Nor came he back that day, nor many a day beyond that. For the postman at noon brought Chris a letter, it was from Ewan and she sat in the kitchen and read it, and didn’t understand, and her lip hurt, and she put up the back of her hand to wipe it and looked at the hand and saw blood on it. Young Ewan came playing about her, he took the letter out of her hand and ran off with it, screaming with laughter in his young, shrill voice, she sat and did not look after him and he came back and laughed in her face, surprised that she did not play. And she took him in her arms and asked for the letter again, and again she tried to read it. And what Ewan wrote was he’d grown sick of it all, folk laughing and sneering at him for a coward, Mutch and Munro aye girding at him. He was off to the War, he had joined the North Highlanders that day, he would let her know where they sent him, she wasn’t to worry; and I am yours truly Ewan.
When John Brigson came in at dinner-time he found Chris looking white as a ghost, but she wasn’t dazed any longer, it just couldn’t be helped, Ewan was gone but maybe the War would be over before he had finished with his training. And John Brigson said Of course it will, I see the Germans are retreating on all the fronts, they’re fair scared white, they say, when our men take to the bayonet. Little Ewan wanted to know what a bayonet was and why the Germans were scared at them, and John Brigson told him and Chris was sick, she’d to run out to be sick, for if you’ve ever gutted a rabbit or a hen you can guess what is inside a man, and she’d seen a bayonet going into Ewan there. And John Brigson was awful sorry, he said he hadn’t thought, and she wasn’t to worry, Ewan would be fine.
OH, BUT THAT Spring was long! Out in the parks in the daytime she’d go to help John Brigson and ease her weariness, she took little Ewan with her then and a plaid to wrap him in for sleep, under the lithe of a hedge or a whin, when he grew over-tired. And the fields were a comfort, the crumble of the fine earth under your feet, swinging a graip as you walked, breaking dung, the larks above, the horses plodding by with snorting breath, old Brigson a-bend above the shafts. He made fair poor drills, they were better than none, and he aye was pleasant and canty, a fine old stock, he did lots of the things that Ewan had done and asked no more pay for the doing of them. That was as well, he wouldn’t have got it, the weather was bitter, corn spoiled in the planting.
Early in the year, about May that was, the rain came down and it seemed it never would end, there was nothing to be done out of doors, the rain came down from the north-east across Kinraddie and Chris wasn’t the only one that noted its difference from other years. In Peesie’s Knapp there was Mistress Stratchan vexing herself in trying to make out the change; and then she minded what Chae had said would happen when the woods came down; once the place had been sheltered and lithe, it poised now up on the brae in whatever storm might come. The woodmen had all finished by then, they’d left a country that looked as though it had been shelled by a German army. Looking out on those storms that May Chris could hardly believe that this was the place she and Will had watched from the window that first morning they came to Blawearie.
And then the very next day as she made the butter, young Ewan was up the stairs with his blocks and books, John Brigson had gone to Mondynes with a load of corn, Chris heard a step in the close, somebody running in a hurry from the rain. Then the door burst open and a soldier came in, panting, in the queerest uniform, a hat with gold lacing and red breeches and leggings, Chris stared at the hat and then at the face. And the soldier cried Oh, Chris, I believe you don’t know me! and she cried then Will! and her arms went round him, they cuddled one the other like children, Chris crying, Will near to crying himself, patting her shoulder and saying Oh, Chris!
Then she pushed him away and looked at him and they cuddled each other again and Will danced her all round the kitchen, and little Ewan up the stairs heard the stir and came tearing down and when he saw a strange man holding his mother in his arms he made at Will and whacked his legs and cried, Away, man! Will cried God Almighty, what’s this you’ve got, Chris? and swung Ewan high and stared in his face and shook his head You’re a fine lad, ay, but you’ve over much of your father in you ever to be as bonny as your mother!
