The Silver Maple Part 9

And so the spring slipped into summer, and one evening a new element came into his life. He was lying on the doorstone, his feet in the cool, dewy gra.s.s, dreamily watching the fireflies sparkling away down in the pasture by the woods, and listening to the hoa.r.s.e cry of the night hawks as they swooped overhead. It was a warm evening, and the leaves of the Silver Maple, still touched by the hot glow of the sunset, hung motionless in the still air.

Rory came out with his fiddle, and, sitting with his chair tilted against the house, droned out a low, sweet, yearning song for Bonny Prince Charlie who would return no more, no more. Grandaddy sat near on a bench smoking contentedly. Since the day of the first prayer meeting at Long Lauchie's, Big Malcolm had lived a life of peace, and had once more regained his att.i.tude of happy, kind complacency. Old Farquhar was gone; he had disappeared when the Silver Maple was putting forth its buds, and had gone "a kiltin' owre the brae," as he musically expressed it to Scotty; but everyone knew that he would come back in the autumn as surely as the wild ducks went south. Indoors, close to the candle, sat Hamish poring over "Waverley," and Callum could be heard tramping about in the loft, preparing to go off for the evening.

Callum took great pains with his toilette these evenings, Scotty noticed, though the boys did not tease him any more about going to see Mary Lauchie; indeed, there were no more good-natured allusions to his courts.h.i.+p. Instead, Scotty had overheard Rory tell Callum, in the barn one day, that "he'd go sparkin' old Teenie McCuaig, though she was seventy and hadn't a tooth in her head, before he'd be seen going down to the Flats to see an Irish girl." And Callum had seized him by the shoulders and flattened him up against the wall until he roared for mercy. There was always something in the home atmosphere when Callum started off of an evening now that vaguely reminded Scotty of those terrible days following Grandaddy's fight in the Glen. He felt anxiously that his hero was doing something of which his family disapproved, and wondered fearfully what it might be.

His mind was turned from the contemplation of these difficulties by a sudden change in Rory's tune. He stopped in the midst of his low, wailing dirge and struck up loudly the lively air that told again and again of the mirth produced when "Jinny banged the Weaver." Scotty raised his head and looked across the pasture-field. That tune always ushered Weaver Jimmy upon the stage, and there he was, coming over the field, easily recognisable by his huge feet. Before he reached them, the MacDonalds could see that his face was s.h.i.+ning with unusual joy.

"Come away, Jimmie, man," called Big Malcolm, "it will be a warm night, whatever."

But the Weaver was too happy to notice anything wrong with the weather.

"Hoots, it will be a fine night for all that, a fine night; and how will you be yourself, Mrs. MacDonald?"

"Perhaps you'll find it chilly enough if you go round by Kirsty's, Jimmie," suggested Rory.

"Hooch!" Jimmie flung one leg over the other with more than usual vigour. "And that is jist where you will be mistaken, Rory Malcolm, I will jist be coming from there," he admitted with an embarra.s.sed quiver.

"That's what you're generally doin'; how fast did you come?"

"Whisht, whisht, Rory," cried his mother. "It's the foolish lad he is, Jimmie, don't be listening to him. And indeed it's Kirsty John will be the fine girl, so good and so kind to her poor mother. And how would the mother be to-night, Jimmie?"

"Oh, jist about the same, jist about the same; but," he lowered his voice confidentially, "what do you suppose she would be doin' the night?" "She" was understood to mean Kirsty; for Jimmie never dared take her name upon his tongue.

"Giving you a clout on the head, most like," ventured Rory.

The Weaver did not deign to notice him. "She would be sending me over here on a message!" he cried, and his face shone as if illuminated from within.

"Hech! yon's good news, Jimmie!" cried Big Malcolm. "You're comin' on!"

"She'll be sendin' you on a message to another world some o' these days," said Callum coming to the door, looking very handsome, ready for departure.

"Oh, indeed it's yourself had better be lookin' after your own sparkin', Callum Fiach!" cried Weaver Jimmie jovially. "You'll not be likely to find it as easy as I will, whatever."

Callum turned away with an embarra.s.sed laugh, Rory following him. He did not answer Weaver Jimmie's raillery, as he would have done under other circ.u.mstances, for he had caught a look on his father's face that betokened trouble. Big Malcolm's eyes flashed angrily and he took his pipe from his mouth as though to call after his son; but his wife's gentle voice interposed. She had, so far, by her quiet tact, kept the father and son from an open rupture.

"And what would Kirsty be doing?" she asked, striving to keep her anxiety from showing in her voice. A spasm of joy jerked one of the Weaver's legs over the other.

"She would be sending me over here on a message. A good sign, I will be thinkin'," he added, lowering his voice, for the young men were scarcely out of earshot. "Yes, indeed, a good sign, I will be thinkin'. The wee lady from the Captain's came the other day and she would be sending me to get Scotty to come and play with her."

Scotty raised his head. "Hoh!" he scoffed, "play with a girl!"

Big Malcolm laughed indulgently. "See yon, Jimmie!" he said, "he'll not be so anxious to go to Kirsty's as some people, indeed."

Jimmie grinned delightedly. Nothing pleased him more than to be twitted about his devotion to his lady.

"Oh, but he must be going," said Granny. "The little girl would be lonely and I would be promising Kirsty last winter that he would go."

"Grandaddy don't like her uncle, anyhow," said Scotty. Big Malcolm took his pipe from his mouth. The boy had mentioned a fact for which his grandfather had excellent reasons, but he did not choose that it should be made so apparent to the general public.

