Scottish sketches by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr

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"It's only ta poun' o' taa, an' ta bit cabin ta shelter her she'll
want at a'," but the tears fell heavily on the red, hairy hands; "an'
she'll na tell her fat ill outsent cam to puir Sandy."

"Thou kens I will gie her a' she needs, an' if she chooses to come to
Orkney--"

"Na, na, she wullna leave ta Hieland hills for naught at a'."

"Then she shall hae a siller crown for every month o' the year,
Sandy."

The poor, rude creature hardly knew how to say a "thanks;" but John
saw it in his glistening eyes and heard it in the softly-muttered
words, "She was ta only are tat e'er caret for Santy Beg."

It was a solemn day in Stromness when he went to the gallows. The
bells tolled backward, the stores were all closed, and there were
prayers both in public and private for the dying criminal. But few
dared to look upon the awful expiation, and John spent the hour in
such deep communion with God and his own soul that its influence
walked with him to the end of life.

And when his own sons were grown up to youths, one bound for the sea
and the other for Marischal College, Aberdeen, he took them aside and
told them this story, adding,

"An' know this, my lads: the shame an' the sorrow cam a' o' ane
thing--I made light o' my mother's counsel, an' thought I could do
what nane hae ever done, gather mysel' with the deil's journeymen, an'
yet escape the wages o' sin. Lads! lads! there's nae half-way house
atween right and wrang; know that."

"But, my father," said Hamish, the younger of the two, "thou did at
the last obey thy mother."

"Ay, ay, Hamish; but mak up thy mind to this: it isna enough that a
man rins a gude race; he maun also _start at the right time_. This is
what I say to thee, Hamish, an' to thee, Donald: fear God, an' ne'er
lightly heed a gude mother's advice. It's weel wi' the lads that carry
a mother's blessing through the warld wi' them."

Lile Davie.

LILE DAVIE.

In Yorkshire and Lancashire the word "lile" means "little," but in the
Cumberland dales it has a far wider and nobler definition. There it is
a term of honor, of endearment, of trust, and of approbation. David
Denton won the pleasant little prefix before he was ten years old.
When he saved little Willy Sabay out of the cold waters of Thirlmere,
the villagers dubbed him "Lile Davie." When he took a flogging to
spare the crippled lad of Farmer Grimsby, men and women said proudly,
"He were a lile lad;" and when he gave up his rare half-holiday to
help the widow Gates glean, they had still no higher word of praise
than "kind lile Davie."

However, it often happens that a prophet has no honor among his own
people, and David was the black sheep of the miserly household of
Denton Farm. It consisted of old Christopher Denton, his three sons,
Matthew, Sam, and David, and his daughter Jennie. They had the
reputation of being "people well-to-do," but they were not liked among
the Cumberland "states-men," who had small sympathy for their
niggardly hospitality and petty deeds of injustice.

One night in early autumn Christopher was sitting at the great black
oak table counting over the proceeds of the Kendal market, and Matt
and Sam looked greedily on. There was some dispute about the wool and
the number of sheep, and Matt said angrily, "There's summat got to be
done about Davie. He's just a clish-ma-saunter, lying among the ling
wi' a book in his hand the lee-long day. It is just miff-maff and
nonsense letting him go any longer to the schoolmaster. I am fair
jagged out wi' his ways."

"That's so," said Sam.

"Then why don't you gie the lad a licking, and make him mind the sheep
better? I saw him last Saturday playing sogers down at Thirlston with
a score or more of idle lads like himsel'." The old man spoke
irritably, and looked round for the culprit. "I'll lay thee a penny
he's at the same game now. Gie him a licking when he comes in, son
Matt."

"Nay, but Matt wont," said Jennie Denton, with a quiet decision. She
stood at her big wheel, spinning busily, though it was nine o'clock;
and though her words were few and quiet, the men knew from her face
and manner that Davie's licking would not be easily accomplished. In
fact, Jennie habitually stood between Davie and his father and
brothers. She had nursed him through a motherless babyhood, and had
always sympathized in his eager efforts to rise above the sordid life
that encompassed him. It was Jennie who had got him the grudging
permission to go in the evening to the village schoolmaster for some
book-learning. But peculiar circumstances had favored her in this
matter, for neither the old man nor his sons could read or write, and
they had begun to find this, in their changed position, and in the
rapid growth of general information, a serious drawback in business
matters.

Therefore, as Davie could not be spared in the day, the schoolmaster
agreed for a few shillings a quarter to teach him in the evening. This
arrangement altered the lad's whole life. He soon mastered the simple
branches he had been sent to acquire, and then master and pupil far
outstepped old Christopher's programme, and in the long snowy nights,
and in the balmy summer ones, pored with glowing cheeks over old
histories and wonderful lives of great soldiers and sailors.

