Scottish sketches by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr

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"I know now that we did wrang, but we thought then that we were right.
We had a few pounds between us and we gaed to Carlisle. But naething
went as it should hae done. I could get nae wark, and Bessie fell into
vera bad health; but she had a brave spirit, and she begged me to
leave her in Carlisle and go my lane to Glasgow. 'For when wark an'
siller arena i' one place, Davie,' she said, 'then they're safe to be
in another.'

"I swithered lang about leaving her, but a good opportunity came, and
Bessie promised me to go back to her father until I could come after
her. It was July then, and when Christmas came round I had saved money
enough, and I started wi' a blithe heart to Ecclefechan. I hadna any
fear o' harm to my bonnie bit wifie, for she had promised to go to her
hame, and I was sure she would be mair than welcome when she went
without me. I didna expect any letters, because Bessie couldna write,
and, indeed, I was poor enough wi' my pen at that time, and only wrote
once to tell her I had good wark and would be for her a New Year.

"But when I went I found that Bessie had gane, and none knew where. I
traced her to Keswick poor-house, where she had a little lad; the
matron said she went away in a very weak condition when the child was
three weeks old, declaring that she was going to her friends. Puir,
bonnie, loving Bessie; that was the last I ever heard o' my wife and
bairn."

Mysie had left the room, and as she returnee with a little bundle
Andrew was anxiously asking, "What was the lassie's maiden name,
Davie?"

"Bessie Dunbar, father."

"Then this is a wun'erful day; we are blessed and twice blessed, for I
found your wife and bairn, Davie, just where John Sugden found you,
'mang the Druids' stanes; and the lad has my ain honest name and is
weel worthy o' it."

"See here, Davie," and Mysie tenderly touched the poor faded dress and
shawl, and laid the wedding-ring in his palm. As she spoke wee Andrew
came across the yard, walking slowly, reading as he walked. "Look at
him, Davie! He's a bonnie lad, and a gude are; and oh, my ain dear
lad, he has had a' things that thy youth wanted."

It pleased the old man no little that, in spite of his father's loving
greeting, wee Andrew stole away to his side.

"You see, Davie," he urged in apology, "he's mair at hame like wi'
me."

And then he drew the child to him, and let his whole heart go out now,
without check or reproach, to "Davie's bairn."

"But you have not finished your story, Mr. Cargill," said John, and
David sighed as he answered,

"There is naething by the ordinar in it. I went back to the warks I
had got a footing in, the Glencart Iron Warks, and gradually won my
way to the topmost rungs o' the ladder. I am head buyer now, hae a
gude share i' the concern, and i' money matters there's plenty folk
waur off than David Cargill. When I put my father's forgiveness, my
mither's love, and my Bessie's bonnie lad to the lave, I may weel say
that 'they are weel guided that God guides.' A week ago I went into
the editor's room o' the Glasgow Herald,' and the man no being in I
lifted a paper and saw in it my father's message to me. It's sma'
credit that I left a' and answered it."

"What paper, Mr. Cargill, what paper?"

"They ca' it 'The Watchman.' I hae it in my pocket."

"I thought so," said John triumphantly. "It's a grand paper; every one
ought to have it."

"It is welcome evermore in my house," said Davie.

"It means weel, it means weel," said Andrew, with a great stretch of
charity, "but I dinna approve o' its doctrines at a', and--"

"It found David for you, Andrew."

"Ay, ay, God uses a' kinds o' instruments. 'The Watchman' isna as auld
as the Bible yet, John, and it's ill praising green barley."

"Now, Andrew, I think--"

"Tut, tut, John, I'se no sit i' Rome and strive wi' the pope; there's
naething ill said, you ken, if it's no ill taken."

John smiled tolerantly, and indeed there was no longer time for
further discussion, for the shepherds from the hills and the farmers
from the glen had heard of David's return, and were hurrying to
Cargill to see him. Mysie saw that there would be a goodly company,
and the long harvest-table was brought in and a feast of
thanksgiving spread. Conversation in that house could only set one
way, and after all had eaten and David had told his story again, one
old man after another spoke of the dangers they had encountered and
the spiritual foes they had conquered.

