Lament for a Maker

9

It was seldom Christine came down to Kinkeig. After all, beer at the Arms and gossip in the kitchens and maybe a bit sprunting[1] about exhaust the attractions of the place except on the Sabbath. And Guthrie would never let Christine sit under Dr Jervie; he had small use for the kirk and less for our minister. For a bit after his coming, when he’d got to know the affairs of his parish right well, the minister walked up to Erchany and got a bit talk with the laird and hinted it was a pity to breed up so fine a quean as Christine so lonely as he did and so much the mark for idle talk. Perhaps it was because Dr Jervie was a scholar and he respected that – scholar himself that he was – that Guthrie didn’t set the dogs on him as he did on the last minister – who was but an empty pulpit-thumping billy enough with neither matter nor doctrine to him, ’tis true. But he listened coldly and coldly bowed Dr Jervie out at the end, and ever after if they met in a lane the laird would walk unheeding by. He had never, sure, been seen in the kirk, nor Christine nor the Hardcastles either – and as for Tammas I doubt if the poor daftie had ever heard there is such a thing as the Shorter Catechism.

Christine, I say, came seldom to Kinkeig, and when she did it was to visit Ewan Bell the sutor. She and I had been long acquaint, for the first nurse that Guthrie ever got for her was my own sister’s child. There was a pony-carriage at the meikle house then and the laird, who had some mellower years during the childhood of the quean, let them drive about much as they pleased, and often they came down to visit Uncle Ewan, for I was that to the bairn as well as to my right niece. A childless and unmarried man, I grew right fond of little Christine Mathers. And when she grew and Guthrie got Mistress Menzies to the house, the weak-minded gentle fine-bred lady he kept to give Christine her strange and lonely breeding, whiles she would still come to see me, bringing maybe her troubles at Erchany and maybe just her questions about the world. Then as she grew again and her maidenhood came to her and she saw the strangeness of her life, a Miranda islanded with a black-thoughted Prospero, she became a secret quean, and with a growing sorrowfulness too, deep at the heart of her. Whiles she still came to see me, but her contacts now all mute: curled on a table, she would give herself to the scent and the texture of my bit leathers, as if she drew from them the strength one can draw from raw strong things. And now her comings had been rarer, she would look at me as if she might open her heart, but in the end nothing would she speak of but idle matter of the day. Dreaming she would sit, toying with a bit leather, all opening into womanhood as simply and resistlessly as the flower of the heather on the braes. Fine I knew what had happened long ere the schoolmistress brought the unlucky name of the lad to Kinkeig.

You must know something of the Guthries and the Lindsays – a little more, maybe, than you’ll find in Pitscottie’s Chronicles. It won’t keep you long from meeting Christine – it’s not a treatise on Scottish feudalism I’m writing – and I warned you fairly, Reader, back beyond the Reformation we must presently go.

You’ll know that while in the highlands the organization of folk was ever by clans, branch upon branch each under its chieftain ramifying out from the stock of the chief, in the lowland parts was no such thing, the unit being ever the family. And great and spreading as a family might be it had seldom the cohesion of the clan, so that the strait binding together of families, and alliance betwixt this family and that, made ever the labour of the lowland landowners. The district was secure and strong in which the lairds were well bound together by band and covenant.

Now while the Guthries were yet but bonnet-lairds at Erchany the Lindsays of Mervie were great folk, barons that held in chief from the Crown, and whose land ran nigh to the Inneses’, the coarse Fleming creatures, between Moray and Spey. And in the boyhood of James III, when Scotland was a right lawless and faithless place, the Guthries entered into bond of man rent with the Lindsays. The bond is yet preserved in which a Ranald Guthrie swore to Andrew Lindsay ‘to be for him and with him, his kin and friends and their quarrels, in council, help, supply, maintenance and defence, as far as good conscience and reason will, in the straitest form of band of kindness against and before all living men except his allegiance to our Sovereign Lord the King alone.’ Whatever inducement the Lindsays in their wealth gave, or whatever persuasion in their power they exerted, the bond was a most inviolable oath for the five years’ space it was to hold. But the word about the king was but a pious and empty speak: ever in a bond of man rent was some thought of union against the power of the Crown.

And against the Crown in time it was invoked. For the Lindsays stood in a like bond of fealty to the Earl of Huntly, and to Andrew Lindsay came the day when the Earl wrote that his cousin the Laird of Gight had been summoned to underlie the law in Edinburgh, and that the safety of his life required the instant presence of Lindsay and his carles at St Johnston, thence to ride with the Earl to Edinburgh. So Lindsay summoned Ranald Guthrie and his men to Mervie, and Lindsays and Guthries together rode to St Johnston – which is Perth – and there joining the Earl all held forward for Edinburgh, there to overawe the king’s justices on the Laird of Gight’s behalf. Only Andrew Lindsay, feigning matter of business, tarried a day behind, and riding fast and hard to Erchany there lay with Ranald Guthrie’s wife.

