Books: The Lilac Sunbonnet
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S.R. Crockett >> The Lilac Sunbonnet
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So saying, he turned his eyes once more on the blue mist that
filled the wide Grannoch Valley, and the bees hummed again in the
honey-scented marshmallows so that all heard them.
"This is my grandmother," said Winsome, who stood quite quiet
behind her chair, swinging the sunbonnet in her hand. From her
flower-set corner the old lady held out her band. With a touch of
his father's old-fashioned courtesy he stooped and kissed it.
Winsome instinctively put her hand quickly behind her as though he
had kissed that. Once such practices have a beginning, who knows
where they may end? She had not expected it of him, though,
curiously, she thought no worse of him for his gallantry.
But the lady of Craig Ronald was obviously greatly pleased.
"The lad has guid bluid in him. That's the minnie [mother] o' him,
nae doot. She was a Gilchrist o' Linwood on Nithsdale. What she
saw in your faither to tak' him I dinna ken ony mair than I ken
hoo it cam' to pass that I am the mistress o' Walter Skirving's
hoose the day.--Come oot ahint my chair, lassie; dinna be lauchin'
ahint folks's backs. D'ye think I'm no mistress o' my ain hoose
yet, for a' that ye are sic a grand hoosekeeper wi' your way o't."
The accusation was wholly gratuitous. Winsome had been grave with
a great gravity. But she came obediently out, and seated herself
on a low stool by her grandmother's side. There she sat, holding
her hand, and leaning her elbow on her knee. Ralph thought he had
never seen anything so lovely in his life--an observation entirely
correct. The old lady was clad in a dress of some dark stiff
material, softer than brocade, which, like herself, was more
beautiful in its age than even in youth. Folds of snowy lawn
covered her breast and fell softly about her neck, fastened there
by a plain black pin. Her face was like a portrait by Henry
Raeburn, so beautifully venerable and sweet. The twinkle in her
brown eyes alone told of the forceful and restless spirit which
was imprisoned within. She had been reading a new volume of the
Great Unknown which the Lady Elizabeth had sent her over from the
Big House of Greatorix. She had laid it down on the entry of the
young man. Now she turned sharp upon him.
"Let me look at ye, Maister Ralph Peden. Whaur gat ye the 'Ralph'?
That's nae westland Whig name. Aye, aye, I mind--what's comin' o'
my memory? Yer grandfaither was auld Ralph Gilchrist; but ye dinna
tak' after the Gilchrists--na, na, there was no ane o' them weel
faured--muckle moo'd [large-mouthed] Gilchrists they ca'ed them.
It'll be your faither that you favour."
And she turned him about for inspection with her hand.
"Grandmother--" began Winsome, anxious lest she should say
something to offend the guest of the house. But the lady did not
heed her gentle monition.
"Was't you that ran awa' frae a bonny lass yestreen?" she queried,
sudden as a flash of summer lightning.
It was now the turn of both the younger folk to blush. Winsome
reddened with vexation at the thought that he should think that
she had seen him run and gone about telling of it. Ralph grew
redder and redder, and remained speechless. He did not think of
anything at all.
"I am fond of exercise," he said falteringly.
The gay old lady rippled into a delicious silver stream of
laughter, a little thin, but charmingly provocative. Winsome did
not join, but she looked up imploringly at her grandmother,
leaning her head back till her tresses swept the ground.
When Mistress Skirving recovered herself,
"Exerceese, quo' he, heard ye ever the like o' that? In their
young days lads o' speerit took their exerceese in comin' to see a
bonny lass--juist as I was sayin' to Winifred yestreen nae faurer
gane. Hoot awa', twa young folk! The simmer days are no lang. Waes
me, but I had my share o' them! Tak' them while they shine,
bankside an' burnside an' the bonny heather. Aince they bloomed
for Ailie Gordon. Once she gaed hand in hand alang the braes,
where noo she'll gang nae mair. Awa' wi' ye, ye're young an'
honest. Twa auld cankered carles are no fit company for twa young
folks like you. Awa' wi' ye; dinna be strange wi' his mither's
bairn, say I--an' the guid man hae's spoken for the daddy o' him."