Whether it was the speaking, or the sympathy of numbers, or some
special influence of the Holy Ghost, I know not; but suddenly Andrew
lifted his noble old head and spoke thus:

"Frien's, ye hae some o' you said ill things o' yoursel's, but to the
sons o' God there is nae condemnation; not that I hae been althegither
faultless, but I meant weel, an' the lad was a wilfu' lad, and ye ken
what the wisest o' men said anent such. Just and right has been my
walk before you, but--still--" Then, with a sudden passion, and rising
to his feet, he cried out, "Frien's, I'm a poor sinfu' man, but I'll
play no mair pliskies wi' my conscience. I hae dootless been a hard
master, hard and stern, and loving Sinai far beyond Bethlehem. Hard
was I to my lad, and hard hae I been to the wife o' my bosom, and hard
hae I been to my ain heart. It has been my ain will and my ain way all
my life lang. God forgie me! God forgie me! for this night he has
brought my sins to my remembrance. I hae been your elder for mair than
forty years, but I hae ne'er been worthy to carry his holy vessels.
I'll e'en sit i' the lowest seat henceforward."

"Not so," said John. And there was such eager praise, and such warm
love rose from every mouth, that words began to fail, and as the old
man sat down smiling, happier than he had ever been before, song took
up the burden speech laid down; for John started one of those old
triumphant Methodist hymns, and the rafters shook to the melody, and
the stars heard it, and the angels in heaven knew a deeper joy.
Singing, the company departed, and Andrew, standing in the moonlight
between David and John, watched the groups scatter hither and thither,
and heard, far up the hills and down the glen, that sweet, sweet
refrain,

"Canaan, bright Canaan!
Will you go to the land of Canaan?"

After this David stayed a week at Glenmora, and then it became
necessary for him to return to Glasgow. But wee Andrew was to have a
tutor and remain with his grandparents for some years at least. Andrew
himself determined to "tak a trip" and see Scotland and the wonderful
iron works of which he was never weary of hearing David talk.

When he reached Kendal, however, and saw for the first time the
Caledonian Railway and its locomotives, nothing could induce him to go
farther.

"It's ower like the deil and the place he bides in, Davie," he said,
with a kind of horror. "Fire and smoke and iron bands! I'll no ride at
the deil's tail-end, not e'en to see the land o' the Covenant."

So he went back to Glenmora, and was well content when he stood again
at his own door and looked over the bonny braes of Sinverness, its
simmering becks and fruitful vales. "These are the warks o' His hands,
Mysie," he said, reverently lifting his bonnet and looking up to
Creffel and away to Solway, "and you'd ken that, woman, if you had
seen Satan as I saw him rampaging roun' far waur than any roaring
lion."

After this Andrew never left Sinverness; but, the past unsighed for
and the future sure, passed through

"----an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,"

until, one summer evening, he gently fell on that sleep which God
giveth his beloved.

"For such Death's portal opens not in gloom,
But its pure crystal, hinged on solid gold,
Shows avenues interminable--shows
Amaranth and palm quivering in sweet accord
Of human mingled with angelic song."

One Wrong Step.

ONE WRONG STEP.

CHAPTER I.

"There's few folk ken Ragon Torr as I do, mother. He is better at
heart than thou wad think; indeed he is!"

"If better were within, better wad come out, John. He's been drunk or
dovering i' the chimney-corner these past three weeks. Hech! but he'd
do weel i' Fool's Land, where they get half a crown a day for
sleeping."

"There's nane can hunt a seal or spear a whale like Ragon; thou saw
him theesel', mother, among the last school i' Stromness Bay."

"I saw a raving, ranting heathen, wi' the bonnie blue bay a sea o'
blood around him, an' he shouting an' slaying like an old pagan
sea-king. Decent, God-fearing fisher-folk do their needful wark ither
gate than yon. Now there is but one thing for thee to do: thou must
break wi' Ragon Torr, an' that quick an' soon."

"Know this, my mother, a friend is to be taken wi' his faults."

"Thou knows this, John: I hae forty years mair than thou hast, an'
years ken mair than books. An' wi' a' thy book skill hast thou ne'er
read that 'Evil communications corrupt gude manners'? Mak up thy mind
that I shall tak it vera ill if thou sail again this year wi' that
born heathen;" and with these words Dame Alison Sabay rose up from the
stone bench at her cottage door and went dourly into the houseplace.

John stood on the little jetty which ran from the very doorstep into
the bay, and looked thoughtfully over towards the sweet green isle of
Graemsay; but neither the beauty of land or sea, nor the splendor of
skies bright with the rosy banners of the Aurora gave him any answer
to the thoughts which troubled him. "I'll hae to talk it o'er wi'
Christine," he said decidedly, and he also turned into the house.

Christine was ten years older than her brother John. She had known
much sorrow, but she had lived through and lived down all her trials
and come out into the peace on the other side. She was sitting by the
peat fire knitting, and softly crooning an old Scotch psalm to the
click of her needles. She answered John's look with a sweet, grave
smile, and a slight nod towards the little round table, upon which
there was a plate of smoked goose and some oaten cake for his supper.

