THE COWARD.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, 1 December 1919, Page 31

THE COWARD.

W|R|9 HE wind had moaned disMB mally all day over the leaden waters of the loch, Jjr and by every tiny islet and ' little headland in the shallows were handfuls of icy foam. The leaves that were not yet sufficiently decayed to fall by themselves were caught up, torn off, and flung, with a weird, pattering sound, on the roof of the desolate little schoolhouse. By four o’clock even the small girl who stayed as handmaid to tidy up and do the domestic work required by the school teacher, had left, going with a run down the

muddy road to the hamlet four miles off, lest the ink black clouds should precipitate themselves in a sudden deluge. And by six o’clock the rain had come. In the mighty heights of Ben Lui and Ben Cruachan the clouds had been entangled, now they broke and fell with a continuous rushing sound. For the moment the wind ceased, the sawing of the fretful pine branches was stilled, and Margaret MacArthur, school teacher, listened with a kind of stilled awe to the great forces by which she was surrounded.

Her needlework fell from her hands and her elbows rested on the table, for it was too dark to see any more, in spite of the ruddy gleam from the resinous logs that crackled in the grate. The hissing of the rain, the crackling of the logs formed an accompaniment, like a dull undertone, to the sadness of thought. A louder crackle than usual made the school teacher jump, and then she realised it was not the fire this time, but a rap on her door. It was not often she was so disturbed in the lonely place where the schoolhouse stood as a centre for the hill bairns from far and near.

The door being opened showed a man of fair height and well built, but with an indescribable slouch and furtive set of the shoulders, as of one accustomed to be kicked and expectant of rebuff. The water running from his hat and clothes so effectually concealed their quality that for the moment Margaret thought he was a roadside tramp on the way from Glasgow to Oban. “You can’t come in here,” she said, instantly on the defensive. “The post office is two miles on, and the village two miles further; go there.” When she would have shut the door, he held it open, and, passing her, shut it behind him, drawing the bolt. As he stood on the clean-board-ed floor a pool quickly gathered around him.

“I’m no tramp,” he said in a voice which quieted her worst fears. “Only sore beset and faint with hunger and weariness. You’re a Christian woman, have a little charity.”

The burr in his words betrayed one of her own countrymen, and the tone was that of the actual countryside. While she looked at him doubtfully

he stepped into the wee back kitchen, wrung the water off his clothes, mopped his face and head with his handkerchief, and returned to the fireside. “What are you going to give me to eat?” he asked. Margaret was accustomed to make up her mind quickly, to act on her own decisions; not for nothing had she been selected school teacher to children. She put the kettle on the fire, brought out scones, cold bacon and eggs. In a quarter of an hour the wayfarer was abundantly fed and had eaten of her best. As he gradu-

ally dried she noted that his clothes were of good cut and quality, his face was clean and well shaved, and he did not look like a man accustomed to lack victuals. She waited for enlightenment. He gave her none. Instead, having finished his meal, he began questioning her, lapsing into an idiom that was evidently native to him but not habitual. “Are ye all by your lone self? Are ye not feared?” She shook her head. “When one’s had trouble as I have, it’s best to be alone.” “There’ll be noises, likely? The shriek of the wind in the corries, I mind how it howls like a ghost—” “Ye’ll ken these parts, then?” He stopped, evidently a little confused. She bit off the end of her thread and began talking, more to herself than him, as is the habit of one who lives alone. “At night, now, it talks all around; there’s noises ye wouldn’t

believe. When I first came, I was not used to being alone, and as sure as dark drew on feet ran round and round the house. I daren’t look, not for the life of me, but they ran on, just chasing each other. It wasn’t for long I found out it was ponies, Farmer Young’s ponies. He told me they would lift the latch of the gate and go their ain gait each night. She stopped, and there was a long silence.

