Michael Barrett - Up in Ardmuirland
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Michael Barrett >> Up in Ardmuirland
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Supper, on this particular occasion--as was usual--took some time, and
it was a serious business, when little conversation was encouraged.
But after supper the real fun began. None love dancing more than
Scots; so dancing must needs form the climax of every gathering for
social enjoyment. The bashful roughness which characterized the
commencement had worn off; lads and lasses were thoroughly enjoying the
somewhat rare opportunity of taking part in so large an assembly;
Archie Cattanach, the piper, was throwing his whole soul into the
skirls and flourishes of his choice tunes; all was gaiety and innocent
enjoyment. The good priest sat looking on pleased because his people
were happy; now and again he would move his position to another group
of the older guests, so that he might chat with all in turn; his flock,
though they held their Pastor in that reverence which none but a priest
can inspire, were under no false restraint in his presence, but joined
in laugh and jest with ease and simplicity.
Loudly rang out Archie's pipes, merrily tripped the dancers, and joy
reigned supreme, when suddenly there came an unexpected check. The
outer door flew open, and a girlie of about ten, wild-eyed,
bare-headed, panting for breath, rushed into the midst of the
gathering. She was evidently laboring under the stress of some
unwonted excitement. There was no shyness now, in spite of the
priest's presence--in spite of the eager faces that sought hers in
anxious questioning.
"Mither, Mither!" she screamed shrilly, as she caught sight of the
familiar face she sought, and rushed toward her mother's open arms. It
was little Peggy, Bell's younger sister.
"Oh, Mither," she wailed through her sobs, "oor Jessie's nae to be
foond! She's nae at hame. I dinna ken wha she's gane!"
With her mother's arms around her, the child was able to give a more
coherent account of the circumstances which had led to this abrupt
cessation of the dance; for Archie's melody had trailed off into an
unmusical drone and speedily ceased, and the dancers had spontaneously
crowded round the child and her mother.
Peggy had been left in charge at home, for Bell was allowed to take
part in the "ball." Jessie, the youngest but one of the family, was a
little maid of four years. She had accompanied Peggy and her brothers,
with a crowd of other small folk, when the children went to the moss
with provisions for the workers. All had gone and returned in a body,
and no one noticed that Jessie was not with them. It was only when
Peggy began to assemble her own little charges, to conduct them to
their own house, that she missed the wee lassie. Peggy knew that her
father and mother, together with all her elders in the family, had
already started for the barn--some to help in the preparations, others
to chat with those who were assembling outside. It was growing dark,
for the children had delayed their homeward journey (as they often will
when a number are together) to play and sport.
There was no one to advise or help the child. Sending on
three-year-old Elsie and the other little ones in charge of Johnnie,
she ran back, half distracted, toward the hill they had left earlier in
the afternoon. Shouting out for Jessie by name, she wandered hither
and thither--terrified, self-accusing, disconsolate. But it was all to
no purpose. Darkness fell, and fearful and contrite, Peggy had no
resource but to seek her mother.
There was no more merriment that night. A search party was at once
organized by the younger men, who started with lanterns and some of
their collies to the peat-moss. All that night the anxious mother kept
weary vigil, while the men-folk searched the hill. Day broke, and no
trace had been found of the lost child. Weary and sad, the men
returned for some needful rest and others took their places. But
though they traversed the moors all day, and searched crevices and
water-courses with diligence, they met with no better success.
Sometimes a sound would break through the stillness which would stir
their hearts with renewed hope. The cry of a child! Weak and faint,
indeed, but telling of the continuance of life! But again and again,
after scaling heights or creeping down comes, they were doomed to
disappointment. It was but the bleat of a strayed lamb! That night a
larger party set out with lanterns and torches, and once more ranged
the hills shouting for the child; but once again morning dawned upon
disappointed hopes.
Then every one who could be of any possible use was pressed into the
service. The people flocked out of their homes from all that district,
and hand in hand they started in a long line stretching across a wide
tract of country, and moving slowly on until every inch of ground in
their way had been thoroughly explored.
It was after three nights and three days had passed that they came upon
the weak little body, lying stark and still under an overhanging rock,
and half buried in the heather. Moss was clutched in her clenched
hand, and shreds of moss were on her cold lips; the poor little bairn
had hungered for food, and had seized that which first came to hand to
satisfy her craving. She was quite dead.
