CHAPTER X
DAVID AND FRANCIS
One day there was a market at a town some eight or nine miles off, and
thither, for lack of anything else to do, Francis had gone to display
himself and his pony, which he was riding with so tight a curb that the
poor thing every now and then reared in protest against the agony he
suffered.
On one of these occasions Don was on the point of falling backward,
when a brown wrinkled hand laid hold of him by the head, half pulling
the reins from his rider's hand, and ere he had quite settled again on
his forelegs, had unhooked the chain of his curb, and fastened it some
three links looser. Francis was more than indignant, even when he saw
that the hand was Mr. Barclay's: was he to be treated as one who did
not know what he was about!
'Hoots, my man!' said David gently, 'there's no occasion to put a
water-chain upo' the bonny beastie: he has a mou like a leddy's! and to
hae 't linkit up sae ticht is naething less nor tortur til 'im!--It's a
won'er to me he hasna broken your banes and his ain back thegither,
puir thing!' he added, patting and stroking the spirited little
creature that stood sweating and trembling. 'I thank you, Mr. Barclay,'
said Francis insolently, 'but I am quite able to manage the brute
myself. You seem to take me for a fool!'
''Deed, he's no far aff ane 'at cud ca' a bonny cratur like that a
brute!' returned David, nowise pleased to discover such hardness in one
whom he would gladly treat like a child of his own. It was a great
disappointment to him to see the lad getting farther away from the
possibility of being helped by him. 'What 'ud yer father say to see ye
illuse ony helpless bein! Yer father was awfu guid til 's horse-fowk.'
The last word was one of David's own: he was a great lover of animals.
'I'll do with my own as I please!' cried Francis, and spurred the pony
to pass David. But one stalwart hand held the pony fast, while the
other seized his rider by the ankle. The old man was now thoroughly
angry with the graceless youth.
'God bless my sowl!' he cried, 'hae ye the spurs on as weel? Stick ane
o' them intil him again, and I'll cast ye frae the seddle. I' the thick
o' a fecht, the lang blades playin aboot yer father's heid like lichts
i' the north, he never stack spur intil 's chairger needless!'
'I don't see,' said Francis, who had begun to cool down a little, 'how
he could have enjoyed the fight much if he never forgot himself! I
should forget everything in the delight of the battle!'
'Yer father, laddie, never forgot onything but himsel. Forgettin himsel
left him free to min' a'thing forbye. _Ye_ wud forget ilka thing but
yer ain rage! Yer father was a great man as weel's a great soger,
Francie, and a deevil to fecht, as his men said. I hae mysel seen by
the set mou 'at the teeth war clinched i' the inside o' 't, whan a' the
time on the broo o' 'im sat never a runkle. Gien ever there was a man
'at cud think o' twa things at ance, your father cud think o' three;
and thae three war God, his enemy, and the beast aneath him. Francie,
Francie, i' the name o' yer father I beg ye to regaird the richts o'
the neebour ye sit upo'. Gien ye dinna that, ye'll come or lang to
think little o' yer human neebour as weel, carin only for what ye get
oot o' 'im!'
A voice inside Francis took part with the old man, and made him yet
angrier. Also his pride was the worse annoyed that David Barclay, his
tenant, should, in the hearing of two or three loafers gathered behind
him, of whose presence the old man was unaware, not only rebuke him,
but address him by his name, and the diminutive of it. So when David,
in the appeal that burst from his enthusiastic remembrance of his
officer in the battle-field, let the pony's head go, Francis dug his
spurs in his sides, and darted off like an arrow. The old man for a
moment stared open-mouthed after him. The fools around laughed: he
turned and walked away, his head sunk on his breast.
Francis had not ridden far before he was vexed with himself. He was not
so much sorry, as annoyed that he had behaved in fashion undignified.
The thought that his childish behaviour would justify Kirsty in her
opinion of him, added its sting. He tried to console himself with the
reflection that the sort of thing ought to be put an end to at once:
how far, otherwise, might not the old fellow's interference go! I am
afraid he even said to himself that such was a consequence of
familiarity with inferiors. Yet angry as he was at his fault-finding,
he would have been proud of any approval from the lips of the old
soldier. He rode his pony mercilessly for a mile or so, then pulled up,
and began to talk pettingly to him, which I doubt if the little
creature found consoling, for love only makes petting worth anything,
and the love here was not much to the front.