That wasn’t true but fine to hear, Chris could hardly get any work done or a meal made ready, so many the things they’d to take through hand. Will sat and smoked and every now and then they’d look one at the other and Will would give a great laugh Oh Chris, mind this … mind that … ! And his laughter had tears in it, they were daft, the pair of them. And when old John Brigson came home, they heard the noise of the wheels in the close and Will went out to lend him a hand, the old stock jumped off the cart and made for a fork that was lying to hand, he thought Will a German in that strange bit uniform. But he laughed right heartily when Will said who he was, and the two of them came in for dinner and Will sat at the table’s head, in Ewan’s place. And as he ate he told them how he came in the uniform, and all the chances and wanderings that were his and Mollie’s when they went from Scotland.
And faith! he’d had more than enough of both, for in Argentine, as he’d told Chris already by letter, he’d left his first work after a while, he and Mollie had both learned up the Spanish, and he took a job with a Frenchman then, an awful fine stock. He liked Will well and Will liked him, and he gave Will half of his house to bide in, it was a great ranch out in the parks of that meikle country. So there they had lived and were happy and blithe till the Frenchman had to go to the War. Will had thought of going himself more than once but the Frenchman had told him he’d be a fair fool, he might well be glad there wasn’t British conscription; besides, some body or other had to look to the ranch. But in less than two years the Frenchman came back, sore wounded he’d been, and soon as he came Will told him it was his turn now, he’d see some of this War for himself. And the Frenchman told him he was fair a fool, but he’d get him a job with the French. So he did, after cables and cables to Paris, and Will said good-bye to Mollie and the Frenchman and the Frenchman’s wife, and sailed from Buenos Ayres to Cherbourg; and in Paris they knew all about him, he found himself listed as a sergeant-major in the French Foreign Legion, an interpreter he was, for he knew three languages fine. Then they’d given him a fortnight’s leave and here he was.
And when he was alone with Chris that evening and she told him about Εwan down training in Lanark, he said Εwan was either soft or daft or both. Why did you marry the dour devil, Chris? Did he make you or were you going to have a bairn? And Chris didn’t feel affronted, it was Will that asked, he’d treat her just the same if she owned up to a fatherless bairn once a year, or twice, if it came to that. So she shook her head, It was just because he was to me as Mollie to you, and Will nodded to that, Ay well, we can’t help when it gets that way. Mind when you wanted to know … ? And they stood and laughed in the evening, remembering that, and they walked arm in arm up and down the road and Chris forgot her Εwan, forgot young Εwan, forgot all her worries remembering the days when she and Will were bairns together, and the dourness and the loveliness then, and Will asked Do you mind when we slept together — that last time we did it when the old man had near killed me up in the barn? And his face grew dark, he still couldn’t forgive, he said that folk who ill-treated their children deserved to be shot, father had tormented and spoiled him out of sheer cruelty when he was young. But Chris said nothing to that, remembering the day of father’s funeral and how she had wept by his grave in Kinraddie kirkyard.
But she knew she could never tell Will of that, he’d never understand, and they spoke of other things, Will of the Argentine and the life out there, and the smell of the sun and the warm weather and the fruit and flowers and flame of life below the Southern Cross. Chris said But you’ll come back, you and Mollie, to bide in Scotland again? and Will laughed, he seemed still a mere lad in spite of his foreign French uniform, Havers, who’d want to come back to this country? It’s dead or its dying — and a damned good job!
And, daftly, Chris felt a sudden thrust of anger through her heart
at that; and then she looked round Kinraddie in the evening light, seeing it so quiet and secure and still, thinking of the seeds that pushed up their shoots from athousand earthy mouths. Daft of Will to say that: Scotland lived, she could never die, the land would outlast them all, their wars and their Argentines, and the winds come sailing over the Grampians still with their storms and rain and the dew that ripened the crops—long and long after all their little vexings in the evening light were dead and done. And her thoughts went back to the kirkyard, she asked Will would he like to come to the kirk next day, she hadn’t been there herself for a year.