"I carena to eat a bite, Christine; this is what I want o' thee: the
skiff is under the window; step into it, an' do thou go on the bay wi'
me an hour."

"I havena any mind to go, John. It is nine by the clock, an' to-morrow
the peat is to coil an' the herring to kipper; yes, indeed."

"Well an' good. But here is matter o' mair account than peat an'
herring. Wilt thou come?"

"At the end I ken weel thou wilt hae thy way. Mother, here is John,
an' he is for my going on the bay wi' him."

"Then thou go. If John kept aye as gude company he wouldna be like to
bring my gray hairs wi' sorrow to the grave."

John did not answer this remark until they had pushed well off from
the sleeping town, then he replied fretfully, "Yes, what mother says
is true enough; but a man goes into the warld. A' the fingers are not
alike, much less one's friends. How can a' be gude?"

"To speak from the heart, John, wha is it?"

"Ragon Torr. Thou knows we hae sat i' the same boat an' drawn the same
nets for three years; he is gude an' bad, like ither folk."

"Keep gude company, my brother, an' thou wilt aye be counted ane o'
them. When Ragon is gude he is ower gude, and when he is bad he is
just beyont kenning."

"Can a man help the kin he comes o'? Have not his forbears done for
centuries the vera same way? Naething takes a Norseman frae his bed or
his cup but some great deed o' danger or profit; but then wha can
fight or wark like them?"

"Christ doesna ask a man whether he be Norse or Scot. If Ragon went
mair to the kirk an' less to the change-house, he wouldna need to
differ. Were not our ain folk cattle-lifting Hieland thieves lang
after the days o' the Covenant?"

"Christine, ye'll speak nae wrang o' the Sabays. It's an ill bird
'files its ain nest."

"Weel, weel, John! The gude name o' the Sabays is i' thy hands now.
But to speak from the heart, this thing touches thee nearer than Ragon
Torr. Thou did not bring me out to speak only o' him."

"Thou art a wise woman, Christine, an' thou art right. It touches
Margaret Fae, an' when it does that, it touches what is dearer to me
than life."

"I see it not."

"Do not Ragon an' I sail i' Peter Fae's boats? Do we not eat at his
table, an' bide round his house during the whole fishing season? If I
sail no more wi' Ragon, I must quit Peter's employ; for he loves Ragon
as he loves no ither lad i' Stromness or Kirkwall. The Norse blood we
think little o', Peter glories in; an' the twa men count thegither
o'er their glasses the races o' the Vikings, an' their ain generations
up to Snorro an' Thorso."

"Is there no ither master but Peter Fae? ask theesel' that question,
John."

"I hae done that, Christine. Plenty o' masters, but nane o' them hae
Margaret for a daughter. Christine, I love Margaret, an' she loves me
weel. Thou hast loved theesel', my sister."

"I ken that, John," she said tenderly; "I hae loved, therefore I hae
got beyont doots, an' learned something holier than my ain way. Thou
trust Margaret now. Thou say 'Yes' to thy mother, an' fear not."

"Christine thou speaks hard words."

"Was it to speak easy anes thou brought me here? An' if I said, 'I
counsel thee to tak thy ain will i' the matter,' wad my counsel mak
bad gude, or wrang right? Paul Calder's fleet sails i' twa days; seek
a place i' his boats."

"Then I shall see next to naught o' Margaret, an' Ragon will see her
every day."

"If Margaret loves thee, that can do thee nae harm."

"But her father favors Ragon, an' of me he thinks nae mair than o' the
nets, or aught else that finds his boats for sea."

"Well an' good; but no talking can alter facts. Thou must now choose
atween thy mother an' Margaret Fae, atween right an' wrang. God doesna
leave that choice i' the dark; thy way may be narrow an' unpleasant,
but it is clear enough. Dost thou fear to walk i' it?"

"There hae been words mair than plenty, Christine. Let us go hame."

Silently the little boat drifted across the smooth bay, and silently
the brother and sister stood a moment looking up the empty, flagged
street of the sleeping town. The strange light, which was neither
gloaming nor dawning, but a mixture of both, the waving boreal
banners, the queer houses, gray with the storms of centuries, the
brown undulating heaths, and the phosphorescent sea, made a strangely
solemn picture which sank deep into their hearts. After a pause,
Christine went into the house, but John sat down on the stone bench to
think over the alternatives before him.

Now the power of training up a child in the way it should go asserted
itself. It became at once a fortification against self-will. John
never had positively disobeyed his mother's explicit commands; he
found it impossible to do so. He must offer his services to Paul
Calder in the morning, and try to trust Margaret Fae's love for him.