The bereaved mother mourned her darling with a grief that none but a
mother can know. But the child had been her father's special pet of
all his little flock.
"His heart," said Bell, the rising tears witnessing to the sadness of
the memories called back by her story, "was well-nigh broke. He burst
into tears at the sight of her wee white face, and sobbed like a bairn
wi' the rest of us."
And poor little Peggy! How touching the story! She never ceased to
reproach herself for what she considered her carelessness in losing
sight of Jessie on that fatal day. No single creature attached a
shadow of blame to her; on the contrary, it was the dearest wish of all
to try to console her and assure her of her innocence in that respect.
But it was of no avail. Her unceasing grief fretted away her strength,
and six months later she was borne to St. Mungo's ancient burying
ground to share Jessie's grave.
"It's nigh on sixty years sin'," said Bell apologetically, as she wiped
her streaming eyes with her apron; "but the thocht o' that time brings
the tears up yet."
III
ARCHIE
"Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie."
(_Pope--"Ode to Solitude"_)
He was an unusually wretched semblance of a man. A tattered coat--some
one's cast-off overcoat--green, greasy, mud-stained, clung round his
shaking knees; trousers which might have been of any hue originally,
but were now "sad-colored," flapped about his thin legs and fringed his
ankles; shoes, slashed across the front for ease, revealed bare feet
beneath; an antique and dirty red woolen muffler swathed his neck
almost to the ears. Surmounting these woeful garments appeared a
yellow, wrinkled face surrounded by a straggling fringe of gray
whisker; gray locks strayed from an old red handkerchief tied round the
brows under a dilapidated wide-awake hat. To add to his woe-begone
aspect, the poor wretch was streaming with wet, for a Scottish mist had
been steadily falling all the morning.
Leaning on his stick, the man slowly shuffled up the central path
toward the porch in which I was sitting, striving to get the nearest
possible approach to an open-air pipe. Touching his sorry headgear, he
looked at me with mild eyes of faded blue, and smiled benignly as he
asked:
"Could I see himsel'?"
I had not long come to that part of the country, and I was not
thoroughly conversant with the terminology of the people, but it
flashed upon me what he meant.
"Did you wish to see the priest?" I rejoined.
"Aye," replied the old vagrant--for so I deemed him. The smile seemed
stereotyped, for it never faded. His face, when one regarded it
attentively, had a quite attractive pleasantness.
"I'm sorry to say he's out just now," I said. "But you may go round to
the back and get something to eat, if you wish."
It struck me as strange that he did not ask for money, but thanked me
profusely and politely, as he touched his wretched hat once more and
shuffled off toward the kitchen quarters.
He did not reappear for so long a time that I began to think it would
be prudent to investigate. Traveling gentry of such a class are not
always desirable visitors when the kitchen happens to be unoccupied for
the nonce. As I made my way in that direction through the little hall
I heard voices through the half-open door beyond.
"It'll be all right, Archie," Penny was saying. "The priest shall have
the money as soon as he comes in, and if he can't say the Mass
to-morrow, I'll take care to send you word by Willy. Now, mind you get
a bit of fire lighted when you get back home. You must be wet through!"
"Thank ye kindly, Mistress Spence," came the slow response in the
quavering voice of the old man. "It's yersel' that's aye kind and
thochtful!"
I waited till I heard the door close upon the supposed "tramp" before
venturing to make the inquiries that rushed to my lips. And even then
I paused a while. When needing information from Penny, one has to be
circumspect; she has a way of shutting off the supply with ruthless
decision, yet with a seeming absence of deliberate purpose, whenever
she suspects a "pumping" operation.
"I'm one that won't be drove," I've often heard her say. So we old
fellows are often obliged to have recourse to diplomacy in dealing with
our old nurse.
Consequently I lounged casually, as it were, into Penny's domain with
the remark, "That poor old chap looked awfully wet, Penny."
"Wet enough he was, Mr. Edmund," replied the unsuspecting Penny, "and I
have just been giving him a good hot cup of tea; for he never touches
wine or spirits."
She was evidently betrayed by my apparent lack of inquisitiveness into
a relation of the details I was longing to hear.
"To think," she continued, "of the creature walking down in such
weather, and he such a frail old mortal, too, just to make sure of Mass
to-morrow for his wife's anniversary. I can't help thinking, Mr.