Thus was Ralph Peden made free of the Big Hoose of Craig Ronald.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MINISTER'S MAN ARMS EOR CONQUEST.
Saunders Mowdiewort, minister's man and grave-digger, was going a
sweethearting. He took off slowly the leathern "breeks" of his
craft, sloughing them as an adder casts his skin. They collapsed
upon the floor with a hideous suggestion of distorted human limbs,
as Saunders went about his further preparations. Saunders was a
great, soft-bodied, fair man, of the chuby flaxen type so rare in
Scotland--the type which looks at home nowhere but along the south
coast of England. Saunders was about thirty-five. He was a widower
in search of a wife, and made no secret of his devotion to
Margaret Kissock, the "lass" of the farm town of Craig Ronald.
Saunders was slow of speech when in company, and bashful to a
degree. He was accustomed to make up his mind what he would say
before venturing within the range of the sharp tongue of his well-
beloved--an excellent plan, but one which requires for success
both self-possession and a good memory. But for lack of these
Saunders had made an excellent courtier.
Saunders made his toilet in the little stable of the manse above
which he slept. As he scrubbed himself he kept up a constant
sibilant hissing, as though he were an equine of doubtful
steadiness with whom the hostler behooved to be careful. First he
carefully removed the dirt down to a kind of Plimsoll load-line
midway his neck; then he frothed the soap-suds into his red
rectangular ears, which stood out like speaking trumpets; there he
let it remain. Soap is for putting on the face, grease on the
hair. It is folly then to wash either off. Besides being wasteful.
His flaxen hair stood out in wet strands and clammy tags and
tails. All the while Saunders kept muttering to himself:
"An' says I to her: 'Meg Kissock, ye're a bonny woman,' says I.
'My certie, but ye hae e'en like spunkies [will-o'-the-wisps] or
maybes," said Saunders in a meditative tone. "I had better say
'like whurlies in a sky-licht.' It micht be considered mair lovin'
like!"
"Then she'll up an' say: 'Saunders, ye mak' me fair ashamed to
listen to ye. Be mensefu' [polite], can ye no?'"
This pleased Saunders so much that he slapped his thigh so that
the pony started and clattered to the other side of his stall.
"Then I'll up an' tak' her roun' the waist, an' I'll look at her
like this--" (here Saunders practised the effect of his
fascinations in the glass, a panorama which was to some extent
marred by the necessary opening of his mouth to enable the razor
he was using to excavate the bristles out of the professional
creases in his lower jaw. Saunders pulled down his mouth to
express extra grief when a five-foot grave had been ordered. His
seven-foot manifestations of respect for the deceased were a sight
to see. He held the opinion that anybody that had no more 'conceit
o' themsel'' [were so much left to themselves] than to be buried
in a three-foot grave, did not deserve to be mourned at all. This
crease, then, was one of Saunders's assets, and had therefore to
be carefully attended to. Even love must not interfere with it.)
"Sae after that, I shall tak' her roun' the waist, juist like
this--" said he, insinuating his left arm circumferentially. It
was an ill-judged movement, for, instead of circling Meg Kissock's
waist, he extended his arm round the off hindleg of Birsie, the
minister's pony, who had become a trifle short tempered in his old
age. Now it was upon that very leg and at that very place that,
earlier in the day, a large buzzing horse-fly had temporarily
settled. Birsie was in no condition, therefore, for argument upon
the subject. So with the greatest readiness he struck straight out
behind and took Saunders what he himself called a "dinnle on the
elbuck." Nor was this all, for the razor suddenly levered upwards
by Birsie's hoof added another and entirely unprofessional wrinkle
to his face.
Saunders uprose in wrath, for the soap was stinging furiously in
the cut, and expostulated with Birsie with a handful of reins
which he lifted off the lid of the corn-chest.
"Ye ill-natured, thrawn, upsettin' blastie, ye donnart auld
deevil!" he cried.
"Alexander Mowdiewort, gin ye desire to use minced oaths and braid
oaths indiscriminately, ye shall not use them in my stable. Though
ye be but a mere Erastian and uncertain in yer kirk membership, ye
are at least an occasional hearer, whilk is better than naething,
at the kirk o' the Marrow; and what is more to the point, ye are
my own hired servant, and I desire that ye cease from makin' use
o' any such expressions upon my premises."