For a year and a day Ranald Guthrie held himself quiet; then he gathered such power as he might and made a foray upon Mervie and took up Andrew Lindsay, all unprepared from amid his carles, and carried him away. The Guthries carried Lindsay to their own lands and there they hacked the lecherous fingers from him, and they sent him home with an hourglass round his neck to mind the Lindsays they had bided that year-and-a-day only that the bond of man rent might be expired and the Guthrie faith unbroken. And Andrew Lindsay died.

That was the beginning of the feud betwixt Lindsays and Guthries, and all the mischieving that was betwixt them would be but a dreich tale to tell. But as the generations passed the power of the Guthries grew and that of the Lindsays ever declined and in the Killing Time they were broken entirely, there were no Lindsays of Mervie known any longer among the gentle Lindsays of Scotland, and the burgher folk from Dunwinnie came and quarried all the New Wynd and half the Cowgate from the ruins of Mervie Tower. And the Guthries, that had long memories and unforgiving hearts, would give a bit laugh as they whiles went hunting down Mervie glen.

But there were Lindsays enough in these lands still, crofter folk with no history, that might think themselves the heirs of the old gentle Lindsays if they would. So still there was the old enmity, Lindsays thinking always of the Guthries as the worse dirt of gentry and Guthries showing no more favour to Lindsays than they need: a strange uncharitable smouldering feeling that ever and again in the imaginative ones would flame into hatred and some vicious deed. It was ever a disgrace in a Lindsay to consent to serve kin of the Guthries of Erchany, and if young Neil Lindsay was more bitter than most against Ranald Guthrie before he met in with Christine it was for the shame of his father having syne worked for the laird’s sister Alison. You must hear of Alison, for she was surely the strangest of the Guthries: Tammas, the claiks said, was her bairn by God knew whom.

There were four Guthries of Ranald’s generation. John, the eldest, saw two fine sons drown before his eyes far out on Loch Cailie, and lived on, childless and melancholy, till Ranald inherited. Ian, the second son, and Ranald, the third, were they that to avoid the Kirk went among the coarse Australians; as daft as daft folk thought it and impious forbye, so that few in Kinkeig were surprised or sorry when the speak came of Ian’s horrid death, killed and cooked by these same coarse Australians in their billy-cans. Alison, the daughter, was full twenty years younger than Ranald, the child of her father’s old age and her mother’s unlikely years. She was all a Guthrie, dark and driven, and her passion was for the creatures of the air. And uncannily the birds flocked to her: they flew about her head by day and were her dreams by night, she roved Scotland for the lore and the society of them, and made a book of birds and lived finally in a highland shielan, a lone rude cot white within and without with the droppings of the birds and in the end, folk said, she said she understood the voices of the birds, and some said she said their talk was all of heavenly places, and some said she said their talk was all of hell. And a certain Wat Lindsay, this Neil Lindsay’s father, because his brothers were enough to tend the croft, and because he too had skill with birds and they were a lure to him, so far forgot the old bad feeling of the feud as to serve Alison for a time, and he swam out across Loch-an-Eilan for her and photographed the last nest of the osprey found in Scotland for many a long day. And that was Alison, who died unmarried in her shielan on the far side of middle age; and that was why young Neil bore a fierce and troubled mind to the laird: it was the shame that his dead father had done such service for a Guthrie.

It was little I knew of Neil Lindsay before Christine came to me, for he lived with his brothers on a croft remote in Mervie, the same where his ancestors, as he imagined them, had their tower. He had fought his father and his mother and his brothers, folk said, for knowledge, the English knowledge out of books that would appear but dirt to the Lindsays, small crofters as they were sunk in the hard heart-breaking losing battle of all remaining crofter folk against the very march of time. A hundred years ago, or fifty, he might have found the right Dominie to prepare him and syne carried his sack of meal on his back to the College in Aberdeen and got his letters there. But what the stationy calls the Progress of Education has made things harder now for lads like him, the path of learning being encumbered with the getting of wee bit certificates in trifling lores at every turn. Neil Lindsay’s knowledge was fragmentary and fitful and imaginative, the knowledge of a keen and fell impatient mind ever conscious of opportunities denied, for he was the kind that would have gone far with the free and careless schooling of the gentry, but that was too independent to go scraping from standard to standard in the Board schools. It’s of his sort that rebels are made and, sure as sure, Neil had taken up, ’twas said, with a hantle of folk, Nationalists, who thought Scotland should be free and independent once more. But Will Saunders said he saw nothing in a plan that was all Scotland for the Irish – meaning the Nationalists would hand us over to the coarse teeming folk on the Clyde – but that he was all for a just redistribution of colonies and it was fell time England was given back to the Scots, faith it was. This, though, is all aside from my story. What comes next is Christine’s tale of how she met in with Neil.

