Chapter XXXVIII

THE LAST OF RORY OF THE SHELTIES--DR. PETER ON THE SCENT.

‘He’s gane, and nae mistake, puir lad, said Sandy Macnab, respectful for once, and also for once deficient in his constitutional volubility.

He stood with Dr. Peter Murray by a box-bed far from tidy, but not deficient in the ordinary comforts of a bed of its class, while over the rest of the bedclothes was thrown a tartan plaid. Beneath the covering, with the head and chest exposed, lay the worn, breathless body of Rory of the Shelties, from which life had just departed.

The locality was no remote shieling in North Uist, but Bawby Sed’s house in a street off the Gallowgate of Glasgow. Bawby herself, with the effusiveness of her nature and race, was rocking to and fro, and wailing, with an apron thrown over her head, as if it were her man Andry and her whole numerous family that had been taken from her, instead of a half-witted Highland ‘gangrel’ (tramp)--who was nobody’s body, with whom she had been accidentally and temporarily associated, not greatly to her profit or pleasure.

The time was yet so early in the morning that the November daylight was still only struggling with a tallow candle burning down and guttering in the socket. The fact that the daily life of Glasgow was not far advanced accounted for the comparative privacy and stillness of Bawby’s dwelling. The husband and elder children had set forth to their work, and the younger fry had not begun to stir. No visitor was yet ready to drop in, while the old woman who had shared with the mistress of the house the last night-watch by the sick man, had gone out for more assistance to perform with due ceremony, such as Bawby would not on any account have neglected, the office of ‘straiking the corp.’

‘There’s nothing to be done, as you say, Sandy,’ remarked Dr. Peter, failing to reproach Sir James Semple’s man, who had rushed out to Barley Riggs in the small hours for the doctor, and dragged him in to Glasgow, where medical men abounded, and there was a special practitioner told off for the wants of the poor in the parish in question.

‘I thocht, as he had been your patient aince, doctor, you would like to see the last of him,’ said Sandy confidentially.

‘Well, if it is any comfort to you and the honest woman that I am here, that is something, since I can be of no use to him,’ said Dr. Peter resignedly. ‘But what was the poor creature doing here, Macnab? I thought he went back to his part of the country, after he was put out of Gartnavel--three--no, I’ll be bound it is nearer five months ago.’

‘That’s just the way of it, sir,’ said Sandy, a little confused, but without proceeding to explain how the contradiction came about. Then he turned with some impatience to his lamenting countrywoman. ‘I wish you would hand your wheest, Bawby; you will be enough to drive a man doited, with your bubblin’ and greetin’!’

‘Oh, the puir lad!’ went on Bawby, with unabated energy, behind her apron; ‘and I thocht when I saw him first that he would bring me word of the auld man--M‘Leish, you ken--that befriended me when I was a motherless bairn, and, instead, the lad’s ain friends will be wondering what has become of him this day--ochone! ochone!’

‘If you would only listen to reason, woman, before you’re in the ecsties [hysterics],’ remonstrated Sandy; ‘what friends is he likely to have, a wasp of a natural--that I should say sic a word and him no cauld--weel on for forty? They will think theirsel’s weel quit o’ him, I doubtna; forbye, he spoke of no friends save his granny--and she, if she were to the fore, would be weel on to a hunder, ower auld and cauld to care for ocht but the keepin’ in o’ her ain wee glimmer of life and heat. He cared mair for his bit boxie, when it had the papers intil’t, than for a’ the friends that ever had the misfortune to own him. As for Ballachulish and auld M‘Leish--are you as daft as he was? How could a man from the islands bring you word of what was done on the main-land?’

‘Why did he not go back to his island, and where is the box that he set such store on?’ inquired Dr. Peter.

He was not a suspicious man, nor was he inclined to believe that a man in Sandy Macnab’s position, with a place and a character to lose, would be likely to risk them for what, after all, must have been a small temptation. Still the listener did not quite like the aspect of affairs.

‘That’s just what it is, sir,’ Sandy repeated his vague formula, looking yet more embarrassed. Then the man seemed to take a sudden determination, and resolve on a free confession. ‘Losh! I’ll tell you a’ about it. I havena been so far to blame, nor has Bawby here, that we should beat about the buss [bush], and think shame, and maybe called in question for what we never did or thocht to do. It was not my blame that Mr. Drysdale wouldna give me speech o’ him, or he micht have kenned lang syne that the puir sorry Rory was not aff the carpet, but was lying here getting waur and waur, and failing ilka day, till he was as gude as in the death-thraw [death-struggle]. Nicol Macnicol would have naething to say to sic a cargy on board his boat. It would have turned the stamachs of all the fine gentry to see or hear tell of a deeing beggar on the same planks with them.’

‘It was to give the craytur a bit treat out of his notie that we keepit him at first,’ mourned the more ingenuous Bawby. ‘He had never seen Glasgy afore; and then, when he took a turn and fell ill again, and couldna be lifted, I couldna cast him out like a dug, you ken. I’m sure I’ve had fash [trouble] enough wi’ my man Andry--wha’s that dour, dornach [strong cloth] is naething to him. He threepit I micht as weel keep beggars’ ludgins at aince. And wha’s to bury the puir silly chap that’s stiffening fast, I canna just say. Sandy Macnab’s willing to help. I’ve some savings in the fit of a stocking that Andry’s never seen, or he would have them awa’ to put into a society in a jiffy--Andry is an awfu’ hand at societies. But I’m willing to waur [spend] a pickle on a Hielantman, and I hope the pariss will do the rest.’

