Scottish sketches by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr

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CHAPTER III.

It was a Saturday night in the beginning of August, and John was at
home until the following Monday. He dressed himself and went out
towards Brogar, and Christine watched him far over the western moor,
and blessed him as he went. He had not seen Margaret for many days,
but he had a feeling to-night that she would be able to keep her
tryst. And there, standing amid the rushes on the lakeside, he found
her. They had so much to say to each other that Margaret forgot her
father's return, and delayed so long that she thought it best to go
straight home, instead of walking down the beach to meet him.

He generally left Stromness about half-past eight, and his supper was
laid for nine o'clock. But this night nine passed, and he did not
come; and though the delay could be accounted for in various ways, she
had a dim but anxious forecasting of calamity in her heart. The
atmosphere of the little parlor grew sorrowful and heavy, the lamp did
not seem to light it, her father's chair had a deserted, lonely
aspect, the house was strangely silent; in fifteen minutes she had
forgotten how happy she had been, and wandered to and from the door
like some soul in an uneasy dream.

All at once she heard the far-away shouting of angry and alarmed
voices, and to her sensitive ears her lover's and her father's names
were mingled. It was her nature to act slowly; for a few moments she
could not decide what was to be done. The first thought was the
servants. There were only two, Hacon Flett and Gerda Vedder. Gerda had
gone to bed, Hacon was not on the place. As she gathered her energies
together she began to walk rapidly over the springy heath towards the
white sands of the beach. Her father, if he was coming, would come
that way. She was angry with herself for the _if_. Of course he was
coming. What was there to prevent it? She told herself, Nothing, and
the next moment looked up and saw two men coming towards her, and in
their arms a figure which she knew instinctively was her father's.

She slowly retraced her steps, set open the gate and the door, and
waited for the grief that was coming to her. But however slow her
reasoning faculties, her soul knew in a moment what it needed. It was
but a little prayer said with trembling lips and fainting heart; but
no prayer loses its way. Straight to the heart of Christ it went. And
the answer was there and the strength waiting when Ragon and Hacon
brought in the bleeding, dying old man, and laid him down upon his
parlor floor.

Ragon said but one word, "Stabbed!" and then, turning to Hacon, bid
him ride for life and death into Stromness for a doctor. Most sailors
of these islands know a little rude surgery, and Ragon stayed beside
his friend, doing what he could to relieve the worst symptoms.
Margaret, white and still, went hither and thither, bringing whatever
Ragon wanted, and fearing, she knew not why, to ask any questions.

With the doctor came the dominie and two of the town bailies. There
was little need of the doctor; Peter Fae's life was ebbing rapidly
away with every moment of time. There was but little time now for
whatever had yet to be done. The dominie stooped first to his ear, and
in a few solemn words bid him lay himself at the foot of the cross.
"Thou'lt never perish there, Peter," he said; and the dying man seemed
to catch something of the comfort of such an assurance.

Then Bailie Inkster said, "Peter Fae, before God an' his
minister--before twa o' the town bailies an' thy ain daughter
Margaret, an' thy friend Ragon Torr, an' thy servants Hacon Flett an'
Gerda Vedder, thou art now to say what man stabbed thee."

Peter made one desperate effort, a wild, passionate gleam shot from
the suddenly-opened eyes, and he cried out in a voice terrible in its
despairing anger, "_John Sabay! John Sabay--stabb-ed--me!
Indeed--he--did_!"

"Oh, forgive him, man! forgive him! Dinna think o' that now, Peter!
Cling to the cross--cling to the cross, man! Nane ever perished that
only won to the foot o' it." Then the pleading words were whispered
down into fast-sealing ears, and the doctor quietly led away a poor
heart-stricken girl, who was too shocked to weep and too humbled and
wretched to tell her sorrow to any one but God.

CHAPTER IV.

The bailies, after hearing the deposition, immediately repaired to
John Sabay's cottage. It was Saturday night, and no warrant could now
be got, but the murderer must be secured. No two men bent on such an
errand ever found it more difficult to execute. The little family had
sat later than usual. John had always news they were eager to hear--of
tourists and strangers he had seen in Wick, or of the people the
steamer had brought to Kirkwall.

He was particularly cheerful this evening; his interview with Margaret
had been hopeful and pleasant, and Christine had given the houseplace
and the humble supper-table quite a festival look. They had sat so
long over the meal that when the bailies entered John was only then
reading the regular portion for the evening exercise. All were a
little amazed at the visit, but no one thought for a moment of
interrupting the Scripture; and the two men sat down and listened
attentively while John finished the chapter.

