began so did the bye-election, the old member had died in London of drink, poor brute, folk said when they cut his corpse open it fair gushed out with whisky. Ah well, he was dead then, him and his whisky, and though he’d maybe been a good enough childe to represent the shire, feint the thing had the shire ever seen of him except at election times. Now there came a young Tory gent in the field, called Rose he was, an Englishman with a funny bit squeak of a voice, like a bairn that’s wet its breeks. But the Liberal was an oldish creature from Glasgow, fell rich he was, folk said, with as many ships to his name as others had fields. And real Radical he was, with everybody’s money but his own, and he said he’d support the Insurance and to Hell with the House of Lords, Vote for the Scottish Thistle and not for the English Rose.
But the Tory said the House of Lords had aye been defenders of the Common People, only he didn’t say aye, his English was a real drawback; and it was at the meeting where he said that, that Chae Strachan up and asked if it wasn’t true that his own uncle was a lord? And the Tory said Yes, and Chae said that maybe that lord would be glad to see him in Parliament but there was a greater Lord who heard when the Tories took the name of poor folk in vain. The God of old Scotland there was, aye fighting on the side of the people since the days of old John Knox, and He would yet bring to an end the day of wealth and wastry throughout the world, liberty and equality and fraternity were coming though all the damned lordies in the House of Lords should pawn their bit coronets and throw their whores back in the streets and raise private armies to fight the common folk with their savings.
But then the stewards made at Chae, he hadn’t near finished, and an awful stamash broke out in the hall; for though most of the folk had been laughing at Chae they weren’t to see him mishandled by an English tink and the coarse fisher brutes he’d hired from Gourdon to keep folk from asking him questions. So when the first steward laid hands on Chae, John Guthrie, who was sitting near, cried Ay, man, who’ll you be? And the fisher swore You keep quiet as well, and father rose and took him a belt in the face, and the fisher’s nose bled like the Don in spate, and somebody put out a leg and tripped him up and that was the end of his stewarding. And when the other steward made to come to his help Long Rob of the Mill said Away home to your stinking fish! and took him by the lug and ran him out of the hall and kicked him into the grass outside.
Then everybody was speaking at once, Mr Gibbon was the Tory lad’s chairman and he called out Can’t you give us fair play, Charles Strachan? But Chae’s blood was up, strong for the Kirk though he was in a way he clean forgot who he spoke to—Come outside a minute, my mannie, and I’ll fair-play you! The minister wasn’t such a fool as that, though, he said that the meeting was closed, fair useless it was to go on; and he said that Chae was a demagogue and Chae said that he was a liar, folk cried out Wheest, wheest! at that and began to go home. The Tory childe got hantle few votes in the end, Chae boasted it was his help put in the old Liberal stock: and God knows if he thought that fine he was easily pleased, they never saw the creature again in Kinraddie.
BUT THAT WAS THE last time father struck a man, striking in cold anger and cold blood as was the way of him. Folk said he was an unchancy childe to set in a rage; but his next rage mischieved himself, not others. For a while up into the New Year, April and the turnip-time, things at Blawearie went fair and smooth, Will saying no more than his say at plate or park, never countering father, hardly he looked at him even; and father maybe thought to rule the roost as he’d done before when Will was no more than a boy that cowered when he heard that sharp voice raised, frightened and beaten and lying through nights with his sore wealed body in the arms of Chris. But Chris, knowing none of his plannings, guessed right well something new it was kept Will quiet, so quiet day on day, yet if you looked at him sudden you’d more likely than not see him smiling to himself, lovely the face that he smiled with, brown and clean, and his eyes were kind and clear and the hair grew down on his head in a bonny mop, Will took after mother with that flame of rusty gold that was hers.
Ah well, he kept to his whistling and his secret smiling, and every night after loosening and suppering was done, off down the road on his old bit bicycle he’d go, you’d hear through the evening stillness nothing but the sound of the old machine whirring down Blawearie road, and the weet- weet of the peewits flying twilit over Kinraddie, wheeling and circling there in the dark, daft creatures that made their nests in this rig and that and would come back next day and find them robbed or smothered away. So for hundreds of years they’d done, the peewits, said Long Rob of the Mill, and hadn’t learned the sense of the thing even yet; and if you were to take that as a sample of the Divine Intelligence that had allotted a fitting amount of brain to each creature’s needs then all you could suppose was that the Divine had more than a spite against the peesie.
Chris heard him say that one day she looked in at the Mill to ask when a sack of bruised corn, left there by Will, would be ready. But there on the bench outside the Mill, in the shade from the hot Spring weather, sat Rob and Chae and Mutch of Bridge End, all guzzling beer from long bottles they were, Rob more bent on bruising their arguments than on bruising Blawearie’s corn. Peewits were flying round the Mill fell thick, peewits and crows that nested in the pines above the Mill, and the birds it was had begun the argument. Chris waited for a while, pleased enough with the shade and rest, hearkening to Long Rob make a fool of God. But Alec Mutch wagged his meikle lugs, No, man, you’re fair wrong there. And man, Rob, you’ll burn in hell for that, you know. Chae was half on his side and half wasn’t, he said Damn the fears, that’s nothing but an old wife’s gabble for fearing the bairns. But Something there is up there, Rob man, there’s no denying that. If I thought there wasn’t I’d out and cut my throat this minute. Then the three of them sighted Chris and Rob got up, the long, rangy childe with the glinting eyes, and cried Is’t about the bruised corn, Chris? Tell Will I’ll do it to-night.
But Will had unyoked and made off to Drumlithie, his usual gait, when Chris got home, and father was up on the moor with his gun, you heard the bang of the shots come now and then. Chris had a great baking to do that night, both father and Will would eat oat-cakes and scones for a wager, bought bread from the vans soon scunnered them sore. Warm work it was when you’d heaped a great fire and the girdle glowed below, you’d nearly to strip in fine weather if you weren’t to sweat yourself sick. Chris got out of most things but a vest and a petticoat, she was all alone and could do as she pleased, it was fine and free and she baked with a will.
She was lifting the last cake, browned and good and twice cross cut, when she knew that somebody watched her from the door of the kitchen, and she looked, it was Ewan Tavendale, him she hadn’t seen since the day of the thresh at Peesie’s Knapp. He was standing against the jamb, long and dark with his glowering eyes, but he reddened when she looked, not half as much as she did herself, she could feel the red warm blushing come through her skin from tip to toe; such a look he’s taking, she thought, it’s a pity I’m wearing a thing and he can’t study the blush to its end.
But he just said Hello, is Will about? and Chris said No, in Drumlithie I think, and they stood and glowered like a couple of gowks, Chris saw his eyes queer and soft and shy, the neck of his shirt had fallen apart, below it the skin was white as new milk, frothed white it looked, and a drop of sweat stood there where the brown of his tanning and the white of his real skin met. And then Chris suddenly knew something and blushed again, sharp and silly, she couldn’t stop, she’d minded the night of the fire at Peesie’s Knapp and the man that had kissed her on the homeward road, Εwan Tavendale it had been, no other, shameless and coarse.
He was blushing himself again by then, they looked at each other in a white, queer daze, Chris wondered in a kind of a panic if he knew what she knew at last, half-praying she was he wouldn’t speak of it when he began to move off from the door, still red, stepping softly, like father, like a limber, soft-stepping cat. Well, I was hoping I’d see him in case he should leave us sudden-like.
She stared at him all awake, that kissing on the winter road forgotten. Leave! Who said Will was leaving? —Oh, I heard he was trying for a job in Aberdeen, maybe it’s a lie. Tell him I called in about. Ta-ta.
She