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.’
10
Christine had a loyalty to the laird, and she was the kind that would strive to keep her loyalty while tholing much, or even right through a strait fight. So it was a scunner to hear her say that of Guthrie – and to hear the unco paradox she backed her speak with forbye. For what made her right sure that the man was truly skite at last was that he was spending a bit silver like a rational being. ‘He’s violating himself,’ Christine said.
It was only one had lived long at Erchany, I thought, could estimate the force of her evidence. The first thing was the putting away of the Gamleys: some sort of quarterly or yearly agreement Gamley had from the laird in writing, and to get them away he had paid out a little hantle of gold – real gold that Christine had seen him taking from his bureau, and that was the only ready coin at Erchany might serve in an emergency. Fell strange it was, Christine said, for the gold was her uncle’s plaything.
I opened my eyes at that. Well I knew Guthrie’s near-going ways, his sad dealings with the bogles and all, but I had never thought of him somehow as the simple picturesque miser you might meet in with in a book. ‘You mean,’ I cried, ‘he sits thumbing the stuff over?’
‘Yes. He calls it numismatics, and he’s even taught me a little. Have you ever seen a Spanish gold
It showed, I thought, that the laird had been unco eager to rid himself of those at the home farm, for if he had the disease of gold as bad as that it must have been a fair violation, like Christine said, to hand a pile to his