"Weel, minister," said Saunders, penitently, "I ken brawly I'm i'
the wrang; but ye ken yersel', gin ye had gotten a dinnle i' the
elbuck that garred ye loup like a troot i' Luckie Mowatt's pool,
or gin ye had cuttit yersel' wi' yer ain razor, wad 'Effectual
Callin',' think ye, hae been the first word i' yer mooth? Noo,
minister, fair Hornie!"
"At any rate," said the minister, "what I would have said or done
is no excuse for you, as ye well know. But how did it happen?"
"Weel, sir, ye see the way o't was this: I was thinkin' to mysel',
'There's twa or three ways o' takin' the buiks intil the pulpit--
There's the way consequential--that's Gilbert Prettiman o' the
Kirkland's way. Did ever ye notice the body? He hauds the Bibles
afore him as if he war Moses an' Aaron gaun afore Pharaoh, wi' the
coat-taillies o' him fleein' oot ahint, an' his chin pointin' to
the soon'in'-board o' the pulpit."
"Speak respectfully of the patriarchs," said Mr. Welsh
sententiously. Saunders looked at him with some wonder expressed
in his eyes.
"Far be it frae me," he said, "to speak lichtly o' ony ane o' them
(though, to tell the truth, some o' them war gye boys). I hae been
ower lang connectit wi' them, for I hae carriet the buiks for
fifteen year, ever since my faither racket himsel' howkin' the
grave o' yer predecessor, honest man, an' I hae leeved a' my days
juist ower the wa' frae the kirk."
"But then they say, Saunders," said the minister, smilingly, "'the
nearer the kirk the farther frae grace.'"
"'Deed, minister," said Saunders, "Grace Kissock is a nice bit
lassie, but an' Jess will be no that ill in a year or twa, but o'
a' the Kissocks commend me till Meg. She wad mak' a graund wife.
What think ye, minister?"
Mr. Welsh relaxed his habitual severe sadness of expression and
laughed a little. He was accustomed to the sudden jumps which his
man's conversation was wont to take.
"Nay," he said, "but that is a question for you, Saunders. It is
not I that think of marrying her."
"The Lord be thankit for that! for gin the minister gaed speerin',
what chance wad there be for the betheral?"
"Have you spoken to Meg herself yet?" asked Mr. Welsh.
"Na," said Saunders; "I haena that, though I hae made up my mind
to hae it oot wi' her this verra nicht--if sae it micht be that ye
warna needin' me, that is--" he added, doubtfully, "but I hae guid
reason to hope that Meg--"
"What reason have you, Saunders? Has Margaret expressed a
preference for you in any way?"
"Preference!" said Saunders; "'deed she has that, minister; a
maist marked preference. It was only the last Tuesday afore
Whussanday [Whitsunday] that she gied me a clour [knock] i' the
lug that fair dang me stupid. Caa that ye nocht?"
"Well, Saunders," said the minister, going out, "certainly I wish
you good speed in your wooing; but see that you fall no more out
with Birsie, lest you be more bruised than you are now; and for
the rest, learn wisely to restrain your unruly member."
"Thank ye, minister," said Saunders; "I'll do my best endeavours
to obleege ye. Meg's clours are to be borne wi' a' complaisancy,
but Birsie's dunts are, so to speak, gratuitous!"
CHAPTER IX.
THE ADVENT OF THE CUIF.
"Here's the Cuif!" said Meg Kissock, who with her company gown on,
and her face glowing from a brisk wash, sat knitting a stocking in
the rich gloaming light at the gable end of the house of Craig
Ronald. Winsome usually read a book, sitting by the window which
looked up the long green croft to the fir-woods and down to the
quiet levels of Loch Grannoch, on which the evening mist was
gathering a pale translucent blue. It was a common thing for Meg
and Jessie Kissock to bring their knitting and darning there, and
on their milking-stools sit below the window. If Winsome were in a
mood for talk she did not read much, but listened instead to the
brisk chatter of the maids. Sometimes the ploughmen, Jock Forrest
and Ebie Farrish, came to "ca' the crack," and it was Winsome's
delight on these occasions to listen to the flashing claymore of
Meg Kissock's rustic wit. Before she settled down, Meg had taken
in the three tall candles "ben the hoose," where the old people
sat--Walter Skirving, as ever, silent and far away, his wife deep
in some lively book lent her by the Lady Elizabeth out of the
library of Greatorix Castle.