Bailie Tulloch then rose and went towards the dame. He was a far-off
cousin of the Sabays, and, though not on the best of terms with them,
his relationship was considered to impose the duty particularly on
him.

"Gude-e'en, if thou comes on a gude errand," said old Dame Alison,
suspiciously; "but that's no thy custom, bailie."

"I came, dame, to ask John anent Peter Fae."

The dame laughed pleasantly. "If thou had asked him anent Margaret
Fae, he could tell thee more about it."

"This is nae laughing matter, dame. Peter Fae has been murdered--yes,
murdered! An' he said, ere he died, that John Sabay did the deed."

"Then Peter Fae died wi' a lie on his lips--tell them that, John," and
the old woman's face was almost majestic in its defiance and anger.

"I hae not seen Peter Fae for a week," said John. "God knows that,
bailie. I wad be the vera last man to hurt a hair o' his gray head;
why he is Margaret's father!"

"Still, John, though we hae nae warrant to hold thee, we are beholden
to do sae; an' thou maun come wi' us," said Bailie Inkster.

"Wrang has nae warrant at ony time, an' ye will no touch my lad," said
Alison, rising and standing before her son.

"Come, dame, keep a still tongue."

"My tongue's no under thy belt, Tulloch; but it's weel kenned that
since thou wranged us thou ne'er liked us."

"Mother, mother, dinna fash theesel'. It's naught at a' but a mistake;
an' I'll gae wi' Bailie Inkster, if he's feared to tak my word."

"I could tak thy word fain enough, John--"

"But the thing isna possible, Inkster. Besides, if he were missing
Monday morn, I, being i' some sort a relation, wad be under suspicion
o' helping him awa."

"Naebody wad e'er suspect thee o' a helping or mercifu' deed, Tulloch.
Indeed na!"

"Tak care, dame; thou art admitting it wad be a mercifu' deed. I heard
Peter Fae say that John Sabay stabbed him, an' Ragon Torr and Hacon
Flett saw John, as I understan' the matter."

"Mother," said John, "do thou talk to nane but God. Thou wilt hae to
lead the prayer theesel' to-night; dinna forget me. I'm as innocent o'
this matter as Christine is; mak up thy mind on that."

"God go wi' thee, John. A' the men i' Orkney can do nae mair than they
may against thee."

"It's an unco grief an' shame to me," said Tulloch, "but the Sabays
hae aye been a thorn i' the flesh to me, an' John's the last o' them,
the last o' them!"

"Thou art makin' thy count without Providence, Tulloch. There's mair
Sabays than Tullochs; for there's Ane for them that counts far beyont
an' above a' that can be against them. Now, thou step aff my honest
hearthstane--there is mair room for thee without than within."

Then John held his mother's and sister's hands a moment, and there was
such _virtue_ in the clasp, and such light and trust in their faces,
that it was impossible for him not to catch hope from them. Suddenly
Bailie Tulloch noticed that John was in his Sabbath-day clothes. In
itself this was not remarkable on a Saturday night. Most of the people
kept this evening as a kind of preparation for the Holy Day, and the
best clothing and the festival meal were very general. But just then
it struck the bailies as worth inquiring about.

"Where are thy warking-claes, John--the uniform, I mean, o' that
steamship company thou sails for--and why hast na them on thee?"

"I had a visit to mak, an' I put on my best to mak it in. The ithers
are i' my room."

"Get them, Christine."

Christine returned in a few minutes pale-faced and empty-handed. "They
are not there, John, nor yet i' thy kist."

"I thought sae."

"Then God help me, sister! I know not where they are."

Even Bailie Inkster looked doubtful and troubled at this circumstance.
Silence, cold and suspicious, fell upon them, and poor John went away
half-bereft of all the comfort his mother's trust and Christine's look
had given him.

The next day being Sabbath, no one felt at liberty to discuss the
subject; but as the little groups passed one another on their way to
church their solemn looks and their doleful shakes of the head
testified to its presence in their thoughts. The dominie indeed,
knowing how nearly impossible it would be for them not to think their
own thoughts this Lord's day, deemed it best to guide those thoughts
to charity. He begged every one to be kind to all in deep affliction,
and to think no evil until it was positively known who the guilty
person was.

