides being a beautiful thing in itself, has a sense in it which helps the other out. A psalm tune, if it’s the right one, helps you to see how beautiful the psalm is. Every poem carries its own tune in its own heart, and to read it aloud is the only way to bring out its tune.”

I liked Virgil ever so much better after this, and always tried to get at the tune of it, and of every other poem I read.

“The right way of anything,” said my father, “may be called the tune of it. We have to find out the tune of our own lives. Some people don’t seem ever to find it out, and so their lives are a broken and uncomfortable thing to them—full of ups and downs and disappointments, and never going as it was meant to go.”

“But what is the right tune of a body’s life, father?”

“The will of God, my boy.”

“But how is a person to know that, father?”

“By trying to do what he knows of it already. Everybody has a different kind of tune in his life, and no one can find out another’s tune for him, though he may help him to find it for himself.”

“But aren’t we to read the Bible, father?”

“Yes, if it’s in order to obey it. To read the Bible thinking to please God by the mere reading of it, is to think like a heathen.”

“And aren’t we to say our prayers, father?”

“We are to ask God for what we want. If we don’t want a thing, we are only acting like pagans to speak as if we did, and call it prayer, and think we are pleasing him.”

I was silent. My father resumed.

“I fancy the old man we are going to see found out the tune of his life long ago.”

“Is he a very wise man then, father?”

“That depends on what you mean by wise. I should call him a wise man, for to find out that tune is the truest wisdom. But he’s not a learned man at all. I doubt if he ever read a book but the Bible, except perhaps the Pilgrim’s Progress. I believe he has always been very fond of that. You like that—don’t you, Ranald?”

“I’ve read it a good many times, father. But I was a little tired of it before I got through it last time.”

“But you did read it through—did you—the last time, I mean?”

“Oh yes, father. I never like to leave the loose end of a thing hanging about.”

“That’s right, my boy; that’s right. Well, I think you’d better not open the book again for a long time—say twenty years at least. It’s a great deal too good a book to let yourself get tired of. By that time I trust you will be able to understand it a great deal better than you can at present.”

I felt a little sorry that I was not to look at the Pilgrim’s Progress for twenty years; but I am very glad of it now.

“We must not spoil good books by reading them too much,” my father added. “It is often better to think about them than to read them; and it is best never to do either when we are tired of them. We should get tired of the sunlight itself, beautiful as it is, if God did not send it away every night. We’re not even fit to have moonlight always. The moon is buried in the darkness every month. And because we can bear nothing for any length of time together, we are sent to sleep every night, that we may begin fresh again in the morning.”

“I see, father, I see,” I answered.

We talked on until we came in sight of John Jamieson’s cottage.

What a poor little place it was to look at—built of clay, which had hardened in the sun till it was just one brick! But it was a better place to live in than it looked, for no wind could come through the walls, although there was plenty of wind about. Three little windows looked eastward to the rising sun, and one to the south: it had no more. It stood on the side of a heathy hill, which rose up steep behind it, and bending round sheltered it from the north. A low wall of loose stones enclosed a small garden, reclaimed from the hill, where grew some greens and cabbages and potatoes, with a flower here and there between. In summer it was pleasant enough, for the warm sun makes any place pleasant. But in winter it must have been a cold dreary place indeed. There was no other house within sight of it. A little brook went cantering down the hill close to the end of the cottage, singing merrily.

“It is a long way to the sea, but by its very nature the water will find it at last,” said my father, pointing to the stream as we crossed it by the single stone that was its bridge.

He had to bend his head low to enter the cottage. An old woman, the sick man’s wife, rose from the side of the chimney to greet us. My father asked how John was.

“Wearing away,” was her answer. “But he’ll be glad to see you.”

We turned in the direction in which her eyes guided us. The first thing I saw was a small withered-looking head, and the next a withered-looking hand, large and bony. The old man lay in a bed closed in with boards, so that very little light fell upon him; but his hair glistened silvery through the gloom. My father drew a chair beside him. John looked up, and seeing who it was, feebly held out his hand. My father took it and stroked it, and said:

“Well, John, my man, you’ve had a hard life of it.”