In fact, David Denton, like most good sons, had a great deal of his
mother in him, and she had been the daughter of a long line of brave
Westmoreland troopers. The inherited tendencies which had passed over
the elder boys asserted themselves with threefold force in this last
child of a dying woman. And among the sheepcotes in the hills he felt
that he was the son of the men who had defied Cromwell on the banks of
the Kent and followed Prince Charlie to Preston.

But the stern discipline of a Cumberland states-man's family is not
easily broken. Long after David had made up his mind to be a soldier
he continued to bear the cuffs and sneers and drudgery that fell to
him, watching eagerly for some opportunity of securing his father's
permission. But of this there was little hope. His knowledge of
writing and accounts had become of service, and his wish to go into
the world and desert the great cause of the Denton economies was an
unheard-of piece of treason and ingratitude.

David ventured to say that he "had taught Jennie to write and count,
and she was willing to do his work."

The ignorant, loutish brothers scorned the idea of "women-folk
meddling wi' their 'counts and wool," and, "besides," as Matt argued,
"Davie's going would necessitate the hiring of two shepherds; no hired
man would do more than half of what folk did for their ain."

These disputes grew more frequent and more angry, and when Davie had
added to all his other faults the unpardonable one of falling in love
with the schoolmaster's niece, there was felt to be no hope for the
lad. The Dentons had no poor relations; they regarded them as the one
thing _not_ needful, and they concluded it was better to give Davie a
commission and send him away.

Poor Jennie did all the mourning for the lad; his father and brothers
were in the midst of a new experiment for making wool water-proof, and
pretty Mary Butterworth did not love David as David wished her to love
him. It was Jennie only who hung weeping on his neck and watched him
walk proudly and sorrowfully away over the hills into the wide, wide
world beyond.

Then for many, many long years no more was heard of "Lile Davie
Denton." The old schoolmaster died and Christopher followed him. But
the Denton brothers remained together. However, when men make saving
money the sole end of their existence, their life soon becomes as
uninteresting as the multiplication table, and people ceased to care
about the Denton farm, especially as Jennie married a wealthy squire
over the mountains, and left her brothers to work out alone their new
devices and economies.

Jennie's marriage was a happy one, but she did not forget her brother.
There was in Esthwaite Grange a young man who bore his name and who
was preparing for a like career. And often Jennie Esthwaite told to
the lads and lasses around her knees the story of their "lile uncle,"
whom every one but his own kin had loved, and who had gone away to the
Indies and never come back again. "Lile Davie" was the one bit of
romance in Esthwaite Grange.

Jennie's brothers had never been across the "fells" that divided
Denton from Esthwaite; therefore, one morning, twenty-seven years
after Davie's departure, she was astonished to see Matt coming slowly
down the Esthwaite side. But she met him with hearty kindness, and
after he had been rested and refreshed he took a letter from his
pocket and said, "Jennie, this came from Davie six months syne, but I
thought then it would be seeking trouble to answer it."

"Why, Matt, this letter is directed to me! How dared you open and keep
it?"

"Dared, indeed! That's a nice way for a woman to speak to her eldest
brother!' Read it, and then you'll see why I kept it from you."

Poor Jennie's eyes filled fuller at every line. He was sick and
wounded and coming home to die, and wanted to see his old home and
friends once more.

"O Matt! Matt!" she cried; "how cruel, how shameful, not to answer
this appeal."

"Well, I did it for the best; but it seems I have made a mistake. Sam
and I both thought an ailing body dovering round the hearthstone and
doorstone was not to be thought of--and nobody to do a hand's turn but
old Elsie, who is nearly blind--and Davie never was one to do a decent
hand job, let by it was herding sheep, and that it was not like he'd
be fit for; so we just agreed to let the matter lie where it was."

"Oh, it was a cruel shame, Matt."

"Well, it was a mistake; for yesterday Sam went to Kendall, and there,
in the Stramon-gate, he met Tom Philipson, who is just home from
India. And what does Tom say but, 'Have you seen the general yet?'
and, 'Great man is Gen. Denton,' and, 'Is it true that he is going to
buy the Derwent estate?' and, 'Wont the Indian Government miss Gen.
Denton!' Sam wasn't going to let Tom see how the land lay, and Tom
went off saying that Sam had no call to be so pesky proud; that it
wasn't him who had conquered the Mahrattas and taken the Ghiznee
Pass."

Jennie was crying bitterly, and saying softly to herself, "O my brave
laddie! O my bonnie lile Davie!"

"Hush, woman! No good comes of crying. Write now as soon as you like,
and the sooner the better."