A bank of wild thyme lay just beneath Winsome's window, and over
it the cows were feeding, blowing softly through their nostrils
among the grass and clover till the air was fragrant with their
balmy breath.
"Guid e'en to ye, 'Cuif,'" cried Meg Kissock as soon as Saunders
Mowdiewort came within earshot. He came stolidly forward tramping
through the bog with his boots newly greased with what remained of
the smooth candle "dowp" with which he had sleeked his flaxen
locks. He wore a broad blue Kilmarnock bonnet, checked red and
white in a "dam-brod" [draught-board] pattern round the edge, and
a blue-buttoned coat with broad pearl buttons. It may be well to
explain that there is a latent meaning, apparent only to Galloway
folk of the ancient time, in the word "cuif." It conveys at once
the ideas of inefficiency and folly, of simplicity and the
ignorance of it. The cuif is a feckless person of the male sex,
who is a recognized butt for a whole neighbourhood to sharpen its
wits upon.
The particular cuif so addressed by Meg came slowly over the
knoll.
"Guid e'en to ye," he said, with his best visiting manners.
"Can ye no see me as weel, Saunders?" said Jess, archly, for all
was grist that came to her mill.
Saunders rose like a trout to the fly.
"Ow aye, Jess, lass, I saw ye brawly, but it disna do to come
seekin' twa lasses at ae time."'
"Dinna ye be thinkin' to put awa' Meg, an' then come coortin' me!"
said Jess, sharply.
Saunders was hurt for the moment at this pointed allusion both to
his profession and also to his condition as a "seekin'" widower.
"Wha seeks you, Jess, 'ill be sair ill-aff!" he replied very
briskly for a cuif.
The sound of Meg's voice in round altercation with Jock Gordon,
the privileged "natural" or innocent fool of the parish,
interrupted this interchange of amenities, which was indeed as
friendly and as much looked for between lads and lasses as the
ordinary greeting of "Weel, hoo's a' wi' ye the nicht?" which
began every conversation between responsible folks.
"Jock Gordon, ye lazy ne'er-do-weel, ye hinna carried in a single
peat, an' it comin' on for parritch-time. D'ye think my maister
can let the like o' you sorn on him, week in, week oot, like a
mawk on a sheep's hurdie? Gae wa' oot o' that, lyin' sumphin'
[sulking] an' sleepin' i' the middle o' the forenicht, an' carry
the water for the boiler an' bring in the peats frae the stack."
Then there arose a strange elricht quavering voice--the voice of
those to whom has not been granted their due share of wits. Jock
Gordon was famed all over the country for his shrewd replies to
those who set their wits in contest with his. Jock is remembered
on all Deeside, and even to Nithsdale. He was a man well on in
years at this time, certainly not less than forty-five. But on his
face there was no wrinkle set, not a fleck of gray upon his
bonnetless fox-red shock of hair, weather-rusted and usually stuck
full of feathers and short pieces of hay. Jock Gordon was
permitted to wander as a privileged visitor through the length and
breadth of the south hill country. He paid long visits to Craig
Ronald, where he had a great admiration and reverence for the
young mistress, and a hearty detestation for Meg Kissock, who, as
he at all times asserted, "was the warst maister to serve atween
the Cairnsmuirs."
"Richt weel I'll do yer biddin', Meg Kissock," he answered in his
shrill falsetto, "but no for your sake or the sake o' ony
belangin' to you. But there's yae bonny doo [dove], wi' her hair
like gowd, an' a fit that she micht set on Jock Gordon's neck, an'
it wad please him weel. An' said she, 'Do the wark Meg Kissock
bids ye,' so Jock Gordon, Lord o' Kelton Hill an' Earl o'
Clairbrand, will perform a' yer wull. Otherwise it's no in any
dochter o' Hurkle-backit [bent-backed] Kissock to gar Jock Gordon
move haund or fit."