Edmund, that some of us might take an example in many things from poor
old Archie McLean!"
"Does he live far away?" I asked--just to encourage the flow of the
narrative.
"A good three miles--and his rheumatism something hawful," exclaimed
Penny, now thoroughly started on her recital. I had but to lend an
ear, and my curiosity would be satisfied.
Archie, it appeared, had been a soldier in his young days, but when he
came to settle in Ardmuirland his time of service had expired; that was
long ago, for he was now quite an elderly man. He took up his
residence in a deserted mill, by the Ardmuir Burn. As he proved to be
thoroughly quiet and inoffensive, the neighbors--true to their national
character, not speedily attracted by strangers--began in course of time
to make his acquaintance, and he eventually became a great favorite
with all. When younger, Penny had been told, he had been "a wonderful
good gardener," and for trifling payment, or in return for a meal,
would always "redd-up" the gardens of the district. Thus he acquired
the designation of "Airchie Gairdener," and by that was usually known.
What his neighbors could not comprehend was how Archie spent these
small earnings, but more especially to what use he had put his army
pension, which every one knew he once received regularly. He had no
occasion to buy food, for kindly neighbors would always exchange for
meal or eggs the varied produce of his well-cultivated garden. His
clothes cost him nothing; for he had worn the same old garments for
years past, and though no self-respecting tramp would have accepted
them, he never seemed anxious to replace them. If any others were
given him, he would use them for a time, out of compliment to the
donor, but the ancient attire would always reappear after a short
interval.
"As to where his money goes," summed up Penny, "I've a notion that his
Reverence knows more than any one else except Archie himself. Poor
Archie often asks for the priest, and I've heard his Reverence speaking
to him in quite an angry way--for him," she added quickly; "but there's
never any change in Archie's way of living. Some of the people here
think he's a perfect saint, and I'm not so sure that they're far wrong!
However, I think he ought to take ordinary care of his 'ealth; that
seems to me a duty even for saints!"
I tried to glean more details from Val, but found him strangely
reticent.
"Poor old fellow! A good soul, if ever there was one!" was the only
remark I could elicit.
This air of mystery made me more than ever desirous of learning
something about Archie's antecedents. It was this curiosity which led
me, in the first instance, to visit his tumbledown dwelling. It was a
quaint establishment. A moderately large garden surrounded it on three
sides, roughly fenced in from the woodland, its fence interwoven with
gorse branches to keep out rabbits. The varied supplies of vegetables
were evidence of Archie's industry, in spite of his rheumatism. It was
by the produce of this garden that the old man obtained in return the
oatmeal and milk which formed his staple food; for he could no longer
work for others.
The house itself was a picture! Its aged roof seemed to have bent
beneath the weight of years; for the ridge had sunk in the middle of
its mossy, grass-grown expanse, and threatened to fall upon its
occupant to the peril of his life. A small barrel served for a
chimney. One window possessed still two small panes of glass; the
other openings were filled in with bits of boarding, as was the whole
of the other window.
There was something quite uncanny about the silence of the place. The
monotonous ripple of the burn below seemed to intensify it. I stood in
hesitation for a moment or two before venturing to knock at the door.
When at last I had done so, shuffling footsteps sounded within, and
Archie opened the door; the same bland smile which I had noticed when I
first saw him appeared on his wrinkled face, and the faded blue eyes
lighted up.
"Come ben, sir; come ben!" he said hospitably. "Ye're kindly welcome,
tho' 'tis but a puir hoosachie for ane o' the gentry."
It was indeed a sorry place to live in. The roof was so unsound that,
as I learned later from Bell, it was difficult to find a dry spot for
his wretched bed in wet weather. Added to this, as the same informant
assured me, the place was a happy hunting-ground for rats.
"The rats is that bould, sir," she said, "that he's fairly to tak' a
stick to bed wi' him o' nichts, to keep the beasts off. It's a wonder
they rats hasna' yokit on him afore this!"
But on this, my first visit, no rat put in an appearance.
I gave no motive for looking in, nor did Archie seem to be surprised at
my call. He was evidently much pleased to see me; but I could not help
thinking at the time that his cordial welcome was due in great measure
to my relationship to Val.