In a very few hours Jennie had acted on this advice, and, though the
writing and spelling were wonderful, the poor sick general, nursing
himself at the Bath waters, felt the love that spoke in every word. He
had not expected much from his brothers; it was Jennie and Jennie's
bairns he wanted to see. He was soon afterwards an honored guest in
Esthwaite Grange, and the handsome old soldier, riding slowly among
the lovely dales, surrounded by his nephews and nieces, became a
well-known sight to the villages around.

Many in Thirlston remembered him, and none of his old companions found
themselves forgotten. Nor did he neglect his brothers. These cautious
men had become of late years manufacturers, and it was said were
growing fabulously rich. They had learned the value of the low coppice
woods on their fell-side, and had started a bobbin-mill which Sam
superintended, while Matt was on constant duty at the great steam-mill
on Milloch-Force, where he spun his own wools into blankets and
serges.

The men were not insensible to the honor of their brother's career;
they made great capital of it privately. But they were also intensely
dissatisfied at the reckless way in which he spent his wealth. Young
David Esthwaite had joined a crack regiment with his uncle's
introduction and at his uncle's charges, and Jennie and Mary Esthwaite
had been what the brothers considered extravagantly dowered in order
that they might marry two poor clergymen whom they had set their
hearts on.

"It is just sinful, giving women that much good gold," said Matt
angrily: "and here we are needing it to keep a great business afloat."

It was the first time Matt had dared to hint that the mill under his
care was not making money, and he was terribly shocked when Sam made a
similar confession. In fact, the brothers, with all their cleverness
and industry, were so ignorant that they were necessarily at the mercy
of those they employed, and they had fallen into roguish hands. Sam
proposed that David should be asked to look over their affairs and
tell them where the leakage was: "He was always a lile-hearted chap,
and I'd trust him, Matt, up hill and down dale, I would."

But Matt objected to this plan. He said David must be taken through
the mills and the most made of everything, and then in a week or two
afterwards be offered a partnership; and Matt, being the eldest,
carried the day. A great festival was arranged, everything was seen to
the best advantage, and David was exceedingly interested. He lingered
with a strange fascination among the steam-looms, and Matt saw the
bait had taken, for as they walked back together to the old homestead
David said, "You were ever a careful man, Matt, but it must take a
deal of money--you understand, brother--if you need at any time--I
hope I don't presume."

"Certainly not. Yes, we are doing a big business--a very good business
indeed; perhaps when you are stronger you may like to join us."

"I sha'n't get stronger, Matt--so I spoke now."

Sam, in his anxiety, thought Matt had been too prudent; he would have
accepted Davie's offer at once; but Matt was sure that by his plan
they would finally get all the general's money into their hands.
However, the very clever always find some quantity that they have
failed to take into account. After this long day at the mills General
Denton had a severe relapse, and it was soon evident that his work was
nearly finished.

"But you must not fret, Jennie dear," he said cheerfully; "I am indeed
younger in years than you, but then I have lived a hundred times as
long. What a stirring, eventful life I have had! I must have lived a
cycle among these hills to have evened it; and most of my comrades are
already gone."

One day, at the very last, he said, "Jennie, there is one bequest in
my will may astonish you, but it is all right. I went to see her a
month ago. She is a widow now with a lot of little lads around her.
And I loved her, Jennie--never loved any woman but her. Poor Mary! She
has had a hard time; I have tried to make things easier."

"You had always a lile heart, Davie; you could do no wrong to any
one."

"I hope not. I--hope--not." And with these words and a pleasant smile
the general answered some call that he alone heard, and trusting in
his Saviour, passed confidently

"The quicks and drift that fill the rift
Between this world and heaven."

His will, written in the kindest spirit, caused a deal of angry
feeling; for it was shown by it that after his visit to the Denton
Mills he had revoked a bequest to the brothers of L20,000, because, as
he explicitly said, "My dear brothers do not need it;" and this
L20,000 he left to Mary Butterworth Pierson, "who is poor and
delicate, and does sorely need it." And the rest of his property he
divided between Jennie and Jennie's bairns.

In the first excitement of their disappointment and ruin, Sam, who
dreaded his brother's anger, and who yet longed for some sympathetic
word, revealed to Jennie and her husband the plan Matt had laid, and
how signally it had failed.

"I told him, squire, I did for sure, to be plain and honest with
Davie. Davie was always a lile fellow, and he would have helped us out
of trouble. Oh, dear! oh, dear! that L20,000 would just have put a'
things right."

"A straight line, lad, is always the shortest line in business and
morals, as well as in geometry; and I have aye found that to be true
in my dealings is to be wise. Lying serves no one but the devil, as
ever I made out."

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