Crockett Samuel Rutherford
Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City: His Progress and Adventures

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ADVENTURE LIII.
A STORMY MORNING AT LOCH SPELLANDERIE

It had been a stormy morning at Loch Spellanderie. It was not wholly that the winds howled gustily up the loch, or that the tiny breakers lashed the shore in mimic fury. Mistress McWalter had ofttimes been a deceived woman, but never before had she taken to her bosom so complete a viper as Vara Kavannah. She had, indeed, been telling her so for well-nigh four years. Even Kit Kennedy had become for once almost an angel of light when compared with her. The reason of the sudden riot was that Cleg Kelly had been discovered talking to Vara by the orchard dyke the night before.

"Ye brazen-faced besom – ye toon's madam," cried Mrs. McWalter, "I'll learn you to bring your ragged, unkempt, stravagin' followers here! – Guidman, gin ye were worth your salt, as ye are not, ye wad tak' speech in hand, and order sic a randy instantly frae 'boot the hoose!"

It was early in the morning. Mrs. McWalter was still in bed, and her husband was pretending to be asleep. But she was well acquainted with his guile.

"Ye needna pretend ye are sleepin', John, for brawly do I ken that ye hear every word."

Vara, grown by this time into a tall, handsome girl, was already brushing out the kitchen and lighting the fire. Kit Kennedy was whistling cheerfully about the stable. Mistress McWalter always assisted at reveille in the house of Loch Spellanderie. Her voice was so sharp and shrill that it could easily reach every corner of the house from her bed. And upon occasion, when she felt that she was generally doing herself justice, it had been known to sweep the cart-shed, and even beat upon the walls of the barn with considerable effect. But that was, of course, when the front door of the dwelling-house was open.

While thus lying comfortably upon her back, Mistress McWalter could keep up a steady and destructive criticism of life in a high-pitched falsetto, as it was represented below in the sweeps of Vara's brush and the patter of Kit Kennedy's clogs upon the stone floor.

"What are ye doin' near the dresser, ye sly, ill-contrivin' limmer," she cried; "hae I no telled ye a thousand times, that if I catch ye takkin' as muckle as a sup o' the milk that was skimmed yestreen for the bairns' breakfast this mornin', I will hae the polissman at ye? But the jail wad be no surprise to the likes o' you. Na, I'm guessin' ye hae been weel acquant wi' the poliss a' your days. Tak' up the water-cans and gang your ways to the well for water. Then haste ye fast back and put on the muckle pot and the porridge pot, baith o' them. Or, my certes, I'll come at ye wi' a stick, ye careless, trapesin' slut, ye!"

Vara was not slow in obeying this command. To go to the well meant, at the least, to be for five minutes out of the hearing of the all-compassing tongue of Mistress McWalter, and out of the shrill ding-dong of her vocabulary. It was not much, but still it was something.

The girl took the blue cans readily, and went towards the door.

"Gang some deal quaiter," cried Mistress McWalter, "or, by my faith, I'll thresh ye like a sheaf o' corn when I rise to ye, ye misleared gamester frae the streets! Dinna wauken a' the puir tired bairns, for they were honestly gotten and weel brocht up. And shut the door after ye, when ye gang oot. Ye want us a' to get our deaths o' cauld, nae doot!"

The anger that burned in Vara's breast was healthy and natural, and it would have done her a world of good if she had been able to allow herself the safety valve of intemperate speech. But she only said to herself, "I'll thole awhile yet for Boy Hugh's and wee Gavin' sake, till they can fend for themselves. I need the siller she pays me."

Kit Kennedy met Vara as she crossed the yard. Now in order to reach the well it was necessary to go through the gate at the far angle of the yard, and to walk some distance along the grassy road which led to the next farm. The gusts blew off the lake and twirled Vara's hair becomingly about her face. She was certainly growing a tall, shapely, personable lass. And so thought Kit Kennedy, and said so with his eyes.

Kit was also tall and strong. There was nothing rustic about his appearance. He had the profile and pose of head of the young Apollo of the Bow. He did not, indeed, possess the sinewy, gypsy alertness of Cleg Kelly, nor yet the devil's grit, turned, on the whole, to good intents, which drove that youth safely through so many adventures. Kit Kennedy was slower, more thoughtful, more meditative. Cleg never by any chance wasted a moment in meditation, so long as there was a chance to do anything. And when he did, it was only that he might again dash the more determinedly and certainly into the arena of action.