That first visit was short, but it was succeeded by others. It soon
became quite customary to wind up my daily walk with a chat with the
"hermit"--as I got into the way of calling him. For beyond the mystery
attaching to the man--or perhaps I ought to say intensifying it--was
the fact that he was a really attractive personality. He could talk
about the various countries he had seen with a degree of intelligence
unlooked for in one of his condition; moreover, he could season his
remarks with much spice of sound, earnest wisdom, which amused while it
edified me. It did not take long to discover that Archie "Gairdener"
was a man out of the common.
That Archie was a good Christian was self-evident. No weather, however
tempestuous, could keep him from Sunday Mass, and I noticed with some
surprise that he received Holy Communion at least once and sometimes
more frequently every week, but always on a week-day, when our
congregation consisted chiefly of our household and Bell.
"I suppose Archie 'Gairdener' finds it more convenient to come to the
Sacraments on a week-day," I remarked one day to Val, "because of the
late hour of Mass on Sunday."
"Scarcely that," was his quiet answer. "I happen to know from other
sources that he still keeps up the old practice he found in use when he
first came here. In those days no one dreamed of breaking fast on a
Sunday until the priest himself did. Every one came to Mass fasting,
as Archie still does--though I believe he is the only one nowadays."
During the two or three years that followed I saw a good deal of
Archie. We became such cronies, indeed, that Val was considerably
amused that I should take so much pleasure in the company of one with
whom I could have few ideas in common. But there was something that
attracted me to the old fellow from the first, which I can not define
in words.
A severe winter made it almost impossible for the old man to get to
Sunday Mass at all; he would do his best, but it was evident, as I
could see more plainly in my visits, that he was growing very feeble.
I happened to be seedy myself at that time, and did not manage to get
out so frequently as before, owing to the trying weather.
It came with no surprise when Val told me in early spring that Archie
was growing worse, and that the doctor gave little hope of his
regaining strength; in the circumstances, Val thought it well not to
delay the Last Sacraments any longer. I tried to accompany him when he
went to the old mill for that purpose, but I had to give it up. It was
about a week later that I was able to visit the old man.
Winter seemed to have departed for good on that day in mid-April. A
bright sun was shining; deluded little birds were flitting about as
though summer had come; even on the hill the air was mild and balmy.
The brooding silence seemed accentuated in the neighborhood of Archie's
hermitage. An unusual sign of life was to be seen at the mill-house
itself; smoke was rising from the extemporized chimney; for Bell, as I
knew, had installed herself as nurse and was doing her best to render
the last days of the old recluse more restful than they could have been
during his more active period.
It was Bell who answered to my knock. With a gesture imploring silence
she led me in. I was startled at the sight which met my eyes. The old
man lay stretched on the bare earthen floor, his head pillowed upon a
large stone. His body was covered by blankets, but his arms were
crossed on his breast outside of them and embraced his crucifix. His
eyes were closed, but he was still breathing fitfully. Bell whispered,
in response to my amazed look of inquiry:
"He wouldna' rest till Wully and I lifted him oot o' bed before Wully
went for the priest. He'd been keepin' yon big stane for years to
serve him at the last."
Val appeared very soon. Archie showed no sign of recognition, even
when the well-known voice began the prayers he seemed to have been
waiting for before departing.
Bell lighted the blessed candle, which was in readiness, and knelt with
Willy on one side of the quiet form, while I knelt on the other near to
the priest.
"Go forth, Christian soul, out of this world, in the name of God the
Father Almighty, Who created thee: in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son
of the Living God, Who suffered for thee"--thus the quiet voice
continued until those prayerful words: "Pity his sighs, pity his tears,
trusting in nothing but thy mercy"--when the last long breath, like a
sigh of relief, passed from the dying man's lips as his soul departed.
I could not shake off a sense of loss as keen as though some dearly
loved friend had been taken from me. Val and I walked home in unbroken
silence through the shadow of the wood, newly decked in tender green
buds, up to the rising ground beyond. My brother seemed as much
touched as I.
It was not until our meal was over, and we sat on either side of the
still necessary fire, though we had dined without a lamp, and still
preferred the dusk for a quiet talk, that Val spoke of Archie.