“No harder than I could bear,” said John.

“It’s a grand thing to be able to say that,” said my father.

“Oh sir! for that matter, I would go through it all again, if it was his will, and willingly. I have no will but his, sir.”

“Well, John, I wish we could all say the same. When a man comes to that, the Lord lets him have what he wants. What do you want now, John?”

“To depart and be with the Lord. It wouldn’t be true, sir, to say that I wasn’t weary. It seems to me, if it’s the Lord’s will, I’ve had enough of this life. Even if death be a long sleep, as some people say, till the judgment, I think I would rather sleep, for I’m very weary. Only there’s the old woman there! I don’t like leaving her.”

“But you can trust God for her too, can’t you?”

“It would be a poor thing if I couldn’t, sir.”

“Were you ever hungry, John—dreadfully hungry, I mean?”

“Never longer than I could bear,” he answered. “When you think it’s the will of God, hunger doesn’t get much hold of you, sir.”

“You must excuse me, John, for asking so many questions. You know God better than I do, and I want my young man here to know how strong the will of God makes a man, old or young. He needn’t care about anything else, need he?”

“There’s nothing else to care about, sir. If only the will of God be done, everything’s all right, you know. I do believe, sir, God cares more for me than my old woman herself does, and she’s been as good a wife to me as ever was. Young gentleman, you know who says that God numbers the very hairs of our heads? There’s not many of mine left to number,” he added with a faint smile, “but there’s plenty of yours. You mind the will of God, and he’ll look after you. That’s the way he divides the business of life.”

I saw now that my father’s talk as we came, had been with a view to prepare me for what John Jamieson would say. I cannot pretend, however, to have understood the old man at the time, but his words have often come back to me since, and helped me through trials pretty severe, although, like the old man, I have never found any of them too hard to bear.

“Have you no child to come and help your wife to wait upon you?” my father asked.

“I have had ten, sir, but only three are left alive. There’ll be plenty to welcome me home when I go. One of the three’s in Canada, and can’t come. Another’s in Australia, and he can’t come. But Maggie’s not far off, and she’s got leave from her mistress to come for a week—only we don’t want her to come till I’m nearer my end. I should like her to see the last of her old father, for I shall be young again by the next time she sees me, please God, sir. He’s all in all—isn’t he, sir?”

“True, John. If we have God, we have all things; for all things are his and we are his. But we mustn’t weary you too much. Thank you for your good advice.”

“I beg your pardon, sir; I had no intention of speaking like that. I never could give advice in all my life. I always found it was as much as I could do to take the good advice that was given to me. I should like to be prayed for in the church next Sunday, sir, if you please.”

“But can’t you pray for yourself, John?”

“Yes, sir; but I would like to have some spiritual gift because my friends asked it for me. Let them pray for more faith for me. I want more and more of that. The more you have, the more you want. Don’t you, sir? And I mightn’t ask enough for myself, now I’m so old and so tired. I sleep a great deal, sir.”

“Then don’t you think God will take care to give you enough, even if you shouldn’t ask for enough?” said my father.

“No doubt of that. But you see I am able to think of it now, and so I must put things in a train for the time when I shan’t be able to think of it.”

Something like this was what John said; and although I could not understand it then, my father spoke to me several times about it afterwards, and I came to see how the old man wanted to provide against the evil time by starting prayers heavenward beforehand, as it were.

My father prayed by his bedside, pulled a parcel or two from his pocket for his wife, and then we walked home together in silence. My father was not the man to heap words upon words and so smother the thought that lay in them. He had taken me for the sake of the lesson I might receive, and he left it to strike root in my mind, which he judged more likely if it remained undisturbed.