But Kit Kennedy could call friends out of the visionary air to sit with him in "sessions of sweet silent thought." Often he walked day after day in a world all his own. And the most stinging words of Mistress McWalter did not affect him one whit more than the gusts of wind-born rain which dashed at him across the lake.

In the same circumstances, Cleg would simply have smitten Mistress McWalter with a stone, or, if more convenient, with a poker, and so departed well content. But Kit Kennedy forbore, and made nothing of her persecution. He could dodge her blows by watching her hand. And he could go on calmly rehearsing the adventures of Sir Aylmer de Vallance, while the abuse of his aunt provided a ready-made background of storm and fret, which gave a delicious relish to a victorious single combat in Kit's imagination.

When Kit met Vara on the well road he took the cans naturally out of her hands, as if he had been well accustomed to doing it. He had been waiting for her. In his heart he always called her his lady Gloriana, and it was only with difficulty that he could remember to call her Vara. Kit had been much happier during the years since Vara came. He had now a heroine for his romances, as well as a companion for his hours of ease. For Kit went about acting another life all day long. He fed the bullocks to the clatter of cavalry hoofs. He shepherded the sheep towards pastures new, to the blast of trumpet and the beat of drum. Or, as a great general, he stood gloomily apart upon a knoll, with his staff around him, and sent a barking aide-de-camp here and another there, to direct the woolly battalions how to make their attack upon the bridge. He always thrust one hand into his breast, in order to represent the correct attitude of a great general on such occasions. He was compelled to unloose the third button of his waistcoat in order to do it. This seemed strange. He had never read that this was necessary. He wondered what heroes did in that case. But it struck him afterwards that very likely they had their waistcoats made open on purpose.

Again, in his books of chivalry there was always a lady to be the guiding star of every life of adventure. Each knight, if he was of any respectability at all, provided himself at least with one. The great Don Quixote had done that. For the Knight Dolorous was, in the opinion of Kit Kennedy, as indeed in that of all fair-minded people, a most high-minded and ill-used man.

Kit had tried in various directions to find a lady of his vows before Vara came. For lack of better, he had even tried to imagine his aunt as a divinity, beautiful and cruel. But something was always happening to destroy this illusion. Nothing is more hurtful to exalted sentiment than a box on the ear, administered unexpectedly. So, after a fair trial, Kit was compelled definitely to give his aunt up, as a possible queen of love and courtesy. It could not be done, even with all Kit's very generous good-will. So, instead, he called her the False Duessa, the black hag Sycorax, and especially and generally Beelzebubba, for the last name pleased him greatly. And whenever she mocked him with her bitter tongue, Kit hugged himself, saying, "Ah! if only I were to call her Beelzebubba! Little knows she that in the history of my mighty and knightly deeds, she is condemned to go down to posterity yet unborn under the name of the Loathly Beelzebubba!"

So Kit carried the Lady Gloriana's silver vessels to the fountain of the Elixir of Life, swinging them lightly and talking briskly all the way.

Vara looked often at Kit, with his free breezy ways and erect carriage. Indeed, she looked so often, that if Cleg had been within sight there would certainly have been another fight.

But Vara was constantly mindful of Cleg. She prayed for him night and morning. She remembered all his goodness, and she wished that he could oftener come to see her. But in the meantime it was undoubtedly pleasant to have some one at hand, so ready to help with sympathy for herself and abuse of the enemy as Kit Kennedy.

The lad and the girl stood awhile at the well, leaning elbows upon the dyke, while Vara confided to Kit all the morning enormities of Mistress McWalter, and Kit bade her be of good cheer, for there was a good time coming for them both. And also, doubtless, a very bad time for Beelzebubba. It always was so in the story books.

"How splendid," said Kit, "if the devil were just to come for her as he did for poor Faust! He will some day, you may depend. Beelzebubba would be coming after me with a stick. She would run on and on, getting nearer and nearer to the barn end. I would show the devil exactly where to wait for her. Then I should put my hat on a stick and she would come, crawling, crawling slowly – to get a whack at me. By-and-bye she would get to the corner, and then —pouch! the devil would jump at her and catch her, the earth fly open, and nothing be left of Beelzebubba but a smell of sulphur, as there is after a bee-killing."