Indeed, in spite of the almost overwhelming evidence against John
Sabay, there was a strong disposition to believe him innocent. "If ye
believe a' ye hear, ye may eat a' ye see," said Geordie Sweyn. "Maybe
John Sabay killed old Peter Fae, but every maybe has a may-not-be."
And to this remark there were more nods of approval than shakes of
dissent.

But affairs, even with this gleam of light, were dark enough to the
sorrowful family. John's wages had stopped, and the winter fuel was
not yet all cut. A lawyer had to be procured, and they must mortgage
their little cottage to do it; and although ten days had passed,
Margaret Fae had not shown, either by word or deed, what was her
opinion regarding John's guilt or innocence.

But Margaret, as before said, was naturally slow in all her movements,
so slow that even Scotch caution had begun to call her cruel or
careless. But this was a great injustice. She had weighed carefully in
her own mind everything against John, and put beside it his own letter
to her and her intimate knowledge of his character, and then solemnly
sat down in God's presence to take such counsel as he should put into
her heart. After many prayerful, waiting days she reached a conclusion
which was satisfactory to herself; and she then put away from her
every doubt of John's innocence, and resolved on the course to be
pursued.

In the first place she would need money to clear the guiltless and to
seek the guilty, and she resolved to continue her father's business.
She had assisted him so long with his accounts that his methods were
quite familiar to her; all she needed was some one to handle the rough
goods, and stand between her and the rude sailors with whom the
business was mainly conducted.

Who was this to be? Ragon Torr? She was sure Ragon would have been her
father's choice. He had taken all charge of the funeral, and had since
hung round the house, ready at any moment to do her service. But Ragon
would testify against John Sabay, and she had besides an unaccountable
antipathy to his having any nearer relation with her. "I'll ask
Geordie Sweyn," she said, after a long consultation with her own slow
but sure reasoning powers; "he'll keep the skippers an' farmers i' awe
o' him; an' he's just as honest as any ither man."

So Geordie was sent for and the proposal made and accepted. "Thou wilt
surely be true to me, Geordie?"

"As sure as death, Miss Margaret;" and when he gave her his great
brawny hand on it, she knew her affairs in that direction were safe.

Next morning the shop was opened as usual, and Geordie Sweyn stood in
Peter Fae's place. The arrangement had been finally made so rapidly
that it had taken all Stromness by surprise. But no one said anything
against it; many believed it to be wisely done, and those who did not,
hardly cared to express dissatisfaction with a man whose personal
prowess and ready hand were so well known.

The same day Christine received a very sisterly letter from Margaret,
begging her to come and talk matters over with her. There were such
obvious reasons why Margaret could not go to Christine, that the
latter readily complied with the request; and such was the influence
that this calm, cool, earnest girl had over the elder woman, that she
not only prevailed upon her to accept money to fee the lawyer in
John's defence, but also whatever was necessary for their comfort
during the approaching winter. Thus Christine and Margaret mutually
strengthened each other, and both cottage and prison were always the
better for every meeting.

CHAPTER V.

But soon the summer passed away, and the storms and snows of winter
swept over the lonely island. There would be no court until December
to try John, and his imprisonment in Kirkwall jail grew every day more
dreary. But no storms kept Christine long away from him. Over almost
impassable roads and mosses she made her way on the little ponies of
the country, which had to perform a constant steeple-chase over the
bogs and chasms.

All things may be borne when they are sure; and every one who loved
John was glad when at last he could have a fair hearing. Nothing
however was in his favor. The bailies and the murdered man's servants,
even the dominie and his daughter could tell but one tale. "Peter Fae
had declared with his last breath that John Sabay had stabbed him."
The prosecution also brought forward strong evidence to show that very
bitter words had passed, a few days before the murder, between the
prisoner and the murdered man.

In the sifting of this evidence other points were brought out, still
more convincing. Hacon Flett said that he was walking to Stromness by
the beach to meet his sweetheart, when he heard the cry of murder, and
in the gloaming light saw John Sabay distinctly running across the
moor. When asked how he knew certainly that it was John, he said that
he knew him by his peculiar dress, its bright buttons, and the glimmer
of gold braid on his cap. He said also, in a very decided manner, that
John Sabay passed Ragon Torr so closely that he supposed they had
spoken.

Then Ragon being put upon his oath, and asked solemnly to declare who
was the man that had thus passed him, tremblingly answered,

"_John Sabay!_"

John gave him such a look as might well haunt a guilty soul through
all eternity; and old Dame Alison, roused by a sense of intolerable
wrong, cried out,

"Know this, there's a day coming that will show the black heart; but
traitors' words ne'er yet hurt the honest cause."