CHAPTER XXVII
Turkey’s Trick

When we came to the farm on our way home, we looked in to see Kirsty, but found the key in the door, indicating that she had gone out. As we left the yard, we saw a strange-looking woman, to all appearance a beggar, approaching. She had a wallet over her shoulder, and walked stooping with her eyes on the ground, nor lifted them to greet us—behaviour which rarely showed itself in our parish. My father took no notice, but I could not help turning to look after the woman. To my surprise she stood looking after us, but the moment I turned, she turned also and walked on. When I looked again she had vanished. Of course she must have gone into the farm-yard. Not liking the look of her, and remembering that Kirsty was out, I asked my father whether I had not better see if any of the men were about the stable. He approved, and I ran back to the house. The door was still locked. I called Turkey, and heard his voice in reply from one of the farthest of the cow-houses. When I had reached it and told him my story, he asked if my father knew I had come back. When he heard that he did know, he threw down his pitchfork, and hastened with me. We searched every house about the place, but could find no sign whatever of the woman.

“Are you sure it wasn’t all a fancy of your own, Ranald?” said Turkey.

“Quite sure. Ask my father. She passed as near us as you are to me now.”

Turkey hurried away to search the hayloft once more, but without success; and at last I heard my father calling me.

I ran to him, and told him there was no woman to be seen.

“That’s odd,” he said. “She must have passed straight through the yard and got out at the other side before you went in. While you were looking for her, she was plodding away out of sight. Come along, and let us have our tea.”

I could not feel quite satisfied about it, but, as there was no other explanation, I persuaded myself that my father was right.

The next Saturday evening I was in the nursery with my brothers. It was growing dusk, when I heard a knocking. Mrs. Mitchell did not seem to hear it, so I went and opened the door. There was the same beggar woman. Rather frightened, I called aloud, and Mrs. Mitchell came. When she saw it was a beggar, she went back and reappeared with a wooden basin filled with meal, from which she took a handful as she came in apparent preparation for dropping it, in the customary way, into the woman’s bag. The woman never spoke, but closed the mouth of her wallet, and turned away. Curiosity gave me courage to follow her. She walked with long strides in the direction of the farm, and I kept at a little distance behind her. She made for the yard. She should not escape me this time. As soon as she entered it, I ran as fast as I could, and just caught sight of her back as she went into one of the cow-houses. I darted after her. She turned round upon me—fiercely, I thought, but judge my surprise when she held out the open mouth of the bag towards me, and said—

“Not one grain, Ranald! Put in your hand and feel.”

It was Turkey.

I stared in amazement, unable for a time to get rid of the apparition and see the reality. Turkey burst out laughing at my perplexed countenance.

“Why didn’t you tell me before, Turkey?” I asked, able at length to join in the laugh.

“Because then you would have had to tell your father, and I did not want him to be troubled about it, at least before we had got things clear. I always did wonder how he could keep such a creature about him.”

“He doesn’t know her as we do, Turkey.”

“No. She never gives him the chance. But now, Ranald, couldn’t you manage to find out whether she makes any store of the meal she pretends to give away?”

A thought struck me.

“I heard Davie the other day asking her why she had two meal-tubs: perhaps that has something to do with it.”

“You must find out. Don’t ask Davie.”

For the first time it occurred to me that the Kelpie had upon that night of terror been out on business of her own, and had not been looking for me at all.

“Then she was down at old Betty’s cottage,” said Turkey, when I communicated the suspicion, “and Wandering Willie was there too, and Andrew was right about the pipes. Willie hasn’t been once to the house ever since he took Davie, but she has gone to meet him at Betty’s. Depend on it, Ranald, he’s her brother, or nephew, or something, as I used to say. I do believe she gives him the meal to take home to her family somewhere. Did you ever hear anything about her friends?”

“I never heard her speak of any.”

“Then I don’t believe they’re respectable. I don’t, Ranald. But it will be a great trouble to the minister to have to turn her away. I wonder if we couldn’t contrive to make her go of herself. I wish we could scare her out of the country. It’s not nice either for a woman like that to have to do with such innocents as Allister and Davie.”

“She’s very fond of Davie.”

“So she is. That’s the only good thing I know of her. But hold your tongue, Ranald, till we find out more.”

Acting on the hint Davie had given me, I soon discovered the second meal-tub. It was small, and carefully stowed away. It was now nearly full, and every day I watched in the hope that when she emptied it, I should be able to find out what she did with the meal. But Turkey’s suggestion about frightening her away kept working in my brain.