"Now that the poor old fellow is at rest," he said, "I will tell you,
by his express desire, something about his history. He wanted me to
promise to make it public, but that I resolutely refused to do, for
many reasons. 'Let Mr. Edmund know, at least,' he said. 'I do not
want him to have too good an opinion of me, or he will not pray as much
as I should wish for my poor soul.' So you have a right to know, Ted."
And with that he unfolded the story of Archie McLean's early years.
Archie had been a wild boy in his youth, with a strong propensity for
drink--hereditary, unfortunately--which he was not so well able to
satisfy on his father's croft, in Banffshire; so, to gain more liberty,
he ran off and enlisted. When scarcely more than twenty he took up
with a girl he met in one of the provincial towns in which he happened
to be stationed, and eventually married her. He had asked no
leave--indeed, at his age it would not have been granted; his wife,
therefore, was not "on the strength of the regiment"--in other words,
depended entirely upon his pay, and what little she might earn, for the
necessaries of life, and even for traveling expenses, in case of
removal elsewhere. The girl was a negligent Protestant, and he a
non-practising Catholic. They had been married before a Registrar, and
neither of them entered a church as long as the woman lived. The one
child born to them died a week later, unbaptized.
Such a marriage could not possibly prove happy, but it was more
unfortunate in its results than could have been imagined. The man's
craving for drink grew with its indulgence. His wife, neglected by
him, followed his example and took to that sorry comforter; before long
she had acquired habits of drunkenness that disgusted even him. Soon
she had fallen so low that her life was a crying scandal for its
unrestrained vices.
The man's companions took a savage pleasure in taunting him about his
wife's depravity, until the very mention of her name was hateful to
him. He acknowledged that he himself was bad enough, but her conduct
had reached the extreme of vileness. The result was what might have
been foreseen. Quarrels and recriminations were perpetual. The man
hated the woman because of her vicious life; he hated himself because,
as his conscience reminded him in lucid intervals, he was responsible
for her downfall.
The regiment was on the eve of removing to other quarters, and much as
he would have liked to leave his wife behind to shift for herself, he
dare not face the consequences. Coming to her lodgings, therefore, to
arrange about her journey, he found the woman hopelessly incapable.
His mad rage against her was inflamed by the drink he had just taken;
in his anger he was strongly tempted to rid himself of the burden she
had become. Nothing could be easier! No one had seen him enter the
house, and there was every chance of his being able to steal away
unperceived, in the dusk of the evening. An uncontrollable loathing
for the woman urged him on; conscience was disregarded. He seized one
of the pillows of the bed. It was merely necessary to press it over
her face, hold it there till life was extinct, and creep away, a free
man!
It must have been the ever-watching Angel Guardian of that wretched man
who touched his heart at that moment of danger, by a sudden grace. He
faltered; threw down the pillow, and swiftly ran from the room and from
the house--pursued by remorse.
An hour later, when he ventured to return, he was met on the threshold
with the tidings that his wife had been found dead of heart failure.
For many a year after that horrible day Archie McLean was tormented by
his reproachful conscience. He regarded himself as a murderer in
desire, though actually guiltless of his wife's blood. The terrible
shock was his salvation. From that day he never more touched strong
drink. The formerly inveterate drunkard, a great portion of whose time
was spent in the cells, rose by degrees to the position of the smartest
soldier in his company. When his long service had to come to an end,
he took a situation as gardener for a time; but a desire which had come
upon him when his army service had been completed became still more
urgent. He longed to be able to devote himself to a penitential life,
as a means of making such atonement as was in his power for his past
transgressions. Even while in the army his life had been one of
rigorous mortification, dating from the day when he once more began to
practise his religion; he shunned no duty, however distasteful, and
shrank from no danger.
In response to the keen desire which dominated him, Archie threw up his
situation, and searching for some part of the country in which he would
not be known, yet where he should find life and surroundings not
entirely foreign to his experience, settled at length at Ardmuirland.
For about forty years his life was characterized by a rigorous
austerity. His pension was at once carried to the priest, as soon as
he received it, to be devoted to the offering of Masses for the soul of
his unhappy wife, and the relief of the poor--scarcely poorer than
himself. He never spent a penny upon his own needs; even the scanty
earnings of his labor, unless made in kind, went the same way as his
pension. The clothing, even, which charitable persons bestowed upon
him in pity soon passed into coin for the same end; no scolding of his
spiritual Father could prevail upon him to look better after his own
well-being.
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