“The trees, they’re wild. too. You wouldna think how many tones there is in a tree, just like an organ with many pipes; and the rats, as big as cats, I heard them talking once. I had set a trap for them outside, and in the night I was wakened by a little musical sound, it might be like a tuning fork, just hum —hum, up and down, such a strange little sound; and I peeped out, and there in the bright moonlight was a whole flock of rats, all around one in a trap, talking how to get him out just for all the world like human beings. And in the morning the trap had gone ;

they had dragged it down to their holes. There’s many holes in the bank below here, between this and the loch, and they had dragged it into one; but they couldn’t open it, and the poor wee beastie was dead, with his tail all gnawed.” He had watched her intently. “There are worse things than being in a trap,” he said, and in answer to her serene look of inquiry he blurted out: “Being hunted. It gets on the nerves, one can’t rest by day and by night, and one suspects everyone —” “You’ll not be suspecting me, for I’ll not know what you’re hunted about,” she said innocently. He looked at her with suspicion, but her clear blue eyes disarmed him. He rose the next instant. “I’ll be going on. I can’t stay here the night, though I’d like it well.” She was a very quiet woman this, he thought; it was he who had to do the questioning. In as careless a

tone as he could command, he asked: “You’ll be knowing Mistress Macgregor, likely?” “Up to Inverloch? The head-stalk-er’s wife! Why, she’s dead this very morning.” “Yes, I know.” He paused again, and kept his face in the shade of the mantelpiece as he fingered the few small ornaments thereupon. “You’d be having a great respect for the Macgregors?” he asked. “Mistress Macgregor is as good a woman as ever walked, and it’s not yet I’ll be speaking of her in the past; but as for him, he’s a stern man and very proud.” “They’ve a right to it,” he said nervously, but the tone implied a question.

“No one has a right to pride. Here, in the sight of the grand mountains with all the beauty of the colours around us, we know we’re but wee creatures in God’s sight; the mountains they make you quiet and humble, when you look at them as I do day by day. They just talk to you. I’ll have seen Ben Cruachan now many a hundred times, and he always looks different, just according to my mood, it may be; but any jealousy or strife or evil speaking couldn’t live in sight of yon mountain.” “You’re a good woman,” he said simply, “and so was —Mistress Macgregor.” “You’ve been in foreign countries?” she said with sudden acuteness, something in his way of speaking, his clothes and manner having given her the cue. “Have you eyer been in South Africa?” “Yes.” “Were you there during the war?” “A part of it.” “And you saw the soldiers? You’ll have come across Macgregor’s son?” “What was the name of him?” “Willie Macgregor — him that did so well and got a medal, so they told us, and who’s a sergeant now, for he got on so well, and who’s so much thought of he can never get home to see them, but is always in foreign parts.” “It’s grand for them to feel that, anyway,” he said, “even if they’ll not be seeing him.” Then on the instant came the sound of feet outside the door, and voices asking admittance. The man turned suddenly white and collapsed like a pricked balloon. “It’s the police, it’s me they’re wanting,” he said. “And you,” she said, looking at him fully, “are Willie Macgregor. Yes, it’s true I never saw you —it was before my time; but I can see your mother in your een. It’ll not be murder you’ve done?” “God forbid!” “Here,” she said, “for your mother’s sake. There’s my bedroom handy,” and as he moved with limbs of lead to the refuge indicated she went to the door. The local policeman, who knew and respected the school teacher, merely stopped to ask if she had heard or seen anyone go by. “Though it’s not likely you’ll be hearing aught but the rain,” he added. “However, we’ve advice of a desairter about, seen this morning at Glasgy and recognised by his photograph. He took the train on here.” He hesitated a minute and added: “Macgregor’s his name,” he was evidently full of self-importance and

longing to deliver his news in spite of professional etiquette, but the quiet school teacher gave him no encouragement. “That’s an ordinary name hereabouts,” she said. “Good night to you, Mr. Mackay,” and she closed the door. She stood just as she was inside until his steps died away. The rain had ceased now, and all the talk of the mysterious trees had begun again. Her soul was filled with an infinite sadness that found vent in words. “Ye’ll be finding comfort in the thought your mother’s dead, where you cannot bring shame upon her in the place where you were born and bred,” she said sternly.

The door of the inner room slowly opened, and the man stood there with hanging head, but made no answer. “Lift up your face and answer me,” she commanded. “What are you doing now for a living, anyway?”

