The Conquest

CHAPTER V. HOW THE "LASS" WAS DRIFTED.-2

So Grim and I returned home across the moor. How had a French ship come so far north, and on our western coasts too, I wondered? As we went, Grim found a score of sheep clustered in a hollow, so I hastened on and left him to drive the poor brutes home.

When I reached the house I made report of my errand, seeking some trace of the maid. But she was asleep in my own cot, and her crimson cloak was drying before the peat-fire, which seemed more like to fill it with smoke than dryness.

"Did you find who she was or whence?" I asked my mother, knowing that she spoke the French tongue far better than I.

"The poor child knew naught," she replied, as she mixed a bowl of broth and set it to keep warm. "The only name she knows is Marie—"

"Which will be spoke no more in my house," broke out my father with a black frown. "I doubt not the lassie's people were rank Papists—"

"Shame on you, Fergus!" cried my mother indignantly, facing him. "When a poor shipwrecked bairn comes and clings her arms about your neck, you name her Papist—shame on you! Begone about your business, and let sleeping dogs lie, Fergus MacDonald. Cameron and Claverhouse are both forgot, and see to it—"

But my father had incontinently fled out the door to get in the sheep, and my mother laughed as she turned to me and bade me give the red cloak a twist to "clear the peat out of it."

Now, that was the manner of the coming of the little maid. Two days later my father took me to Rathesby with him to seek out her folk, if that might be. But no tidings had been brought of any wreck, and the best we might do was to write—with much difficulty, for my father was ever handier with staff than with pen—a letter to Edinburgh, making a rude copy of the arms on the gold buckle, and seeking to know what family bore those arms. No reply ever came to this letter, and whether it ever arrived we never knew.

And for this we were all content enough, I think. The lassie had twined herself about my mother's heart by her winning ways, and that confident, all-trusting matter laid hold strongly upon my father's heart, so that ere many weeks it was decided that she should stay with us until her folk should come to seek her.

I remember that there was some difficulty over naming her, for my father would have called her Ruth, which he plucked at random from the Bible on the hearth. I think my mother was set on calling her Mary, but the name of Mary Stuart was hard in my father's memory, and he would not.

So the weeks lengthened into months, and the months into years, and ever Ruth and I were as brother and sister in the farmstead at Ayrby. She learned English readily enough, but the Gaelic tongue was hard for her, which was great sorrow to my father all his days.

CHAPTER II.

GIB O' CLARCLACH.Seven of those years were the happiest of all my life, perhaps. Ruth and I dwelt quiet at home, and between whiles of the work my mother taught us much that we had never known else. She was of good family, of the Eastoun Errols, and how she came to love my father, who was rough and rude, was always something of a mystery to me. But love him she did, and he her, and it was a bad day for Fergus MacDonald when my mother died.

This happening took place seven years after the coming of Ruth, and was a sore grief to all of us. I never realized just how sore a grief it was to my father, Fergus, until later. She was buried beside those of the Covenant who had escaped the harrying to die in peace, and I mind me that it was on a cold, gray day which gave us little cheer.

The elder, old Alec Gordon, had carried pistol and sword at Ayrsmoss, being given to preaching later in life. His mind was a bitter one, setting well with that of my father, and this day of my mother's funeral gave me a distaste for the men of the Covenant that I never outgrew. When it was all over I crept away and went down to the cliff-edge, where Ruth presently joined me, and we sat along with the heart-hunger that was eating at us until the night-mists warned us home.

For many days thereafter my father spoke few words, and of a sudden his age had come upon him, together with a strange unrest that I had not seen in him before. But still we abode there on the old farm until I was almost nineteen, and Ruth, as we guessed, a year younger. Then came the first of those strange happenings that led us so far afield and drew us into so weird a strand of Fortune's net before we had done.

Two years after my mother's death, my father began to have a succession of visitors. There was much talk in those days of the new lands over sea, and the rich farms to be had there for the taking. From what scattered words that came to us, Ruth and I judged rightly enough that these folk were talking of the plantations to my father, and so indeed it proved. Alec Gordon was the most constant visitor, and in time it came out that he would make a settlement in the new world, of a number of our folk. My father was much taken with the scheme, as were Muckle Jock Grier and Tam Graham, and others of the families near by. At length my father announced that the next day but one Ruth and I should go with him to Rathesby.