He looked surprised and then laughed You’re not getting religious, are you? as though she had taken to drink. And Chris said No, and then thought about that, time to think for once in the pother of the days with Blawearie so quiet above them, young Ewan and old Brigson asleep. And she said I don’t believe they were ever religious, the Scots folk. Will — not really religious like Irish or French or all the rest in the history books. They’ve never believed. It’s just been a place to collect and argue, the kirk, and criticise God. And Will yawned, he said maybe, he didn’t care one way or the other himself, Mollie in the Argentine had taken up with the Catholics, and faith! she was welcome if she got any fun.
So next day they set out for the kirk, the weather had cleared, blowing wet and sunny in a blink, there were teeth of rainbows out over Kinraddie, Chris said it was Will’s uniform that messed up the sky. But she was proud of him for all that, how folk stared as the two of them went down the aisle! Chris was in her blue, with her new short skirt and long boots, and Will in his blue and red trousers and leggings, and his jacket with the gold lace on it and the high collar and the soft fine hat with the shiny peak. Old Gibbon, him that preached for his son, near fell down the stairs of the pulpit at sight of Will. But he recovered fell soon and preached them one of the sermons that had made such stir throughout the Howe a year or so back, he told how the Germans beasts now boiled the corpses of their own dead men and fed the leavings to pigs. And he ground his teeth at the Germans, they were so coarse; and he said that GUD would assuredly smite them.
But folk had grown sick of him and his ragings, there was only a small attendance to hear him and when they came out in the end Will said It’s good to be out of that creature’s stink! Syne Ellison recognised Will and came swaggering over, redder then ever and fatter than ever, and he cried If it ain’t Will Guthrie! How are you? and Will said Fine. Most of the folk seemed pleased to see him, even Mutch and Munro, excepting the Munro wife herself, she snapped, And what would you be, then, Will? They’ve a man at the picture palace in Stonehaven that wears breeks just like that. And Will said Faith, Mistress Munro, you’re an authority on breeks. I hear you still wear them at the Cuddiestoun. Folk standing around gave a snicker at that, real fine for the futret, she’d met her match.
And Will’s leave went by like a shot, he was all over the Howe in the first few days, up in Fordoun and down in Drumlithie, and everywhere folk made much of him. But after that be bided nearly all the time by Chris, he helped her or Brigson in old clothes of Ewan’s she’d raked out for him. He went shooting with father’s gun fell often, up in the moor it was blithe to hear him and his singing, young Ewan would go wandering up to meet him. And when it came to the end and the last day, young Ewan in bed and they sat by the fire and the June night came softly down without, Chris didn’t fear at all for Will, he was clean and happy and quick, things went well with him. And next morning only young Ewan cried at the parting, and off he went, it seemed then at Blawearie that more than Will had gone out of their lives, it was a happy voice that had sung for itself a chamber in their hearts those weeks he had been with them.
BUT THE HILLS flowed up and down, day after day, in their dark and sunshine, and even those weeks were covered and laid past, and Chris saw the harvest near, so near, a good harvest again in spite of the weather; and still the War went on. Sometimes she’d a note or postcard from Ewan in Lanark, sometimes she wouldn’t hear for week on week till she grew fair alarmed. But he just said it was that he never could write, he didn’t know how, they were awfully busy and she wasn’t to worry.
And then through Kinraddie a motor came driving one day, it turned at the cross-roads and drove down by the Denburn. It stopped at the Mill and folk ran to their doors and wondered who it could be, the place was locked up and deserted-like. And when the motor stopped a man got out, and another came after, slow, and he took the arm of the first one, and they went step-stepping at snail’s pace up to the Mill-house and folk could see no more. But soon the story of it was known all over the place, it was Long Rob himself come back, he had never given in, they had put him in prison and ill-used him awful; but he wouldn’t give in whatever they did, he laughed in their faces, Fine, man, fine. Last he went on the hunger-strike, that was when you just starved to death to spite them, and grew weaker and weaker. So they took him from prison to a doctor childe and the doctor said it was useless to keep him, he’d never be of use to his King and country.