On Midsummer Day it was she had taken a piece, the lonely quean, and gone over the glen-head and far down Glen Mervie on a brave morning, the clouds were fleecy and sailing above her, away to the left by the hidden loch the snipe were but new fallen silent and whiles a wild goose would oar its way across the lift, flying surely to the distant sea. The long day, a day with almost no night to it, was before her and sudden she thought to go where she had never been, to the yet snow-flecked summit of Ben Cailie before her. So she went half-down the glen, past the Lindsays’ croft that she scarce knew the name of, and up through a plantation where the last autumn’s sycamore leaves lay blended in their skeletal tracery with the springy carpet of larch needles. Syne she was through to the pine woods and syne through a spleiter of mountain ash, and then the bare shoulder of Ben Cailie was before her, to the left she could see the long silver splash of the loch, and far away over the rolling braes behind her the blue peat smoke was going up from Kinkeig. Whiles came the tinkle of a burn, fine hidden threads of snow-water falling down and down the Ben from the topmost snows: whiles came the warm-sounding trembling bleat of the ewes in the pastures below; and ever there was the crying of the peewits that Christine used to feel was her own cry. Far and lonely the climb over heather and rock and scree, a great camp of mountains rising on the one hand and on the other a broadening glimpse of the parks beyond Dunwinnie, that went rolling with their bright burden of green corn towards the invisible sea.

So all that morning nearly Christine climbed to the great brow of Ben Cailie, every foot taking her, all unknowing, to the destiny of her. Fient the soul did she expect to see until the gloaming brought her home again and she wondered for a minute what would happen if she had an accident up there, for none knew she was climbing Ben Cailie and it might be long before they thought to look that high. But she wasn’t frightened; she’d been up all but the final pinnacle before and there was small danger to one with a foot half as sure as Christine’s, Christine thought. She was thinking this as she made across a rocky ledge with a seven–eight foot drop maybe to soft heather below, and it was at the moment of her thinking that she saw the man.

He was standing beyond and below her by a great outcrop of rock, a young man in a blue shirt and old grey trousers, gentle or common he might have been and beautiful he was, standing absorbed and still. So still he stood he might have been a figure in the granite he was studying, until his hand moved – sensitively, Christine knew with a knowledge that strangely moved her – over the weathered surface. With just such a touch must the old Pictish men that held these lands long syne have felt for the stone that was the end and the beginning of their craft.

It was but few lads that Christine in her solitary growing-up had known, and if I spoke of her a while back as Miranda I was thinking of a Ferdinand, maybe, in this Neil Lindsay. For a long minute Christine gazed at him and then she made to slip by unseen. But Nature, that moves in us by strange courses enough if need be, caught at the sure foot the quean had been congratulating herself on and sent her tumbling down that unchancy seven-eight feet to the heather, for all the world as if she fair wanted to hurl herself at the stranger’s head.

In a moment Neil Lindsay was up with her; he must have turned at the sound of her couping and louped across like a panther. Christine was all dazed, she felt the earth spin and the heather heave under her, once it heaved and again, and the second time was the lad raising her in his arms. She opened her eyes and he was looking into them with a kind of amazement and he said, ‘Are you hurt, lass?’ as sorry and as anxious as if she were his own sister. She said she was fine and he made her move all her limbs right gently to make sure, and then he said quietly, ‘Well, don’t do it again; it’s not what Ben Cailie’s for this fine morning.’ Christine laughed at that, but he seemed straight to have forgotten he’d tried to make a bit joke, he was looking again into her eyes and as a lover looks.

So that was their meeting. Neil took her to the summit of Ben Cailie and she rubbed her face with snow that Midsummer Day, and all tingling from the snow and the long climb she grew bold to ask him what he was doing up on the Ben? He tossed his head at that and flushed slow and dark; it turned out he had a bit book with him, the Geology of the Grampians, and was far advanced in the lore of it, though lone and secret his studying had been. And Christine, that had been gently bred and yet in a manner so strange and lonely that she felt all her own knowledge had been a struggle too, listened to the talk of him near all that day, never wondering that a strange crofter chiel, with the silence of his kind written on his face, should be talking to her and talking so, eager and wary, as if he would turn that sensitive and exploring touch he had from the hard granite to the very contours of her mind. It was only when they were far down the Ben again and Mervie in sight that he grew shy, and then perplexed as if a thought had come to him that might have come before. He was Neil Lindsay, he said, and who was she? And when she told him and he realized it was her that lived with Guthrie of Erchany and was his daughter said to be he gave her a look she had no understanding of, for though she knew well of the old daft feeling between Lindsays and Guthries she had never thought it a thing her generation could take any heed of, evil old folly that it was. But the blood had come to the lad’s face when she named herself, then it drained away to leave a pallor under the tan of him, then he uttered a curse that startled her, and then he took her in his arms.