His temper was dour and sullen in these days, and I dared not question him overmuch, but Ruth got the truth of the matter out of him on the way to town. It seemed that the elder, Alec Gordon, had prevailed upon a dozen families to carry the Covenant to the New World, and there to found a settlement to the glory of God, where there would be none to interfere or hinder, and where, as my father put it, "a new folk might be given growth by the Lord's grace, free from the temptations of the world and the wiles of the devil." But there were more devils in the New World than my father or old Alec wotted of.

I think he was much moved to this end by thought of Ruth and me, for he was earnest that we should follow in his footsteps and grow up God-fearing, respected young folk such as Lang Robin Grier. Now I ever was, and am still, I trust, God-fearing; but sour faces were little to my liking, and ranting Lang Robin much less. I mind me that when Robin would have impressed some doctrinal point upon Ruth, with many wise sayings and much doubting that her mind was sound in the faith, I went home with sore knuckles, and Robin went home with a sore face and a story that wrought much discredit upon me. Howbeit, to my tale.

We rode into Rathesby, where my father was to see Wat Herries, the master of the stout lugger that sailed to Ireland and France and beyond, and that even then lay in Rathesby bay. Smaller vessels than the "Lass o' Dee" had passed overseas in safety, and my father trusted in the hand of God more than he trusted in the hand of Wat Herries.

It was still early morn when we reached the port and put up our ponies at the Purple Heather, kept by old Gib Lennox. Then my father told me to wander at my will, taking good care of Ruth and returning at midday, while he strode off in search of Master Herries. The "Lass," we found, was newly come from France, and in her crew were many dark-faced fellows whose tongue sounded sweet in the ears of Ruth, so that we had to stop more than once and listen.

In the front of her cloak, now a modest gray one, she wore that same brooch with which she had come to us. I had hard work to keep her from speaking to the strange men in their own tongue, but after a time we came to the edge of the town and sat there among the rocks, well content to watch the lugger in the harbor and the fishing boats that lay around her.

As we sat there two men came strolling by—two of the sailors whom we had seen in the town. One was ordinary enough, the other a not ill-favored rogue save for deep pock-marks on his face that bespoke the plague, and a roving, cunning eye that bespoke a shifty soul. These passed so close that their talk floated to us, and naught would do Ruth but that I must call them over so that she might speak to them in French. Whereat, somewhat sullenly, I obeyed, and the men strolled across the shingle to us.

"And what might you wish, pretty maid?" asked the pock-marked fellow civilly enough.

"I but wished to hear the French tongue, sir," she replied with a smile. "It is long since I have spoken it—why, what is the matter?"

For a sudden the man had given a little start, his eyes fixed on her throat. Then he stared into her eyes, and at the look of him I half gained my feet.

"Your name?" he asked quickly. "What is your name, little one?"

"What is that to you, fellow?" I made hot answer, angry at his insolence. But Ruth caught my sleeve and pulled me down.

"Nay, Davie! Why should he not know? It were but civil to speak him fair, after calling to him. My name is Ruth, Ruth MacDonald," she added in French. At this it seemed to me that the man stared harder than ever, a puzzled look in his face.

"And how come you to speak our tongue?" he said, smiling quickly, so that I lost my anger. "It is strange to find one on these coasts who speaks so well and fluently!"

Ruth replied that she had had good teachers, and after a few words more the men walked on. But I noted that the one we had spoken with flung back more than one glance, and I was glad when midday came and we made our way back to the inn to eat.

There we found my father in deep converse with Master Herries, a hearty man of some two-score years, and straightway all thought of the two seamen fled my mind. For now the talk was all of lading and cargo, of whether sheep might be fetched in the lugger and of how many persons might sail with her. My father was set on taking with us as many sheep as might be, notwithstanding Wat Herries told him there was little sheep-land in the plantations.

While we ate and listened, Alec Gordon came in and brought a list of all those who had covenanted to go on the "Lass." The price was then agreed on, and much against my will my father bade me take Ruth forth again for an hour or two, as the inn was filling with seamen who drank much and talked loud, and there was but the one room.

So down to the sea we went once again, having had our fill of the town-sights, and wandered south along the low cliffs and the shore. Luckily enough, as it chanced, I picked up a water-clean cudgel that lay among the rocks and used it in sport as a staff. A bit after, I espied a small cuttlefish washed into a pool, and swooped down on the place in delight. But Ruth, who cared little for such creations as had snaky arms and hideous aspect, rambled onward among the rocks.