The vision was monstrously comfortable as Kit painted it. But Vara did not laugh.

"I think it's wicked to speak that gate," she said.

"What?" said Kit, hardly able to believe his ears, yet scenting a new and unsuspected perfection in his lady Gloriana; "it is only my aunt. It is Beelzebubba."

Vara shook her head. She could not give reasons, but she did not think such talk could be right even to imagine.

"She is no that ill after a', if you consider that she keeps us," she said.

Kit did not know that Vara had known intimately a far worse woman than Mistress McWalter.

At the door Kit gave the cans of water to Vara, brimming full as he had carried them, but silently, lest his aunt should hear from her bed above. He touched Vara's hand lightly for reward. For he was a boy as full of sentiment as his books were primed with it. He had brought a dozen of his father's volumes with him, and though his aunt daily prophesied their destruction by fire, Kit thought that she knew better than to do that.

But, while Vara had been gone to the well for the water, momentous things had been happening in the privacy of the chamber shared by Mistress McWalter and her husband. The worm had turned. But, alas! even when worms turn, they do not gain much by it. Except that perhaps they may assist the early bird to wriggle down its breakfast a little more easily.

Mistress McWalter had gone storming along her devious way of abuse after Vara's departure.

"I wish ye wad let that lassie alane!" suddenly broke in John McWalter, awaking out of his deep silence at the thirtieth repetition of the phrase "impident madam of the street." "The lassie's weel eneuch, so far as I see, gin ye wad only let her alane!"

For a long minute Mistress McWalter lay petrified with astonishment. The like of this had not happened since six months after their marriage. But the checked tide of her speech was not long in overflowing the barrier like a bursting flood.

"Is't come to this between you an' me, John McWalter – that I may rise and pack, and tak' awa me and my bairns, puir harmless bits o' things? For it comes to that! After a' my thirty years aboot the hoose o' Loch Spellanderie, that ye should tak' the pairt o' a reckless randy gang-the-road trollop, against your ain married wife! Have I watched and tended ye for this, when ye had the trouble in your inside, and could get rest neither day nor nicht, you wantin' aye mustard plaisters? Is it to be lichtlied for a lichtfit rantipole limmer that I hae fed ye and clad ye – aye, and tended your bairns, washing them back and front ilka Saturday nicht wi' a bit o' flannel and guid yellow soap, forby drying them after that wi' a rough towel? And noo, since I am to hae a besom like this preferred before me – I'll rise and be gaun. I'll bide nae mair aboot this hoose. Guid be thanked there's them in the warld that thinks mair o' me than John McWalter, my ain marriet man!"

"Aye, juist na," said John McWalter, roused at last. "E'en gang your ways, Mistress, if ye can make a better o't. Ye're braw and welcome to trampit as far as this hoose is concerned. I'm thinkin' that your new freends will be brave and sune tired o' ye!"

Mistress McWalter bounced out of bed and began hurriedly to gather her apparel, as though she meditated leaving the house just as she was. She would have given a considerable sum of money if at that moment she could have wept real wet tears. However, she did her best with a dry towel.

"To think," sobbed she, bouncing from chair to chair, "that ye prefer a wandering gypsy's brat o' a hizzie to me! O what for did I ever leave my mither, and the bonny hoose o' Knockshin where I was so muckle thocht on? Waes me, for I am but a puir, heart-broken, deceivit woman!"

At this very moment Vara came in bearing her cans, with a lightened heart after her journey to the well with Kit Kennedy. With a louder voice and more abounding thankfulness, Mistress McWalter took up the burden of her tale.

"Aye, here comes your base limmer. Ye had better be awa doon to her, John McWalter," cried the Mistress of Loch Spellanderie, "or she may tak' the country again, after the thief-like loon wha cam' seekin' her on Monday nicht, nae farther gane."

Then Mistress McWalter went down stairs and opened more direct fire. It was certainly a stormy day at Loch Spellanderie, little doubt was there of that. For the winds roared about the farm on the hill above the water. And within Mistress McWalter's tongue thundered like great guns in a naval engagement. Vara went about her work with the tear on her pale cheek all that day, and a wonder in her heart what she had done to deserve such cruelty.