He had determined now to do right, but he did not do it very
pleasantly--it is a rare soul that grows sweeter in disappointments.
Both mother and sister knew from John's stern, silent ways that he had
chosen the path of duty, and they expected that he would make it a
valley of Baca. This Dame Alison accepted as in some sort her desert.
"I ought to hae forbid the lad three years syne," she said
regretfully; "aft ill an' sorrow come o' sich sinfu' putting aff.
There's nae half-way house atween right an' wrang."

Certainly the determination involved some unpleasant explanations to
John. He must first see old Peter Fae and withdraw himself from his
service. He found him busy in loading a small vessel with smoked geese
and kippered fish, and he was apparently in a very great passion.
Before John could mention his own matters, Peter burst into a torrent
of invectives against another of his sailors, who, he said, had given
some information to the Excise which had cost him a whole cargo of
Dutch specialties. The culprit was leaning against a hogshead, and was
listening to Peter's intemperate words with a very evil smile.

"How much did ye sell yoursel' for, Sandy Beg? It took the son of a
Hieland robber like you to tell tales of a honest man's cargo. It was
an ill day when the Scots cam to Orkney, I trow."

"She'll hae petter right to say tat same 'fore lang time." And Sandy's
face was dark with a subdued passion that Peter might have known to be
dangerous, but which he continued to aggravate by contemptuous
expressions regarding Scotchmen in general.

This John Sabay was in no mood to bear; he very soon took offence at
Peter's sweeping abuse, and said he would relieve him at any rate of
one Scot. "He didna care to sail again wi' such a crowd as Peter
gathered round him."

It was a very unadvised speech. Ragon lifted it at once, and in the
words which followed John unavoidably found himself associated with
Sandy Beg, a man whose character was of the lowest order. And he had
meant to be so temperate, and to part with both Peter and Ragon on the
best terms possible. How weak are all our resolutions! John turned
away from Peter's store conscious that he had given full sway to all
the irritation and disappointment of his feelings, and that he had
spoken as violently as either Peter, Ragon, or even the half-brutal
Sandy Beg. Indeed, Sandy had said very little; but the malignant look
with which he regarded Peter, John could never forget.

This was not his only annoyance. Paul Calder's boats were fully
manned, and the others had already left for Brassey's Sound. The
Sabays were not rich; a few weeks of idleness would make the long
Orkney winter a dreary prospect. Christine and his mother sat from
morning to night braiding straw into the once famous Orkney Tuscans,
and he went to the peat-moss to cut a good stock of winter fuel; but
his earnings in money were small and precarious, and he was so anxious
that Christine's constant cheerfulness hurt him.

Sandy Beg had indeed said something of an offer he could make "if
shentlemans wanted goot wages wi' ta chance of a lucky bit for
themsel's; foive kuineas ta month an' ta affsets. Oigh! oigh!" But
John had met the offer with such scorn and anger that Sandy had
thought it worth while to bestow one of his most wicked looks upon
him. The fact was, Sandy felt half grateful to John for his apparent
partisanship, and John indignantly resented any disposition to put him
in the same boat with a man so generally suspected and disliked.

"It might be a come-down," he said, "for a gude sailor an' fisher to
coil peats and do days' darg, but it was honest labor; an', please
God, he'd never do that i' the week that wad hinder him fra going to
the kirk on Sabbath."

"Oigh! she'll jist please hersel'; she'll pe owing ta Beg naething by
ta next new moon." And with a mocking laugh Sandy loitered away
towards the seashore.

CHAPTER II.

Just after this interview a little lad put a note in John's hand from
Margaret Fae. It only asked him to be on Brogar Bridge at eight
o'clock that night. Now Brogar Bridge was not a spot that any Orcadian
cared to visit at such an hour. In the pagan temple whose remains
stood there it was said pale ghosts of white-robed priests still
offered up shadowy human sacrifices, and though John's faith was firm
and sure, superstitions are beyond reasoning with, and he recalled the
eerie, weird aspect of the grim stones with an unavoidable
apprehension. What could Margaret want with him in such a place and at
an hour so near that at which Peter usually went home from his shop?
He had never seen Margaret's writing, and he half suspected Sandy Beg
had more to do with the appointment than she had; but he was too
anxious to justify himself in Margaret's eyes to let any fears or
doubts prevent him from keeping the tryst.

He had scarcely reached the Stones of Stennis when he saw her leaning
against one of them. The strange western light was over her thoughtful
face. She seemed to have become a part of the still and solemn
landscape. John had always loved her with a species of reverence;
to-night he felt almost afraid of her beauty and the power she had
over him. She was a true Scandinavian, with the tall, slender, and
rather haughty form which marks Orcadian and Zetland women. Her hair
was perhaps a little too fair and cold, and yet it made a noble
setting to the large, finely-featured, tranquil face.