"Peace, woman!" said an officer of the court, not unkindly.

"Weel, then, God speak for me! an' my thoughts are free; if I daurna
say, I may think."

In defence Margaret Fae swore that she had been with John on Brogar
Bridge until nearly time to meet her father, and that John then wore a
black broadcloth suit and a high hat; furthermore, that she believed
it utterly impossible for him to have gone home, changed his clothes,
and then reached the scene of the murder at the time Hacon Flett and
Ragon Torr swore to his appearance there.

But watches were very uncommon then; no one of the witnesses had any
very distinct idea of the time; some of them varied as much as an hour
in their estimate. It was also suggested by the prosecution that John
probably had the other suit secreted near the scene of the murder.
Certain it was that he had not been able either to produce it or to
account for its mysterious disappearance.

The probability of Sandy Beg being the murderer was then advanced; but
Sandy was known to have sailed in a whaling vessel before the murder,
and no one had seen him in Stromness since his departure for Wick
after his dismissal from Peter Fae's service.

No one? Yes, some one had seen him. That fatal night, as Ragon Torr
was crossing the moor to Peter's house--he having some news of a very
particular vessel to give--he heard the cry of "Murder," and he heard
Hacon Flett call out, "I know thee, John Sabay. Thou hast stabbed my
master!" and he instantly put himself in the way of the flying man.
Then he knew at once that it was Sandy Beg in John Sabay's clothes.
The two men looked a moment in each other's face, and Sandy saw in
Ragon's something that made him say,

"She'll pat Sandy safe ta night, an' that will mak her shure o' ta
lass she's seeking far."

There was no time for parley; Ragon's evil nature was strongest, and
he answered, "There is a cellar below my house, thou knows it weel."

Indeed, most of the houses in Stromness had underground passages, and
places of concealment used for smuggling purposes, and Ragon's lonely
house was a favorite rendezvous. The vessel whose arrival he had been
going to inform Peter of was a craft not likely to come into Stromness
with all her cargo.

Towards morning Ragon had managed to see Sandy and send him out to her
with such a message as insured her rapid disappearance. Sandy had also
with him a sum of money which he promised to use in transporting
himself at once to India, where he had a cousin in the forty-second
Highland regiment.

Ragon had not at first intended to positively swear away his friend's
life; he had been driven to it, not only by Margaret's growing
antipathy to him and her decided interest in John's case and family,
but also by that mysterious power of events which enable the devil to
forge the whole chain that binds a man when the first link is given
him. But the word once said, he adhered positively to it, and even
asserted it with quite unnecessary vehemence and persistence.

After such testimony there was but one verdict possible. John Sabay
was declared guilty of murder, and sentenced to death. But there was
still the same strange and unreasonable belief in his innocence, and
the judge, with a peculiar stretch of clemency, ordered the sentence
to be suspended until he could recommend the prisoner to his majesty's
mercy.

A remarkable change now came over Dame Alison. Her anger, her sense of
wrong, her impatience, were over. She had come now to where she could
do nothing else but trust implicitly in God; and her mind, being thus
stayed, was kept in a strange exultant kind of perfect peace. Lost
confidence? Not a bit of it! Both Christine and her mother had reached
a point where they knew

"That right is right, since God is God,
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin."

CHAPTER VI.

Slowly the weary winter passed away. And just as spring was opening
there began to be talk of Ragon Torr's going away. Margaret continued
to refuse his addresses with a scorn he found it ill to bear; and he
noticed that many of his old acquaintances dropped away from him.
There is a distinct atmosphere about every man, and the atmosphere
about Ragon people began to avoid. No one could have given a very
clear reason for doing so; one man did not ask another why; but the
fact needed no reasoning about, it was there.

One day, when Paul Calder was making up his spring cargoes, Ragon
asked for a boat, and being a skilful sailor, he was accepted. But no
sooner was the thing known, than Paul had to seek another crew.

"What was the matter?"

"Nothing; they did not care to sail with Ragon Torr, that was all."

This circumstance annoyed Ragon very much. He went home quite
determined to leave Stromness at once and for ever. Indeed he had been
longing to do so for many weeks, but had stayed partly out of bravado,
and partly because there were few opportunities of getting away during
the winter.