ADVENTURE LIV.
KIT KENNEDY'S FAREWELL

It was about half-past four in the afternoon that Vara was coming round the corner of the barn carrying an armful of hay. She was undisguisedly sobbing now. For though she did not cry in the house where Mistress McWalter could see her, it was too much for her to restrain herself when she was alone out of doors.

John McWalter met her and stopped, with his usual elaborate pretence of being in a hurry and not having a moment to spare. He had really been doing nothing all the afternoon but looking for a chance of speaking to her.

"Vara, dinna greet, my lassie," he said, "ye maunna heed the mistress' tongue. We a' get oor share o't! Can ye no bide for a day or twa what I hae ta'en to bed wi' me every nicht for thirty year?"

"Thank you," said Vara, "I am gaun awa' the nicht."

"Where are ye gaun, my lassie?" asked John McWalter kindly.

"To see Hugh and Gavin, my twa wee brithers at Sandyknowes," said Vara, "and maybe I'll be some use there. An' if not, we will just hae to gang farther on, and look for my faither again."

"Weel," said John McWalter, "Guid kens I dinna blame ye. Maybe, after a', it wad be as weel. I can see plainly there is gaun to be nae peace here, and it was a' my blame no haudin' my tongue this mornin'. But here's something that will help ye on your road wherever ye gang, my lassie, near or far. There's nae better friend in the world that I ken o' than just a pound note."

And he slipped Vara a dirty little square of papers folded hard in his hand.

"I canna tak' it," said Vara protestingly, with the paper in her fingers.

"Hoots," said John McWalter, "I'm no needin' it. I hae plenty. And I canna let ye gang oot o' my hoose unplenished and unprovided, ony mair than if ye war my ain dochter. Tak' the pickle siller, lassie, and welcome. And hark ye, mind and crave the mistress for your full wage forbye. She'll think a heap mair o' ye for doin' that. And forbye, she'll no jalloose⁹ me so readily."

And that honest man John McWalter slipped like a thief of the night in at the back door of the barn.

Vara promptly announced her intention of going away that evening. "Aye and welcome," said Mistress McWalter; "the like o' you should never hae entered my door."

"I shall want my wages," said Vara, plucking up courage and remembering her master's words.

"Wages, ye randy," cried the good wife of Loch Spellanderie; "wages! Set ye up, indeed, ye crawlin' blastie! Think ye that honest folk's wages are for the like o' you, that canna bide awa' frae your deboshed paramours, and that lies in wait to entrap decent folk's men, silly craiturs that they are?"

"I am but a young lassie," said Vara, calmly, "and think on nane o' thae things. Neither will ony body believe them but yoursel'. But I'm gaun to hae my wages, or I'll gang to the kirk yett next Sabbath, and tell a' the neebours how ye treat your servants, starvin' them on scraps like dogs, making their lives a burden to them to get them no to bide aboot the hoose, and then at the hinder end threatening them to give them nae wages."

This threat, which would have feared no one who was conscious of good intent, somewhat stilled Mrs. McWalter's fury. For she knew that anything of the kind would be greedily listened to, and retailed at all the tea drinking in the neighbourhood. And she felt, also, that she had not quite the character in the country-side upon which such accusations would fall harmless.

She went to a locked drawer.

"Here's your wages," she said, "and an ill wish gang wi' them. Glad am I to be rid of you!"

Even thus Vara took her departure from the house of Loch Spellanderie. John McWalter covertly watched her carrying her bundle out of the yard. He was looking round the corner of a corn stack. He dared not come out and bid the girl farewell because of his wife. But the tear was now in his own eye.

"It micht hae been my ain lassie leavin' anither man's hoose. I am wae for her," he said. "But I'm glad it was a ten-pund note that I slippit her. And whatna state wad the wife no be in, gin she kenned!"

And there came a faint pleasure into his grieved heart as he watched Vara out of sight.

Meanwhile Mistress McWalter stood at the door with victory in the very poise of her ungainly figure. She had disdained to utter a word, as Vara went past her and quietly bade her "Good-night!" But now she cried, "Kit Kennedy! Kit Kennedy! Kit Kennedy!" with all the penetrative power of her voice.

But there was no answer. Kit was not to be found.

For Kit Kennedy was in a better place. He was bidding his lady Gloriana adieu. He had, indeed, never let Vara know that he had distinguished her by that name, nor, indeed, save by his kindness and help, that he thought of her at all.

