*CHAPTER XXI*
*THE HIRED MAN*
There was nothing for me to do but lay to heart the advice of my friendJean. Mary's suggestion that I should offer my services to her fathertook root in my mind, and next day I broached the matter to him. Ibegan by assuring him of my sense of indebtedness to him and his goodwife for all that they had done for me. Money I told him could notrepay him; whereat he shrugged his shoulders and made a noise in histhroat as though the very mention of such a thing hurt him.
Then I told him that one of two alternatives lay before me--either toleave Daldowie and endeavour to make my way across the border, or tostay on at the farm and try to repay by service the heavy debt underwhich I lay. He heard all I had to say in silence, but when I hadfinished he spoke:
"There's a lot o' places no' as guid as Daldowie. I couldna hear o' yeleavin' us yet. Ye see, Jean--that's the wife--has ta'en an awfu' fancytae ye; and as for masel', I like a man aboot the hoose. A man like megets tired wi' naething but womenfolk cackling roon' him. I think wi' abit o' experience ye'd mak' no' a bad fairmer. When winter comes wi'the snaw there's a lot o' heavy work to be done feedin' the nowt, forbylookin' after the sheep. Last winter I lost half a score in asnaw-drift, and that is mair than a man like me can afford in sic tryin'times. I was ettlin' to hire a man in the back end o' the year; but ifyou like to stop you can tak' his place. I think I could learn ye alot: and in the lang winter nichts me and you'll be able to ha'e someguid sets to on the dambrod. But a word in your lug. If ye're stoppin'on here ye'd better drap that English tongue o' yours, and learn to talklike a civilised body. It'll be safer. I've noticed that when aScotsman loses his ain tongue, an' talks like an Englishman, he loses abit o' his Scots backbane. Maybe in your case the thing will work theither wey"--and he struck me heartily on the shoulder.
So the bargain was made, and I entered into the service of AndrewPaterson of Daldowie and of Jean his wife. I was already the devotedbond-slave of Mary.
Andrew announced our pact that evening as we sat round the fire."Jean," he said, "I've hired a man."
Her knitting needles clicked a little faster: "And where did ye gethim?" she asked. "I ha'e seen naebody aboot the steadin' the day, andthe hirin' fair is no' till October."
Out of the corner of my eyes I saw a smile on Mary's face.
"Wha dae ye think?" said Andra. "Bryden here has speired for the job,and as he seems to ha'e the makin' o' a fairmer in him, I agreed to gi'ehim a try."
Jean laid her knitting in her lap. "Andra, are ye sure ye're daein'richt?"
Involuntarily I started. Was Jean about to turn against me? But therewas wisdom in her question, for she knew her husband better than I did.There was irritation in his voice:
"Of course I'm daein' richt, woman. It's like ye to question the wisdomo' your man. He never does onything richt." He swung himself round onthe settle and crossed his knees angrily.
"But," returned Jean, "do ye no' see the risk ye're runnin'? Lag'sridin' through the countryside, and what dae ye think he'll say if hefinds that a deserter is serving-man at Daldowie?"
"I ha'e thocht o' a' that, Jean," he replied. "He'll juist hae to keepoot o' sicht when your godless frien' Lag is aboot."
His wife seemed about to raise further objections, but he silenced her:"Haud yer tongue, Jean, and gang on wi' yer knittin'. My min's made up,and I am no' gaun to be turned frae my ain course by a naggin' woman.Let's hear nae mair o't." And then raising his voice he ended: "I'll bemaister in ma ain hoose, I tell ye."
This little passage of arms, planned by the shrewd wit of Jean, servedbut to establish her husband in his purpose. The good wife picked upher knitting again, and for a time there was no sound but the click ofher needles. Then, of a sudden, Andrew turned to Mary who, in thesemi-darkness, had stretched out her hand and touched mine gently andsaid: "Mary, licht the cruise and bring the Book."
In this fashion I became a willing servant at Daldowie. The days passedpleasantly. Andrew took a pride in his farm. "A Paterson," he wouldsay, "has farmed here since Flodden. Man, that was an awfu' thrashin'you English gi'ed us yonder; but we've paid ye back tenfold. We sentthe Stuarts tae ye,"--and he would laugh heartily. The original littleparcel of land had, I learned, been a gift made to an Andrew Patersonafter that fateful combat, and each succeeding generation of hisdescendants had with incessant toil sought to bring under cultivation afew more acres of the unfruitful moor, until now Daldowie was a heritageof which any man might be proud. The love of his land was a passion inAndrew's blood.
