Gilian The Dreamer: His Fancy, His Love and Adventure. Munro Neil

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СКАЧАТЬ was of their kind. He wished he could join them in their English play, or better far, that he might take them to the eagle’s nest in Stob Bhan, or the badgers’ hamlet in Blaranbui, or show them his skill to fetch the deer at a call, in the rutting time, from the mud-wallows above Carnus. But even yet, he was only a stranger to the boys of the town, and as he went down the street in the drenching rain that filled the syvers to overflowing and rose in a smoke from the calm waters of the bay, they cried “Crotal-coat, crotal-coat,” after him.

      “Ah,” said he to himself, inly pleased at their ignorance, “if I cared, could I not make them ashamed, by telling them they were mocking a boy without a home?”

      Kept by the rain closer than usual to the shelter of the closes, the scamps to-day went further than ever in their efforts to annoy the stranger; they rolled stones along the causey so that they caught him on the heels, and they ran out at the back ends of their closes as he passed, and into others still before him, so that his progress down the town was to run a gauntlet of jeers. But he paid no heed; he was of that gifted nature that at times can treat the most bitter insults with indifference, and his mind was taken up with the manner of his message.

      When he came to the Cross-houses he cast about for the right close in a place where they were so numerous that they had always confused him, and a middle-aged woman with bare thick arms came out to help him.

      “You’ll be looking for some one?” said she in Gaelic, knowing him no town boy.

      He was standing as she spoke to him in a close that had seemed the one he sought, and he turned to tell her where he was going.

      “Oh yes,” said the woman, “I know her well. And you’ll be from the glen, and what’s your errand in the town to-day? You are from Drimfern? No, Ladyfield! It is a fine place Ladyfield; and how is the goodwife there?”

      “She is dead,” said Gilian hurriedly.

      “God, and that is a pity too!” said the woman, content now that the news was hers. “You are in the very close you are looking for,” and she turned and hurried up the street to spread the news as fast as could be.

      The boy turned away, angry with himself to have blurted out his news to the first stranger with the curiosity to question him, and halfway up the stairs he had to pause a little to get in the right mood for his errand. Then he went up the remaining steps and rapped at the door.

      “Come in,” cried a frank and hearty woman’s voice. He put down the sneck with his thumb and pushed in the door and followed.

      A little window facing the sea gave light to the interior, that would have been dull and mean but for the brilliant delf upon the dresser rack and the cleanliness of all things and the smiling faces of Jean Clerk and her sister. The hum of Jean’s wheel had filled the chamber as he entered; now it was stilled and the spinner sat with the wool pinched in her fingers, as she welcomed her little relative. Her sister—Aliset Dhu they called her, and if black she was, it had been long ago, for now her hair was like the drifted snow—stood behind her, looking up from her girdle where oaten bannocks toasted.

      He stood with his bonnet in his hand. Against his will the grief of his loss swept over him more masterfully than it had yet done, for those two sisters had never been seen by him before except in the company of their relative the little old woman with a face like a nut, and the sobs that shook him were checked by no reflection of the play-actor. He was incapable of utterance.

      “O my boy, my boy!” cried Jean Clerk. “Do I not know your story? I dreamt last night I saw a white horse galloping over Tombreck to Ladyfield and the rider of him had his face in his plaid. Peace with her, and her share of Paradise!”

      And thus my hero, who thought so much upon the way of his message, had no need to convey it any way at all.

CHAPTER II—THE PENSIONERS

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      “Go round,” said Jean Clerk, “and tell the Paymaster; he’ll be the sorry man to lose his manager.”

      “Will he be in his house?” asked Gilian, eating the last of his town bread with butter and sugar.

      “In his house indeed!” cried Jean, her eyes still red with weeping. “It is easy to see you are from the glen, when at this time of day you would be for seeking a gentleman soldier in his own house in this town. No! no! go round to Sergeant More’s change-house, at the quay-head, and you’ll find the Captain there with his cronies.”

      So round went Gilian, and there he came upon the pensioners, with Captain John Campbell, late Paymaster of his Majesty’s 46th Foot, at their head.

      The pensioners, the officers, ah! when I look up the silent street of the town nowadays and see the old houses empty but for weavers, and merchants, and mechanics, people of useful purposes but little manly interest, and know that all we have of martial glory is a dust under a score of tombstones in the yard, I find it ill to believe that ever wars were bringing trade for youth and valour to our midst. The warriors are gone; they do not fight their battles over any more at a meridian dram, or late sitting about the bowl where the Trinidad lemon floated in slices on the philtre of joy. They are up bye yonder in the shadow of the rock with the sea grumbling constantly beside them, and their names and offices, and the dignities of their battles, and the long number of their years, are carved deeply, but not deeply enough, for what is there of their fame and valour to the fore when the threshing rain and the crumbling frost have worn the legend off the freestone slab? We are left stranded high and dry upon times of peace, but the old war-dogs, old heroes, old gentles of the stock and cane—they had seen the glories of life, and felt the zest of it. Bustling times! the drums beat at the Cross in those days, the trumpeters playing alluringly up the lanes to young hearts to come away; pipers squeezed out upon their instruments the fine tunes that in the time I speak of no lad of Gaelic blood could hear but he must down with the flail or sheep-hook and on with the philabeg and up with the sword. Gentlemen were for ever going to wars or coming from them; were they not of the clan, was not the Duke their cousin, as the way of putting it was, and by his gracious offices many a pock-pudding English corps got a colonel with a touch of the Gaelic in his word of command as well as in his temper. They went away ensigns—some of them indeed went to the very tail of the rank and file with Mistress Musket the brown besom—and they came back Majors-General, with wounds and pensions. “Is not this a proud day for the town with three Generals standing at the Cross?” said the Paymaster once, looking with pride at his brother and Turner of Maam and Campbell of Strachur standing together leaning on their rattans at a market. It was in the Indies I think that this same brother the General, parading his command before a battle, came upon John, an ensign newly to the front with a draft from the sea.

      “Who sent you here, brother John?” said he, when the parade was over. “You would be better at home in the Highlands feeding your mother’s hens.”

      In one way it might have been better, in another way it was well enough for John Campbell to be there. He might have had the luck to see more battles in busier parts of the world, as General Dugald did, or Colin, who led the Royal Scots at Salamanca, Vittoria, and Waterloo; but he might have done worse, for he of all those gallants came home at the end a hale man, with neither sabre-cut nor bullet. To give him his due he was willing enough to risk them all. It bittered his life at the last, that behind his back his townspeople should call him “Old Mars,” in an irony he was keen enough to feel the thrust of.

      “Captain Mars, Captain СКАЧАТЬ