"That will be none o' your business, lad," he said sternly, "an' when Kirsty wants ye, ye'll go." Scotty made no reply; he was not quite so chagrined as he would have others think. He really wanted to see the little girl with the yellow curls and the big, blue eyes, and demonstrate to her that he was not English, no not one whit.

So the next morning he set off across the swamp towards Kirsty John's clearing. It was a relief that Grandaddy and the boys had gone for a day's work to the north clearing. This was a tract of timber on the sh.o.r.e of Lake Oro which was partially cleared, and upon which Callum hoped some day to settle. The distance to it was some miles, and they had taken their dinner and supper; so Scotty felt his disgraceful secret was safe.

He was a long time on the way, of course, for Bruce had gone to the north clearing too and his master had to do double work in racing after chipmunks. Then he loitered purposely, for he was going for the first time in his life to pay a formal visit, and that to a girl. The situation was such as no discreet person would plunge into without due deliberation.

So the sun was high in the heavens when at last he saw ahead of him the golden light that betokened a clearing, and heard the sound of farm life echoing down the forest avenues.

Kirsty John's farm was a small, rough clearing near the Scotch line.

There were two or three fields, and in the centre of them a log shanty and a small stable. Everything about the place was very neat; for Kirsty's mother was a Lowlander and one of the most particular of that great race of housekeepers. The little barnyard, ingeniously fenced off with rough poles, the small patch of gra.s.s around the doorway, the neat little flower garden, all showed signs of a woman's tasteful hand.

But Kirsty could do the man's part as well. Black John MacDonald had died some years before, leaving his invalid wife to the care of their only child. And Kirsty's care had been of the tenderest; and if in the rough battle of life she became a little rough and masculine, the poor crippled mother felt none of it. Kirsty managed everything with a strong, capable hand, from felling trees to spinning yarn and making b.u.t.ter. She received plenty of help, of course; Big Malcolm and Long Lauchie were her nearest neighbours, and their families vied with each other in seeing who could do the most for her. Weaver Jimmie, too, would have been willing to let the weaving industry go to ruin if Kirsty would but let him so much as carry in a stick of firewood on a winter evening; but Kirsty kept her despised suitor so busy saving himself from violent bodily injury, when in her presence, that his a.s.sistance was not material.

Scotty could see her now as he came down the forest path. She was working in the little rough hayfield, pitching up the forkfuls of hay on to a little oxcart with masculine energy. Her skirt was turned up, showing a striped, homespun petticoat, and beneath it her strong bare ankles. Her pink calico sunbonnet made a dash of colour against the cool green of the woods.

Scotty took a leap at the low brush fence that surrounded the clearing and went over it in one bound. Then he stood stock still with sudden surprise; for there, right in front of him, seated on a low stump with an air of patient expectancy, was a small figure almost enveloped in a big, blue sunbonnet.

"Oh!" cried Scotty in amazement.

"Oh!" echoed the Blue Sunbonnet. It came suddenly to life, leaped from the stump and pitched itself upon him. "Oh, oh! I've been watching for you just hours and hours, and I thought you weren't never, _never_ coming!"

The visitor did not know what to say. He was scarcely prepared for such an effusive welcome, and was suddenly seized with a fit of shyness.

"You're Scotty, aren't you?" she asked. He nodded and the vision laughed aloud and clapped its small hands. The blue sunbonnet toppled off, showing a shower of riotous golden curls, tumbled about in delightful confusion; her eyes, big and blue, danced with joy. "Oh, oh, I'm so glad!" she cried. "I 'membered you ever since I saw you in that funny little shop!"

Scotty stared still harder. To hear Store Thompson's establishment designated by such terms was beyond belief.

"I 'membered your eyes!" she added, nodding confidentially. Her baby way of saying "'member" restored Scotty's confidence in himself.

"Well, I will remember you, too," he admitted sedately.

She laughed again and capered about him, while he stood and looked at her rather puzzled. He did not see anything to laugh at, and did not yet comprehend that here was a creature so joyous by nature that she must laugh and dance about from sheer spontaneous delight.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she reiterated for the tenth time. "I'll race you to the house!"

She darted down the hill like a swallow, her golden hair blown back, her little white bare feet twinkling over the gra.s.s. But Scotty was a very greyhound for speed. He leaped after her and in a moment forged ahead. When he had gone sufficiently far to show her how fast he could run, he looked back to find her limping slowly after him. The boy's tender heart, always quick to respond to the sight of pain, suddenly smote him. He ran swiftly back. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"A fisel," she said plaintively, dropping upon the gra.s.s and showing him the sole of her tender little foot. Running barefoot was not even to be mentioned at home, and she had not yet grown accustomed to the "freedom of the sod." Scotty, whose st.u.r.dy little brown feet were shod with leather of their own making, stared contemptuously; she must certainly be a baby to be hurt so easily. Nevertheless, he bent down and extracted the tormentor with the skill acquired in many summers'

apprentices.h.i.+p. Then he regarded her with half-disdainful amus.e.m.e.nt, his shyness all vanished.

"Can't you say thistle?" he inquired.

The big blue eyes regarded him innocently. "I did say fisel," she declared wonderingly.

"No, you didn't, you would jist be saying 'fisel.'"

She stared a moment, then laughed aloud, a clear little bubbling irresistible laugh, and this time Scotty laughed with her.

He seated himself cross-legged upon the gra.s.s and proceeded to catechise her.

"Your name will be Isabel, won't it?"

"Imph--n--n," the blue bonnet nodded emphatically, "Isabel Douglas Herbert, an' my mamma was Scotch, an' my Uncle Walter says I'm his Scotch la.s.sie."