So saying, Jock clattered away with his water-pails, muttering to
himself.
Meg Kissock came out again to sit down on her milking-stool under
the westward window, within which was Winsome Charteris, reading
her book unseen by the last glow of the red west.
Jess and Saunders Mowdiewort had fallen silent. Jess had said her
say, and did not intend to exert herself to entertain her sister's
admirer. Jess was said to look not unkindly on Ebie Farrish, the
younger ploughman who had recently come to Craig Ronald from one
of the farms at the "laigh" end of the parish. Ebie had also, it
was said, with better authority, a hanging eye to Jess, who had
the greater reason to be kind to him, that he was the first since
her return from England who had escaped the more BRAVURA
attractions of her sister.
"Can ye no find a seat guid eneuch to sit doon on, cuif?" inquired
Meg with quite as polite an intention as though she had said, "Be
so kind as to take a seat." The cuif, who had been uneasily
balancing himself first on one foot and then on the other, and
apologetically passing his hand over the sleek side of his head
which was not covered by the bonnet, replied gratefully:
"'Deed I wull that, Meg, since ye are sae pressin'."
He went to the end of the milk-house, selected a small tub used
for washing the dishes of red earthenware and other domestic small
deer, turned it upside down, and seated himself as near to Meg as
he dared. Then he tried to think what it was he had intended to
say to her, but the words somehow would not now come at call.
Before long he hitched his seat a little nearer, as though his
present position was not quite comfortable.
But Meg checked him sharply.
"Keep yer distance, cuif," she said; "ye smell o' the muils"
[churchyard earth].
"Na, na, Meg, ye ken brawly I haena been howkin' [digging] since
Setterday fortnicht, when I burriet Tarn Rogerson's wife's guid-
brither's auntie, that leeved grainin' an' deein' a' her life wi'
the rheumatics an' wame disease, an' died at the last o' eatin'
swine's cheek an' guid Cheddar cheese thegither at Sandy
Mulquharchar's pig-killin'."
"Noo, cuif," said Meg, with an accent of warning in her voice,
"gin ye dinna let alane deevin' [deafening] us wi' yer kirkyaird
clavers, ye'll no sit lang on my byne" [tub].
From the end of the peat-stack, out of the dark hole made by the
excavation of last winter's stock of fuel, came the voice of Jock
Gordon, singing:
"The deil he sat on the high lumtap,
HECH HOW, BLACK AN' REEKY!
Gang yer ways and drink yer drap,
Ye'll need it a' whan ye come to stap
IN MY HOLE SAE BLACK AN' REEKY, O!
HECH HOW, BLACK AN' REEKY!
"Hieland kilt an' Lawland hose,
Parritch-fed an' reared on brose,
Ye'll drink nae drap whan ye come tae stap
IN MY HOLE SAE BLACK AN' REEKY, O!
HECH HOW, BLACK AN' REEKY!"
Meg Kissock and her sweetheart stopped to listen. Saunders
Mowdiewort smiled an unprofessional smile when he heard the song
of the natural. "That's a step ayont the kirkyaird, Meg," he said.
"Gin ye hae sic objections to hear aboot honest men in their
honest graves, what say ye to that elricht craitur scraichin'
aboot the verra deil an' his hearth-stane?"
Certainly it sounded more than a trifle uncanny in the gloaming,
coming out of that dark place where even in the daytime the black
Galloway rats cheeped and scurried, to hear the high, quavering
voice of Jock Gordon singing his unearthly rhymes.
By-and-bye those at the house gable could see that the innocent
had climbed to the top of the peat-stack in some elvish freak, and
sat there cracking his thumbs and singing with all his might:
"HECH HOW, BLACK AN' REEKY!
IN MY HOLE SAE BLACK AN' REEKY, O!"
"Come doon oot o' that this meenit, Jock Gordon, ye gomeral!"
cried Meg, shaking her fist at the uncouth shape twisting and
singing against the sunset sky like one demented.