So home at last he had come, folk told he was fairly a wreck, he could hardly stand up and walk or make his own meat, God knows how he ever got into his clothes. And Mutch and Munro wouldn’t go near him, neither would Gordon, they said that it served him right, the coarse pro- German. And when Chris heard that there came a stinging pain in her eyes, and she called old John Brigson to yoke a cart and put corn in it, as though taking it to Rob for bruising; and Chris got into the cart as well and took young Ewan on her knee, and off they set from Blawearie. Outside the Mill-house Chris cried on Brigson to stop, and found the basket she’d laid on the bottom of the cart and ran through the close to the kitchen door. It stood half-open, the place was dark with hardly a glimmer from the fire. But she saw someone sitting, she stopped and stared, an old man it seemed with a white, drawn face, his hands fumbling at the lighting of a pipe.
She called Rob! and he looked up and she saw his eyes, they were filled with awful things, he cried Chris! God, is’t Chris Guthrie? She was shaking his hand and his shoulder then, minding things about him, not looking at him, minding the fine neighbour he’d been to her and Ewan in the days they married. And she asked What are you sitting here for? You should be in your bed, and Rob said I’m damned if I should, I’ve had over much of bed. I was waiting about for the grocer childe, but he didn’t stop, though he knows I’m home. I suppose he’s still an ill-will at pro-Germans, like.
Chris told him never to mind the grocer, and she spoke to him roughly, in case she should weep at the sight of him; and she told him to go out and see John Brigson. Then, soon as he’d hirpled out with his stick she looked round the place and started to clean it, and made a fine fire and a meal with fresh eggs and butter, and oat-cakes and scones and jam, she’d brought the lot from Blawearie. So when Rob came in from his speak with Brigson, there it was waiting him on the table, he blinked and sat down and said in a whisper, You shouldn’t have done this, Chris quean. But Chris said nothing, just sat him down at the table and sat there herself and saw that he ate; and when young Ewan came in with old Brigson she fed them as well; and syne Brigson set off for the farm at Auchenblae where Rob’s horse and sholtie were housed.
When he’d gone Chris set to work on the place and opened the windows to the air and cleaned out the rooms and dragged off the dirty linen from the bed and made it up in a bundle to take back with her. Syne she baked oat-cakes for Rob and told him that each day he’d get him a pail of milk from the Netherhill, till time came when he’d kye of his own again, she’d arranged for that. And when John Brigson came back in the evening with horse and sholtie Long Rob was fast asleep in his chair, they didn’t rouse him but spread him his supper, and set him his breakfast as well, and left a lamp low-burning and clear beside him, and a hot-water bottle in his bed. Syne they left him and rode them back to Blawearie, all three were tired, young Ewan asleep in the arms of Chris, dear to hold him so with his dark head sleeping against her breast and old Brigson’
s shoulder seen as a dark quiet bulking against the night.
Next morning they looked out from Blawearie and saw Rob’s horse and sholtie at graze in a park of the Mill, and Long Rob himself, a dot in the sunlight, making slow way to the moor land he’d wrought at so long. And as they looked they heard, thin and remote, the sound of a song Kinraddie had missed for many a day. It was Ladies of Spain.
SOON MAYBE THE War would end, Chris had dreamt as she listened to that singing, and they all be back in Kinraddie as once they had been, Chae and Long Rob and her dark lad, Ewan himself. So she’d dreamt that morning, she’d never grow out from long dreamings in autumn dawns like those. And fruition of dream came soon enough, it was a telegram boy that came riding his bicycle up to Blawearie. Chris read the telegram, it was Ewan that had sent it, Home on leave tonight before going to France. She stared at it and the lad that had brought it, and he asked Any reply? and she said Any what? and he asked her again, and she said No, and ran into the kitchen and stared at the writing in the telegram. He was going to France.