From that moment it was all over with Christine. Through all the varying moods of their later meetings, secret always, and though sometimes she said it and sometimes she didn’t, she knew she was his for ever. And Neil, many-mooded too though he proved to be, was as fixed as the great rock they’d met in the lithe of; wedded to him and bedded she would be and the two of them would away to Canada, where he had a cousin, a scholar grown, would set him in the way of the work he wanted.

This, then, was the story Christine told me at last, and that it came out after a world of hesitation and false starts was no more than partly because of the natural shamfastness of the maid. Partly it was because of the strain she was being put to at Erchany; the way the laird was going on she was grown nervous and doubting there could be any confidence in the world except the one confidence between Neil and her. Guthrie was absolute against the lad; ever since the day he had met in with him at the home farm he had fair been like a demon, silent, but with rage or a like passion burning in him. No more was Neil easy, he was right passionate against Guthrie in his turn and he churned the thing up in his brooding mind with all the ancient wrongs of the Lindsays in a way Christine had little patience with. It was a highland temper he had of his mother came out in Neil in those months of waiting and brooding; Christine misliked the seeing it gaining on him, and it wasn’t long after the home-farm affair that she knew the time for acting had come. Neil was for storming Erchany like young Lochinvar and carrying her to some place they could be married in secret: he had just the money put by to carry the two of them to Canada, but fient the penny more. Christine was loth to go in secret, her instinct was against it, she felt Guthrie had some power over her she could break only by fighting him in the open: she knew, though, that did Neil but say it in a particular way away she’d go, that that was how she was to be to him. For it was the power in the thing she most felt. When I asked her – perhaps in foolish words enough – ‘And you really want to marry him, Christine?’ she looked at me almost mockingly for a moment and just said ‘I’m driven.’

So Christine wasn’t to argue with in her choosing; all I could aim at was help as I might be able. And the first thing she asked me was: ‘Mr Bell, is there a lawyer in Dunwinnie?’

I told her there had been old Mr Dunbar and that now there was a young lad, Stewart his name, that had been in his office and had the business after him. Though I wondered a little at her question I thought better not to ask what was in her mind; syne she got up from the corner of the bench she’d been sitting on and crossed over to my bit shop-window and stared out absently at Kinkeig in its returning blanket of snow. ‘There must be papers,’ she said quietly and without turning round, ‘certificates’.

I said indeed there must be papers – things were far wrong if there weren’t – but if she was Guthrie’s right ward and a minor, and if he was that eccentric he would say or show nothing, it was hard for me to tell whether she had a right to see them or no. She might send her Neil to see Stewart, the lawyer lad in Dunwinnie, if she wanted, but it was an old man’s advice to bide her time: when the laird got accustomed to the way things had fallen out he’d see that both Guthries and Lindsays should have more sense than to be playing Montagues and Capulets. And she would do well, I said, to din the same thing into her Neil; after all, when a crofter loon with nothing but remote hopes in Canada came courting the ward of a rich laird he must expect a rebuff or two before he got his way.

But Christine shook her head. ‘It’s all very different from that.’ And she picked up a bit leather and fell to tracing little waves on it with her finger, like as if she was copying the furrows that had gathered on her pretty brow. ‘Have you seen my uncle lately?’ she asked.

I shook my head. ‘I haven’t seen him, my dear, this year past.’

‘But you’ll have heard talk?’

‘I haven’t lost my hearing yet, Christine.’

She smiled at this. ‘Yes, there’s always talk in Kinkeig, I’m sure.’ She hesitated. ‘But you may have heard that – that he’s gone mad?’

She was that anxious-looking that I left my last and gave her a bit hug – a thing I hadn’t done for many a long year. ‘Don’t fash yourself over that,’ I said; ‘they were saying no less of him before you were born. It’s what Kinkeig would say of any laird that didn’t talk grouse and oats and pretend to be right kirkgreedy on Sundays. And the Guthries have had the name of it since the days of Malcolm Canmore.’

She gave a bit laugh, and fine I thought I’d comforted her until my old ear caught the note of it. Then I walked to the window and had a look out myself.

Behind me Christine said in a new hard way: ‘He’s mad.’