He raised his head, and she saw his eyes were full of tears; then he flung himself down on the chair and shook with sobs. “Oh, my mother! my mother!” he said. “And I’ll never see her more!” All the hardness died out of Margaret’s face. She laid her hand on his head, and gently stroked his hair; she felt old, very old beside this boyish grief, though in years she was the younger. “How did you come to desert, laddie?” she asked, as she might have spoken to one of her own bairns. “I cannot tell,” he said, breathing heavily. “I was feared all of a sudden, I did not know why; I just went, I and Jimmy Maxwell; they got him, a year back. We got away on a Dutch ship. I’ve been in Holland since, and I’ve done well as far as money goes. But he came over. They knew where we were, for sure. My father, he knew, too. I wrote him. Just at last he sent me a line when my mother was dying, because she craved a sight of me. He wouldna have had me come, for no one hereabouts kenned the ruth; but. it was bound to come out. She died before I got here. He told me never to see his face again. I daredna go to the wee shop where they’d be speirin’ at me. So I had naught to eat and just walked and walked. I thought likely I’d get a train at Dalmally, but now they’re on to me, they’ll be watching at all the stations. If I can get to Loch Etive, I’ll do, for I’ve a cousin there with a wee boat. He kens. He’ll put me down the coast till I get a ship back to Holland, or anywhere.” He stopped and sat up with a great sigh. “And how’ll ye get to Loch Etive?” she asked. “They’ll be watching the roads if they know you’re hereabouts.” “If I’d a boat I’d go across. They’ll not be watchin’ there, and I’d gae by Glen Nant.” She considered the matter gravely. “There’s a boat below here,” she said, “but it’s no mine.” “If I take it, I’ll no can bring it back,” he said. “But I can,” she answered firmly, and going to a corner, she took down a cap and tied it across her head with a scarf knotted under the chin. He looked at her with a sudden light of admiration in his eyes.

“You’re a brave woman as well as a good one,” he said.

It was so dark down by the boat that they stumbled heavily in getting into her. but Margaret never hesitated. “You row,” she said. “There’s a light on the brae-side; I can steer to it.”

It was a strange journey over the mile of inky water. Every now and then there came a lull in the wind when the lapping of the wavelets against the boat and the steady dip of the oars could be heard, and then again the howl of the wind as it rushed down to them deadened all noise but its own. The spirit of the mountain veritably shrieked.

Like all Highlanders, Macgregor could pull a good oar, but he was out of training, and once or twice in a lull he paused to take breath. In one of these intervals he heard Margaret say calmly—- “ You’re not a real coward; ’twas the suddenness that did it.” And the words broke out in spite of himself. “But I’ve been a coward ever since.” She did not answer, and at the next pause he went on as if without interruption. “And so I’ve grown into a coward. I’m feared to stand up and take my punishment. I’m no man.” “Since when have you thought that?” she asked drily. And the answer came identically with the next storm burst, so that it was caught up and hurled away to the echoes of the corries. “Since knowing you.” It was almost like a shout of triumph. They were silent until the boat grated on the strand below the

light which had served them as a beacon. Then as he stood above her and she settled herself on the seat and took up the oars, he asked — “You’re not feared of much. Are ye feared to take back the boat?” “I can see my own light burning steady in the window where I left it. I’ll make straight for it,” she answered simply. His tone was lower. “Would you be feared to care for a man who had been in gaol?” She spoke very gently: “Not if he was a brave man.” Then he thrust her off, and she dipped her oars and started into the black night without even so much as a “Good night.”

The little school teacher was white and languid the next morning, with dark rings under her eyes. It was not the mile-long row in the black night that had caused it, for she had been born and bred in the country, and was as much at home on the water as on land. It was that something she had thought dead and buried beneath a great sorrow had begun to stir and move in her again. After the numb time of winter her heart had awakened to the agony of feeling once more. But her little pupils noted nothing, for they were eager with a bit of news which had been brought along by the early train, and had flown from mouth to mouth, a veritable excitement in a countryside where so little happened. “Wullie Macgregor what went for a soldier’s been took as a desairter.” So ran the local version. “He was never no sairgent at all, but rin awa’ in the war, and noo this verra mornin’ he gaes into the polis sta-

tion at Taynuilt, and gies himself to the polis, for, says he: “My mither’s deed, and I care naught noo.” And the school teacher’s heart gave a sudden leap, for the cloud of cowardice had rolled away and been dispersed, as the heavy rain clouds of yesterday hanging on the peaks of the mighty Bens had been dispersed by the sunshine of the morning.