About halfway home, he had to ford a small stream, or go round two
miles by a bridge. There had been much rain in the night, and the
stream was considerably swollen. As he approached the ford, he met a
knife-grinder, who warned him not to attempt it: he had nearly lost his
wheel in it, he said. But Francis always found it hard to accept
advice. His mother had so often predicted from neglect of hers evils
which never followed, that he had come to think counsel the one thing
not to be heeded.
'Thank you,' he said; 'I think we can manage it!' and rode on.
When he reached the ford, where of all places he ought to have left the
pony's head free, he foolishly remembered the curb-chain, and getting
off, took it up a couple of links.
But when he remounted, whether from dread of the rush of the brown
water, or resentment at the threat of renewed torture, the pony would
not take the ford, and a battle royal arose between them, in which
Francis was so far victorious that, after many attempts to run away,
little Don, rendered desperate by the spur, dashed wildly into the
stream, and went plunging on for two or three yards. Then he fell, and
Francis found himself rolling in the water, swept along by the current.
A little way lower down, at a sharp turn of the stream under a high
bank, was a deep pool, a place held much in dread by the country lads
and lasses, being a haunt of the kelpie. Francis knew the spot well,
and had good reason to fear that, carried into it, he must be drowned,
for he could not swim. Roused by the thought to a yet harder struggle,
he succeeded in getting upon his feet, and reaching the bank, where he
lay for a while, exhausted. When at length he came to himself and rose,
he found the water still between him and home, and nothing of his pony
to be seen. If the youth's good sense had been equal to his courage, he
would have been a fine fellow: he dashed straight into the ford,
floundered through it, and lost his footing no more than had Don,
treated properly. When he reached the high ground on the other side, he
could still see nothing of him, and with sad heart concluded him
carried into the Kelpie's Hole, never more to be beheld alive:--what
would his mother and Mr. Barclay say? Shivering and wretched, and with
a growing compunction in regard to his behaviour to Don, he crawled
wearily home.
Don, however, had at no moment been much in danger. Rid of his master,
he could take very good care of himself. He got to the bank without
difficulty, and took care it should be on the home-side of the stream.
Not once looking behind him after his tyrant, he set off at a good
round trot, much refreshed by his bath, and rejoicing in the thought of
his loose box at castle Weelset.
In a narrow part of the road, however, he overtook a cart of Mr.
Barclay's; and as he attempted to pass between it and the steep brae,
the man on the shaft caught at his bridle, made him prisoner, tied him
to the cart behind, and took him to Corbyknowe. When David came home
and saw him, he conjectured pretty nearly what had happened, and tired
as he was set out for the castle. Had he not feared that Francis might
have been injured, he would not have cared to go, much as he knew it
must relieve him to learn that his pony was safe.
Mrs. Gordon declined to see David, but he ascertained from the servants
that Francis had come home half-drowned, leaving Don in the Kelpie's
Hole.
David hesitated a little whether or not to punish him for his behaviour
to the pony by allowing him to remain in ignorance of his safety, and
so leaving him to the _agen-bite_ of conscience; but concluding that
such was not his part, he told them that the animal was safe at
Corbyknowe, and went home again.
But he wanted Francis to fetch the pony himself, therefore did not send
him, and in the meantime fed and groomed him with his own hands as if
he had been his friend's charger. Francis having just enough of the
grace of shame to make him shrink from going to Corbyknowe, his mother
wrote to David, asking why he did not send home the animal. David, one
of the most courteous of men, would take no order from any but his
superior officer, and answered that he would gladly give him up to the
young laird in person.
The next day Mrs. Gordon drove, in what state she could muster, to
Corbyknowe. Arrived there, she declined to leave her carriage,
requesting Mrs. Barclay, who came to the door, to send her husband to
her. Mrs. Barclay thought it better to comply.
David came in his shirt-sleeves, for he had been fetched from his work.
'If I understand your answer to my request, Mr. Barclay, you decline to
send back Mr. Gordon's pony. Pray, on what grounds?'
'I wrote, ma'am, that I should be glad to give him over to Mr. Francis
himself.'
'Mr. Gordon does not find it convenient to come all this way on foot.