But now she was going away for ever. Her little bundle was in her hand. Her all was in it, and what Loch Spellanderie would be without her, Kit did not like to think just yet.

It was under the orchard apple trees, at the place where they overhang the wall, that Kit was waiting.

"I'm vexed, Vara, I'm sair vexed that ye are gaun awa' to leave us!" said Kit Kennedy, hanging his head. "I do not ken what we will do without you. It will no be the same place ava!"

"Fare ye weel, lad," Vara said, holding out her hand; "ye hae been kind to me. Aye, juist past speakin' o'!"

"I'll carry your bundle as far as the march dyke, gin ye'll let me," said Kit, for once, bashfully. "I canna bear to think on ye gangin' like this!"

"Ye had better no," said Vara, "she micht see ye!"

"Her!" said Kit, with a scornful look over his shoulder; "I wadna care a buckie gin she was walkin' up the loan ahint us!"

Yet, in spite of this gallant defiance, Vara turned round to make sure that the goodwife of Loch Spellanderie was not in the place designated.

They walked a long while in silence. It was Kit who spoke first.

"Vara," he said, "will ye whiles think on me?"

"Of course I will that," said Vara readily; "ye hae been verra kind to me here."

"I'm but a laddie, I ken," said Kit, "but ye micht no a'thegither forget me. I'll never forget you, lassie!"

There fell another silence between them.

"Ye'll be gaun back to be near him?" said Kit, a little sullenly.

"Aye," replied Vara, in a voice that was almost a whisper, "maybe! Ye see, we hae kenned yin anither a' oor lives. And he kens hoo I was brocht up – and a' aboot my folk! And I ken his."

"I'm jalloosin' ye'll be desperate fond o' him?" said Kit, in the same hang-dog way, as if he were taking pleasure in his own pain.

"He fed the bairns wi' milk and bread," replied Vara softly; "aye, and gied us a' that he had when we were starvin'! He gied up the very roof abune his heid to shelter us when we were turned oot on the street. I canna help bein' fond o' him, Kit. 'Deed I canna."

Kit Kennedy thought a long time, till indeed they had walked quite across a field. Then he spoke.

"I canna feed ye, nor yet look after the bairns for ye. I hae nae hoose to put ye in, Vara. But O, I am that fond of ye, it's like to break my heart."

Vara stretched out her hand.

"An' I'm fond o' you too, laddie!" she said.

"Aye, but no the way I mean!" said Kit sadly, with a sob in his voice.

"I'll be aye thinkin' on ye," said Vara. "I wish ye war awa' frae this place."

"Dinna gie that a thocht!" said Kit, bravely; "I'm no mindin' a hair for my auntie – at least, I wadna if ye had only bided, so that whiles I could hae looked at ye, Vara!"

They had been walking hand in hand for some time. Kit Kennedy was tingling with a great desire. His heart was beating violently, as he nerved himself for the plunge.

They were at the march-dyke, just where it plunged into the wood of birches and alders. The path went down close along the lake shore from that point. The trees made a green haze of dusk there, with airs blowing cool from off the lake.

"Gloriana," said Kit suddenly, "will ye gie me a bit kiss to mind ye by?"

Vara looked at the lad with eyes of shy terror. This was indeed something new. Even Cleg, who would readily have died for her, or given her his coat or his house, if he had one, had never offered to kiss her. So at the sound of Kit's voice her heart also drummed in her ears emptily, as if her head were deep under water.

She stood still, looking away from him, but not turning her head down. Kit bent his head and kissed her fairly.

A strange pang ran responsively to Vara's heart – a flash of rapture to Kit's. They parted without a word, the girl walking sedately out of the shadows in one direction, and the lad running with all his might back to the farm in the other.

Each had their own several communings.

Vara said to herself, "Why does not Cleg think to speak to me like that?"

It was a great blunder on Cleg's part, certainly, and, if heart-aches were to be spared, one which he should speedily set himself to repair.

And as Kit Kennedy went home he said, over and over, "I hae kissed her. I hae kissed her. Naething and naebody can take that from me, at least."

But with the stilling of his leaping and rejoicing heart came the thought, "But had I the right? He fed them and clothed them, and never asked as much. He is better than I. I will not trouble them any more. For he is better and worthier than I."

So Kit's dreams and imaginings helped him to something more knightly in his renunciation than in the brief rapturous flash of possession.