My desire to make myself of use impressed him, and he taught me muchagricultural lore. I found, as I had long suspected, that under hisdour exterior there was much native shrewdness, and not a little pawkyhumour. But of that gift he had not such a rich endowment as his wife.In his silent way, he cherished a great affection for her, and though hehad never, in my hearing, expressed himself in any terms of endearment,I knew that in his heart of hearts he regarded her as a queen amongwomen. Sometimes he would talk to me of the trials of the hill-men. Ofthe justice of their cause he was absolutely convinced, and now and thenhis devotion to it seemed to me to border on fanaticism. He could findno good word to say for the powers that were arraigned against the menof the Covenant, and once, in a burst of anger, he said:
"I ken I can trust the wife, but this colloguin' wi' Lag is a disgraceto my hoose, and nae guid can come o't. She thinks that wi' him for afrien' she's protectin' them she likes best, but I'm thinkin' theAlmichty canna be pleased, for what says the Book: 'Him that honourethMe will I honour,' and ye canna honour the Lord by feedin' ane o' Hisworst enemies on guid farles o' oatcake--wi' butter forby. Hooever, yeken her weel enough to understaun' how thrawn she is, and ony word fraeme would only mak' her thrawner. Ye're no' mairrit yoursel', and I dootye ken nocht o' the ways o' women, but that's ane o' them."
I had enough mother-wit to hold my tongue.
Autumn ebbed--and the purple moor turned to bronze.
Winter descended upon the land and the moor was shrouded in snow; butere the snow fell, the sheep had been gathered into the lower fold andnone were lost. Each short, dark day was followed by the delight of along and cosy evening by the fireside, what time the baffled wind howledover the well-thatched roof. Andrew and I would engage in doughtycombats on the dambrod, while Mary and her mother plied their needlesbusily: and sometimes, to my great delight, when Andrew was not in themood for such worldly amusement, Mary would take his place at the game.He is a poor lover who cannot, amid the moves of the black and whitemen, make silent but most eloquent love, and many a tender messageleaped across the checkered board from my eyes to Mary's, and fromMary's to mine. Once on an evening when we had been playing togetherwhile her father slept in the ingle-nook, and Jean busied herself withher knitting, Mary brushed the men aside and resting her elbows on thetable poised her chin on her finger-tips. My eyes followed the perfectline of her white arms from her dimpled elbows, half-hidden in a frothof lace, to her slender hands that supported the exquisite oval of herface.
"Let's talk," she said.
"Yes, talk," I answered. "I shall love to listen, and as you talk I'lldrink your beauty in."
She wrinkled her nose into the semblance of a frown, and then laughed.
"For a book-learned man ye're awfu' blate."
"Ah, sweetheart," I answered, "no man can learn the language of lovefrom books. That comes from life."
"No," she said, laughingly; "no' frae life, but frae love. I'm far farwiser than you"--and she held her hands apart as though to indicate thebreadth of her wisdom--"and I learned it a' frae love. For when youknocked at the door o' my he'rt an' it flew open to let you in, a' thewisdom that love cairries in its bosom entered tae. So I'm wiser thanyou--far wiser." She leaned towards me. "But I'm yer ain wee Marystill--am I no? Let me hear ye say it. Love is like that. It makes usawfu' wise, but it leaves us awfu' foolish. Kiss me again."
Book-learning teaches no man how to answer such a challenge--but lovedoes, and I need not set it down.
Sometimes Mary would read aloud old ballads of love and highadventure--while Andrew and I sat listening, and Jean, as she knitted,listened too. As she read, she had a winsome trick of smoothing backinto its place a little lock of hair that would persist in straying overher left ear. That vagrant curl fascinated me. Evening by evening Iwatched to see it break loose for the joy of seeing her pretty handrestore it to order. I called it the Covenanting curl, and when sheasked me why, I stole a kiss, and said, "Because it is a rebel," whereatshe slapped me playfully on the cheek, and whispered, "If ye are atrooper ye should make it a prisoner," which I was fain to do, but sheresisted me.
Jean took a kindly though silent interest in our love-making, but ifAndrew knew, or guessed what was afoot, he made no sign. His fits ofdepression grew more frequent; but whether they were due to uncertaintyas to his own spiritual state or to sorrow and anger at the continuedharrying of the hill-folk I was not able to tell, and Jean did notenlighten me, though in all likelihood she knew.
So the happy winter passed, and spring came again rich in promise.