chamber, and caught the train by the skin of the teeth. No sooner was he down in his carriage than, fell exhausted, he went fast asleep and blithely snored his way south through many a mile, right dead to the world he was.
Most of the story till then was maybe but guessing, ill- natured guessing at that, but the porter at the Bridge of Dunn, a good twenty miles south from Fordoun, swore to the rest. He was just banging the doors of the old 7.30 when out of a carriage window came a head, like a bull’s head out of the straw, he’d fair a turn, had the porter, when he saw the flat hat that topped it. Is this Fordoun? the meikle head mooed, and the porter said No, man, it’s a damned long way from being that.
So he opened the door for Kinraddie’s minister, and Mr Gibbon came stumbling out and rubbed his eyes, and the porter pointed to a platform where he’d find a slow train back to Fordoun. This platform lay over a little bridge and the minister set out to cross: and the first few steps he managed fell well, but near the top he began to sway and missed his footing and flung out his hands. The next thing that the porter saw was the chamber-pot, burst from its paper, rolling down the steps of the bridge with the minister’s hat in competition and the minister thundering behind.
And then, when the porter had picked him up and was dusting him, the Reverend Gibbon broke down and sobbed on the porter’s shoulder what a bloody place was Kinraddie! And how’d the porter like to live ’tween a brier bush and a rotten kailyard in the lee of a house with green shutters? And the minister sobbed some more about the shutters, and he said you couldn’t lie down a minute with a quean in Kinraddie but that some half-witted clod-hopping crofter began to throw stones at you, they’d feint the respect for God or kirk or minister down in Kinraddie. And the porter said it was awful the way the world went, he’d thought of resigning from the railway himself and taking to preaching, but now he wouldn’t.
Syne he helped the minister over to an up-going train and went home to his wife and told her the tale: and she told it to her sister from Auchenblae: and she told it to her man who told it to Mutch; and so the whole thing came out. And next time he rode down by the Peesie’s Knapp, the minister, a head shot out of a hedge behind him, it was wee Wat Strachan, and cried loud as you like Any chambers to-day?
NOT THAT THEY’D much to shout for that winter themselves, the Strachans; folk said it was easy to see why Chae was so strong on Rich and Poor being Equal: he was sore in need of the sharing out to start ere he went clean broke himself. Maybe old Sinclair or the wife were tight with the silver that year, but early as December Chae had to sell his corn, he brought the first threshing of the season down in Kinraddie. John Guthrie and Will were off at the keek of dawn when they saw the smoke rise from the engines, Chris followed an hour later to help Chae’s wife with the dinner and things. And faith! broke he might be but he wasn’t mean, Chae, when the folk came trampling in to eat there was broth and beef and chicken and oat-cakes, champion cakes they made at the Knapp; and loaf and jelly and dumpling with sugar and milk; and if any soul were that gutsy he wanted more he could hold to the turnip-field, said Chae.
The first three men to come in Chris hardly saw, so busied she was pouring their broth for them. Syne, setting the plates, she saw Alec Mutch, his great lugs like red clouts hung out to dry: and he cried Ay, Chris! and began to sup as though he hadn’t seen food for a fortnight. Beside him was Munro of the Cuddiestoun, he was eating like a colie ta’en off its chain, Chae’s thresh was a spree to the pair of them. Then more trampling and scraping came from the door, folk came drifting in two-three at a time, Chris over- busied to notice their faces, but some watched her and gave a bit smile and Cuddiestoun cried to father, Losh, man, she’s fair an expert getting, the daughter. The kitchen’s more her style than the College.
Some folk at the tables laughed out at that, the ill-nature grinned from the faces of them, and suddenly Chris hated the lot, the English Chris came back in her skin a minute, she saw them the yokels and clowns everlasting, dull-brained and crude. Alec Mutch took up the card from Cuddiestoun then and began on education and the speak ran round the tables. Most said it was a coarse thing, learning, just teaching your children a lot of damned nonsense that put them above themselves, they’d turn round and give you their lip as soon as look at you. But Chae was sitting down himself by then and he wouldn’t have that. Damn’t man, you’re clean wrong to think that. Education’s the thing the working man wants to put him up level with the Rich. And Long Rob of the Mill said I’d have thought a bit balance in the bank would do that. But for once he seemed right in agreement with Chae—the more education the more of sense and the less of kirks and ministers. Cuddiestoun and Mutch were fair shocked at that, Cuddiestoun cried out Well, well, we’ll hear nothing coarse of religion, as though he didn’t want to hear anything more about it and was giving out orders. But Long Rob wasn’t a bit took aback, the long rangy childe, he just cocked an eye at Cuddiestoun and cried Well, well, Munro, we’ll turn to the mentally afflicted in general, not just in particular. How’s that foreman of yours getting on, Tony? Is he still keeping up with his shorthand? There was a snicker at that, you may well be sure, and Cuddiestoun closed up quick enough, here and there folk had another bit laugh and said Long Rob was an ill hand to counter. And Chris thought of her clowns and yokels, and was shamed as she thought—Chae and Long Rob they were, the poorest folk in Kinraddie!
At a quarter past six the mill loosed off again from its bumblebee hum, the threshers came trooping down to the tables again. More dumpling there was, cut up for tea, and bread and butter and scones and baps from the grocer, and rhubarb and blackberry jam, and syrup for them that preferred it, some folk liked to live on dirt out of tins. Most of the mill folk sat down in a right fine tune, well they might, and loosed out their waistcoats. Will was near last to come in from the close, a long, dark young childe came in at his heels, Chris hadn’t set eyes on him before, nor he on her by the way he glowered. The two of them stood about, lost-like and gowkèd, looking for seats in the crowded kitchen till Mistress Strachan cried over to Chris Will you lay them places ben in the room?
So she did and took them their supper there, Will looked up and cried Hello, Chris, how have you gotten on? and Chris said Fine, how’ve you? Will laughed Well, God, my back would feel a damned sight easier if I’d spent the day in my bed. Eh, Tavendale? And then he minded his manners. This is Ewan Tavendale from Upprums, Chris.
So that was who; Chris felt queer as he raised his head and held out his hand, and she felt the blood come in her face and saw it come dark in his. He looked over young for the coarse, dour brute folk said he was, like a wild cat, strong and quick, she half-liked his face and half-hated it, it could surely never have been him that did that in the larch wood of Upperhill? But then if you could read every childe’s nature in the way he wiped his nose, said Long Rob of the Mill, it would be a fine and easy world to go through.
So she paid him no more heed and was out of the Knapp a minute later and ran nearly all the way up to Blawearie to see to the milking there. The wind was still up but the frost was crackling below her feet as she ran, the brae rose cold and uncanny with Blawearie’s biggings uncertain shadows high up in the cold mirk there. She felt tingling and blithe from her run, she said to herself if she’d only the time she’d go out every winter night and run up over hills with frost and the night star coming in the sky.
But that night as Blawearie went to its bed Will opened his bedroom door and cried Father! Chris! See that light down there in the Knapp!
CHRIS WAS OVER at her window then in a minute, bare- footed she ran and peered by the shadow of the great beech tree. And there was a light right plain enough, more than a light, a lowe that crackled to yellow and red and rose in the wind that had come with the night. Peesie’s Knapp would be all in a blaze in a minute, Chris knew; and then father came tearing down the stairs, crying to Will to get on his clothes and follow him, Chris was to bide at home, mind that. They heard him open the front door and go out and go running right fleetly down the night of Blawearie hill, Chris cried to Will Wait for me, I’m coming as well, and he cried back All right, but for Christ’s sake hurry!
She couldn’t find her stockings then, she