She put out her hand as John approached, and said, "Was it well that
thou shouldst quarrel with my father? I thought that thou didst love
me."

Then John poured out his whole heart--his love for her, his mother's
demand of him, his quarrel with Ragon and Peter and Sandy Beg. "It has
been an ill time, Margaret," he said, "and thou hast been long in
comforting me."

Well, Margaret had plenty of reasons for her delay and plenty of
comfort for her lover. Naturally slow of pulse and speech, she had
been long coming to a conclusion; but, having satisfied herself of its
justice, she was likely to be immovable in it. She gave John her hand
frankly and lovingly, and promised, in poverty or wealth, in weal or
woe, to stand truly by his side. It was not a very hopeful
troth-plighting, but they were both sure of the foundations of their
love, and both regarded the promise as solemnly binding.

Then Margaret told John that she had heard that evening that the
captain of the Wick steamer wanted a mate, and the rough Pentland
Frith being well known to John, she hoped, if he made immediate
application, he would be accepted. If he was, John declared his
intention of at once seeing Peter and asking his consent to their
engagement. In the meantime the Bridge of Brogar was to be their
tryst, when tryst was possible. Peter's summer dwelling lay not far
from it, and it was Margaret's habit to watch for his boat and walk up
from the beach to the house with him. She would always walk over first
to Brogar, and if John could meet her there that would be well; if
not, she would understand that it was out of the way of duty, and be
content.

John fortunately secured the mate's place. Before he could tell
Margaret this she heard her father speak well of him to the captain.
"There is nae better sailor, nor better lad, for that matter," said
Peter. "I like none that he wad hang roun' my bonnie Marg'et; but
then, a cat may look at a king without it being high treason, I wot."

A week afterwards Peter thought differently. When John told him
honestly how matters stood between him and Margaret he was more angry
than when Sandy Beg swore away his whole Dutch cargo. He would listen
to neither love nor reason, and positively forbid him to hold any
further intercourse with his daughter. John had expected this, and was
not greatly discouraged. He had Margaret's promise. Youth is hopeful,
and they could wait; for it never entered their minds absolutely to
disobey the old man.

In the meantime there was a kind of peacemaking between Ragon and
John. The good Dominie Sinclair had met them both one day on the
beach, and insisted on their forgiving and shaking hands. Neither of
them were sorry to do so. Men who have shared the dangers of the
deep-sea fishing and the stormy Northern Ocean together cannot look
upon each other as mere parts of a bargain. There was, too, a wild
valor and a wonderful power in emergencies belonging to Ragon that had
always dazzled John's more cautious nature. In some respects, he
thought Ragon Torr the greatest sailor that left Stromness harbor, and
Ragon was willing enough to admit that John "was a fine fellow," and
to give his hand at the dominie's direction.

Alas! the good man's peacemaking was of short duration. As soon as
Peter told the young Norse sailor of John's offer for Margaret's hand,
Ragon's passive good-will turned to active dislike and bitter
jealousy. For, though he had taken little trouble to please Margaret,
he had come to look upon her as his future wife. He knew that Peter
wished it so, and he now imagined that it was also the only thing on
earth he cared for.

Thus, though John was getting good wages, he was not happy. It was
rarely he got a word with Margaret, and Peter and Ragon were only too
ready to speak. It became daily more and more difficult to avoid an
open quarrel with them, and, indeed, on several occasions sharp, cruel
words, that hurt like wounds, had passed between them on the public
streets and quays.

Thus Stromness, that used to be so pleasant to him, was changing fast.
He knew not how it was that people so readily believed him in the
wrong. In Wick, too, he had been troubled with Sandy Beg, and a kind
of nameless dread possessed him about the man; he could not get rid of
it, even after he had heard that Sandy had sailed in a whaling ship
for the Arctic seas.

Thus things went on until the end of July. John was engaged now until
the steamer stopped running in September, and the little sum of ready
money necessary for the winter's comfort was assured. Christine sat
singing and knitting, or singing and braiding straw, and Dame Alison
went up and down her cottage with a glad heart. They knew little of
John's anxieties. Christine had listened sympathizingly to his trouble
about Margaret, and said, "Thou wait an' trust; John dear, an' at the
end a' things will be well." Even Ragon's ill-will and Peter's ill
words had not greatly frightened them--"The wrath o' man shall praise
Him," read old Alison, with just a touch of spiritual satisfaction,
"an' the rest o' the wrath he will restrain."

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