‘I’ll see to that, Mrs. Seth,’ promised Dr. Peter, ‘and I’ll give you a certificate for the registrar. But you’ve never told me where the poor fellow got the note on which he was to have had the treat, or where the box is that he valued so highly. Perhaps its contents may be of some consequence to his friends, or may help to defray the expenses of the funeral.’

‘Very like!’ said Sandy Macnab, not aware of displaying any want of feeling by speaking in a tone of unmistakable derision. ‘Yonder the kistie is;’ and he pointed to the wayfarer’s battered knapsack kicked below a table. ‘When it was fu’, its valuables consisted, if you’ll believe me, sir, of a wheen papers, an auld will of are Drysdale, and the purpose of marriage of ane Mackinnon, baith of them, I’m creditably informed, dead and buried mair than a score of years syne. I cannot tell what maggot came into Rory’s head, but I did the best for him. I got him speech of Mr. Drysdale up at Drysdale Hall, and it was him that, sensible gentleman though he is, gifted Rory with the note in exchange for the papers. I was to see him aff the Broomielaw,’ acknowledged Sandy reluctantly, with a slight deepening of his ruddy colour; ‘but you see, sir, as Bawby said, it seemed but richt that the craytur should have a treat afore he gaed back to the hills--the mair so that he hadna taken in a particle of what he had seen, but was brodent on some miserable cruivie in North Uist. It seemed an awfu’ shame to send him back where he cam’ from, with no more notion of the world than that. But for all the gude that it has done to him, and considering what has happened,’ said Sandy candidly, as he looked down regretfully on his unfortunate countryman, lying for ever prostrate, ‘we micht have left him in ignorance to daunder [saunter] hame in time to dee there.’

Dr. Peter’s whole aspect had undergone a change while Sandy spoke. First a startled and then a troubled look came into the thoughtful eyes, until the whole face fell indescribably. At last his mouth set with a rueful determination, and he turned away.

By the time Dr. Peter had ridden out to Barley Riggs he had composed his countenance and rid himself of every trace of disturbance. But it was a very grave, sobered-looking man who presented himself at Athole’s breakfast-table, instead of the cheery philosopher who was wont to take his place there, and be the light of the morning and of the meal.

Athole, who had parted from her father overnight in his usual spirits, did not know what to make of the change. She inquired in turn for every patient she could remember, and received no information which could explain Dr. Peter’s mood. She investigated into his own health, and was told, with the impatience of a man to whom it was a contemptible trifle at that moment, that he was perfectly well. What should ail him?

‘Then I wish, father, people would not call you out during the night when they might do it to as much purpose during the day,’ she said discontentedly, looking at the kidney he had hardly touched. ‘You may be as strong as Hercules, but facing the darkness and cold at your age does not seem to improve your appetite.’

She expected him to shake himself up and ask jestingly how old she thought him, and whether he was not as good yet for night-work as any young ‘swankie’ among them. Instead, he muttered gloomily, ‘What did it matter? And it had happened to be the morning and not the night--a fine enough morning for the season of the year--but though it had been mirk midnight or in the thick of a snowstorm or a thunderstorm, sickness and sorrow, misery and shame, did not wait for daylight and fine weather.’

Then it struck her that she had never seen him look like that before since she was a child, when she had a dim recollection of the arrival of a letter which had caused her father’s face first to flush purple and then to pale to an ashen-grey, and he had drooped his head and not raised it, but gone softly for many a day. She had heard, years afterwards, when the penalty had been paid twice over, and she was old enough to understand, that one of her brothers abroad had got into disgrace, and their father had discharged the debt.

‘What is it, father?’ Athole now asked plainly, putting her hand in his, and looking wistfully into his face. ‘I am old enough now to know, whatever it is. Let me bear it with you!’

He put her gently from him this time. ‘It is not what you think, lassie. It is nothing with which we have to do, thank God! Walter is all right now, and so I trust are Sandy, and Mary and Lizzie’s husbands. It is no secret of mine, else I dare say I might tell it to you; for, as you say, you are old enough, and you have a woman’s wit to help a man in a strait what to do next. But the tale is not mine to tell, as I said before, and you’re likely to hear it soon enough,’ he ended, with a quick sigh.

Athole was dying to hear at once, but she could not force the confidence which was not his, but some other person’s; she could only beg him not to vex himself too much by taking other people’s trials upon him. They were not his; he was not called upon to suffer heavily for them, any more than he was answerable for other people’s errors.

‘Ay,’ he said sorrowfully, ‘but lookers-on have painful duties to perform sometimes. Do you know, Athie, I have had ere now to go to a friend--one of the oldest and best I had--and tell him something of which he had not the faintest suspicion, that he had a deadly disease upon him and his hours were numbered. If he wanted to settle his worldly affairs and arrange for his family, or to make his peace with his Maker, the present moment was the time, for the obligations of the case admitted of no delay. I have had to go to another friend and give him his choice--a doubtful operation, against which flesh and blood recoiled, or his life lost for a certainty. Yet I would rather undertake either of these commissions twice over, than face what I have to do to-day.’

Her face paled in sympathy with his. Her great grey eyes opened widely; she did not protest further or ply him with remonstrances which would have been so many subtle questions; she stooped and kissed him, but said no more. She watched him go, and went about her ordinary household duties. But all the time she was praying silently for souls in trouble, and that every hair of the heads of all the family at Drysdale Hall might be kept in safety, though the name had never been mentioned in the conversation, and she could not tell what evil one or all of them had compassed, or what harm might befall old or young in the household.