In fact he declines to do it, and requests that you will send the pony
home this afternoon.'
'Excuse me, mem, but it's surely enough done that a man make known the
presence o' strays, and tak proper care o' them until they're claimt! I
was fain forbye to gie the bonny thing a bit pleesur in life: Francie's
ower hard upon him.'
'You forget, David Barclay, that Mr. Gordon is your landlord!'
'His father, mem, was my landlord, and his father's father was my
father's landlord; and the interests o' the landlord hae aye been oors.
Ither nor Francie's herty freen I can never be!'
'You presume on my late husband's kindness to you, Barclay!'
'Gien devotion be presumption, mem, I presume. Archibald Gordon was and
is my freen, and will be for ever. We hae been throuw ower muckle
thegither to change to are anither. It was for his sake and the
laddie's ain that I wantit him to come to me. I wantit a word wi' him
aboot that powny o' his. He'll never be true man 'at taks no tent
(_care_) o' dumb animals! You 'at's sae weel at hame i' the seddle
yersel, mem, micht tak a kin'ly care o' what's aneth his!'
'I will have no one interfere with my son. I am quite capable of
teaching him his duty myself.'
'His father requestit me to do what I could for him, mem.'
'His _late_ father, if you please, Barclay!'
'He s' never be Francie's _late_ father to Francie, gien I can help it,
mem! He may be your _late_ husband, mem, but he's my cornel yet, and I
s' keep my word til him! It'll no be lang noo, i' the natur o' things,
till I gang til him; and sure am I his first word 'll be aboot the
laddie: I wud ill like to answer him, "Archie, I ken naething aboot him
but what I cud weel wuss itherwise!" Hoo wud ye like to gie sic an
answer yersel, mem?'
'I'm surprised at a man of your sense, Barclay, thinking we shall know
one another in heaven! We shall have to be content with God there!'
'I said naething about h'aven, mem! Fowk may ken are anither and no be
in ae place. I took note i' the kirk last Sunday 'at Abrahaam kent the
rich man, and the rich man him, and they warna i' the same place.--But
ye'll lat the yoong laird come and see me, mem?' concluded David,
changing his tone and speaking as one who begged a favour; for the
thought of meeting his old friend and having nothing to tell him about
his boy, quenched his pride.
'Home, Thomas!' cried her late husband's wife to her coachman, and
drove away.
'Dod! they'll hae to gie that wife a hell til hersel!' said David,
turning to the door discomfited.
'And maybe she'll no like it whan she hes't!' returned his wife, who
had heard every word. 'There's fowk 'at's no fit company for onybody!
and I'm thinkin she's ane gien there bena anither!'
'I'll sen' Jeamie hame wi' the powny the nicht,' said David. 'A body
canna insist whaur fowk are no frien's. That weud grow to enmity, and
the en' o' a' guid. Na, we maun sen' hame the powny; and gien there be
ony grace i' the bairn, he canna but come and say thank ye!'
Mrs. Gordon rejoiced in her victory; but David's yielding showed itself
the true policy. Francis did call and thank him for taking care of Don.
He even granted that perhaps he had been too hard on the pony.
'Ye cud richteously expeck naething o' a powny o' his size that that
powny o' yours cudna du, Francie!' said David. 'But, in God's name,
dear laddie, be a richteous man. Gien ye requere no more than's fair
frae man or beast, ye'll maistly aye get it. But gien yer ootluik in
life be to get a'thing and gie naething, ye maun come to grief ae w'y
and a' w'ys. Success in an ill attemp is the warst failyie a man can
mak.'
But it was talking to the wind, for Francis thought, or tried to think
David only bent, like his mother, on finding fault with him. He made
haste to get away, and left his friend with a sad heart.
He rode on to the foot of the Horn, to the spot where Kirsty was
usually at that season to be found; but she saw him coming, and went up
the hill. Soon after, his mother contrived that he should pay a visit
to some relatives in the south, and for a time neither the castle nor
the Horn saw anything of him. Without returning home he went in the
winter to Edinburgh, where he neither disgraced nor distinguished
himself. David was to hear no ill of him. To be beyond his mother's
immediate influence was perhaps to his advantage, but as nothing
superior was substituted, it was at best but little gain. His
companions were like himself, such as might turn to worse or better, no
one could tell which.