The song stopped, and Jock Gordon slowly turned his head in their
direction. All were looking towards him, except Ebie Farrish, the
new ploughman, who was wondering what Jess Kissock would do if he
put his arm around her waist.
"What said ye?" Jock asked from his perch on the top of the peat-
stack.
"Hae ye fetched in the peats an' the water, as I bade ye?" asked
Meg, with great asperity in her voice. "D'ye think that ye'll win
aff ony the easier in the hinnerend, by sittin' up there like yin
o' his ain bairns, takkin' the deil's name in vain?"
"Gin ye dinna tak' tent to [care of] yersel', Meg Kissock,"
retorted Jock, "wi' yer eternal yammer o' 'Peats, Jock Gordon, an'
'Water, Jock Gordon,' ye'll maybes find yersel' whaur Jock
Gordon'll no be there to serve ye; but the Ill Auld Boy'll keep ye
in routh o' peats, never ye fret, Meg Kissock, wi' that reed-heed
[red head] o' yours to set them a-lunt [on fire]. Faith an' ye may
cry 'Water! water!' till ye crack yer jaws, but nae Jock Gordon
there--na, na--nae Jock Gordon there. Jock kens better."
But at this moment there was a prolonged rumble, and the whole
party sitting by the gable end (the "gavel," as it was locally
expressed) rose to their feet from tub and hag-clog and milking-
stool. There had been a great land-slip. The whole side of the
peat-stack had tumbled bodily into the great "black peat-hole"
from which the winter's peats had come, and which was a favourite
lair of Jock's own, being ankle-deep in fragrant dry peat "coom"--
which is, strange to say, a perfectly clean and even a luxurious
bedding, far to be preferred as a couch to "flock" or its kindred
abominations.
All the party ran forward to see what had become of Jock, whose
song had come to so swift a close.
Out of the black mass of down-fallen peat there came a strange,
pleading voice.
"O guid deil, O kind deil, dinna yirk awa' puir Jock to that ill
bit--puir Jock, that never yet did ye ony hairm, but aye wished ye
weel! Lat me aff this time, braw deil, an' I'll sing nae mair ill
gangs aboot ye!"
"Save us!" exclaimed Meg Kissock, "the craitur's prayin' to the
Ill Body himsel'."
Ebbie Farrish began to clear away the peat, which was, indeed, no
difficult task. As he did so, the voice of Jock Gordon mounted
higher and higher:
"O mercy me, I hear them clawin' and skrauchelin'! Dinna let the
wee yins wi' the lang riven taes and the nebs like gleds [beaks
like kites] get haud o' me! I wad rayther hae yersel', Maister o'
Sawtan, for ye are a big mensefu' deil. Ouch! I'm dune for noo,
althegither; he haes gotten puir Jock! Sirce me, I smell the
reekit rags o' him!"
But it was only Ebie Farrish that had him by the roll of ancient
cloth which served as a collar for Jock's coat. When he was pulled
from under the peats and set upon his feet, he gazed around with a
bewildered look.
"O man, Ebie Farrish," he said solemnly, "If I didna think ye war
the deil himsel'--ye see what it is to be misled by ootward
appearances!"
There was a shout of laughter at the expense of Ebie, in which Meg
thought that she heard an answering ripple from within Winsome's
room.
"Surely, Jock, ye were never prayin' to the deil?" asked Meg from
the window, very seriously. "Ye ken far better than that."
"An' what for should I no pray to the deil? He's a desperate
onsonsy chiel yon. It's as weel to be in wi' him as oot wi' him
ony day. Wha' kens what's afore them, or wha they may be behaudin'
to afore the morrow's morn?" answered Jock stoutly.
"But d'ye ken," said John Scott, the theological herd, who had
quietly "daundered doon" as he said, from his cot-house up on the
hill, where his bare-legged bairns played on the heather and short
grass all day, to set his shoulder against the gable end for an
hour with the rest.
"D'ye ken what Maister Welsh was sayin' was the new doctrine amang
thae New Licht Moderates--'hireling shepherds,' he ca'd them? Noo
I'm no on mysel' wi' sae muckle speakin' aboot the deil. But the
minister was sayin' that the New Moderates threep [assert] that
there's nae deil at a'. He dee'd some time since!"
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