He went home and shut himself in his own room, and began to count his
hoarded gold. While thus employed, there was a stir or movement under
his feet which he quite understood. Some one was in the secret cellar,
and was coming up. He turned hastily round, and there was Sandy Beg.

"Thou scoundrel!" and he fairly gnashed his teeth at the intruder,
"what dost thou want here?"

"She'll be wanting money an' help."

Badly enough Sandy wanted both; and a dreadful story he told. He had
indeed engaged himself at Wick for a whaling voyage, but at the last
moment had changed his mind and deserted. For somewhere among the
wilds of Rhiconich in Sutherland he had a mother, a wild,
superstitious, half-heathen Highland woman, and he wanted to see her.
Coming back to the coast, after his visit, he had stopped a night at a
little wayside inn, and hearing some drovers talking of their gold in
Gallic, a language which he well understood, he had followed them into
the wild pass of Gualon, and there shot them from behind a rock. For
this murder he had been tracked, and was now so closely pursued that
he had bribed with all the gold he had a passing fishing-smack to drop
him at Stromness during the night.

"She'll gae awa now ta some ither place; 'teet will she! An' she's
hungry--an' unco dry;" all of which Sandy emphasized by a desperate
and very evil look.

The man was not to be trifled with, and Ragon knew that he was in his
power. If Sandy was taken, he would confess all, and Ragon knew well
that in such case transportation for life and hard labor would be his
lot. Other considerations pressed him heavily--the shame, the loss,
the scorn of Margaret, the triumph of all his ill-wishers. No, he had
gone too far to retreat.

He fed the villain, gave him a suit of his own clothes, and L50, and
saw him put off to sea. Sandy promised to keep well out in the bay,
until some vessel going North to Zetland or Iceland, or some Dutch
skipper bound for Amsterdam, took him up. All the next day Ragon was
in misery, but nightfall came and he had heard nothing of Sandy,
though several craft had come into port. If another day got over he
would feel safe; but he told himself that he was in a gradually
narrowing circle, and that the sooner he leaped outside of it the
better.

When he reached home the old couple who hung about the place, and who
had learned to see nothing and to hear nothing, came to him and
voluntarily offered a remark.

"Queer folk an' strange folk have been here, an' ta'en awa some claes
out o' the cellar."

Ragon asked no questions. He knew what clothes they were--that suit of
John Sabay's in which Sandy Beg had killed Peter Fae, and the rags
which Sandy had a few hours before exchanged for one of his own
sailing-suits. He needed no one to tell him what had happened. Sandy
had undoubtedly bespoke the very vessel containing the officers in
search of him, and had confessed all, as he said he would. The men
were probably at this moment looking for him.

He lifted the gold prepared for any such emergency, and, loosening his
boat, pulled for life and death towards Mayness Isle. Once in the
rapid "race" that divides it and Olla from the ocean, he knew no boat
would dare to follow him. While yet a mile from it he saw that he was
rapidly pursued by a four-oared boat. Now all his wild Norse nature
asserted itself. He forgot everything but that he was eluding his
pursuers, and as the chase grew hotter, closer, more exciting, his
enthusiasm carried him far beyond all prudence.

He began to shout or chant to his wild efforts some old Norse
death-song, and just as they gained on him he shot into the "race" and
defied them. Oars were useless there, and they watched him fling them
far away and stand up with outstretched arms in the little skiff. The
waves tossed it hither and thither, the boiling, racing flood hurried
it with terrific force towards the ocean. The tall, massive figure
swayed like a reed in a tempest, and suddenly the half despairing,
half defying song was lost in the roar of the bleak, green surges. All
knew then what had happened.

"Let me die the death o' the righteous," murmured one old man, piously
veiling his eyes with his bonnet; and then the boat turned and went
silently back to Stromness.

Sandy Beg was in Kirkwall jail. He had made a clean breast of all his
crimes, and measures were rapidly taken for John Sabay's enlargement
and justification. When he came out of prison Christine and Margaret
were waiting for him, and it was to Margaret's comfortable home he was
taken to see his mother. "For we are ane household now, John," she
said tenderly, "an' Christine an' mother will ne'er leave me any
mair."

Sandy's trial came on at the summer term. He was convicted on his own
confession, and sentenced to suffer the penalty of his crime upon the
spot where he stabbed Peter Fae. For some time he sulkily rejected all
John's efforts to mitigate his present condition, or to prepare him
for his future. But at last the tender spot in his heart was found.
John discovered his affection for his half-savage mother, and promised
to provide for all her necessities.

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