Up in Ardmuirland Part 6

He repeated his explanation to the other men, who treated it in the same quiet way as the first had done. Then it began to dawn upon him that they really took him for the madman and McConnachie for his sane companion.

It was a natural mistake as far as they were concerned; for it was quite a common thing for patients to suppose every one else to be mentally afflicted except themselves. Moreover, McConnachie had a more cultured manner than Farquharson at any time, and when the latter showed so much excitement on account of the trick which had been played upon him, he did not appear to advantage. He was so intensely angry and so apprehensive of the consequences of the disaster that he was scarcely coherent, and this justified the attendants in their view of the situation.

The Governor had already been prejudiced against him, when Farquharson at last obtained an interview with him, and took the same view as the others. The fact of his having given the return ticket to McConnachie made it difficult to explain that the other had no right to it; the faint glimmer of a smile on the face of the attendant while he was attempting to clear up that point filled poor Farquharson with dismay and rendered him still more nervous and excited.

So the poor schoolmaster was detained in the Asylum and old McConnachie returned home in state. All was put right in a day or two, for the Inspector was informed of the turn affairs had taken, and lost no time in releasing Farquharson. The unfortunate man did not dare to return to the district for some time. When he at last ventured to appear, McConnachie had long left the place and was dead and almost forgotten, and neighbors were too glad to welcome Farquharson back among them to remind him of his humiliation.

"Things is gey different now, sir," was w.i.l.l.y's summing-up on the subject of education. "The bairns get mair teechin' noo, and less o'

the beltin', an' I'm no sure but they learn a' the better for it!"

VI

BILDY

"'Tis not the whole of life to live; Nor all of death to die."

(_Montgomery--"Issues of Life and Death"_)

Old Widow Lamont and her spinster daughter, Robina, lived in a bit of a house on the edge of the pine wood that sheltered our presbytery from the east winds; they were consequently our nearest neighbors with the exception of w.i.l.l.y and Bell. They possessed a cow and a few hens, and Robina, who was a st.u.r.dy woman of forty, did the work of their small croft with occasional help from one of the males of the community. For in Ardmuirland, be it known, one neighbor helps another in return for the like service when required; thus Robina would lend a hand at hay-time, harvest, potato planting, and the rest, and would be ent.i.tled to a few days' plowing and harrowing on her own land in compensation.

The Lamonts, though not exceedingly poor, could not be called well-to-do. The absence of a resident man in a small croft must be of necessity a difficulty; but they were upright, hard-working women, and managed to maintain themselves in a simple, frugal way. Oatmeal and potatoes were grown on the croft; bread could be obtained from the pa.s.sing baker's cart in exchange for eggs; b.u.t.ter, and sometimes milk, could be sold to neighbors; the widow's knitted stockings fetched a fair price with the hosier in the county town; in these various ways they made ends meet.

Old-age pensions were then unheard of, and the Lamonts would have thought themselves insulted had any one suggested parish relief for the old woman; although her helpless condition would have justified it, for she never moved from her corner by the fire, to which she was carried from her bed in the morning to be borne back to bed at night. An accident which had befallen her when in the prime of life had rendered her a cripple without power to move her lower limbs.

Like many of their cla.s.s, the Lamonts were full of an honest pride, and although they may have possibly felt the pinch of poverty now and again, they would have scorned to acknowledge it. By the exercise of diplomacy Penny has often managed to help them in little ways from time to time; she will visit the old woman to inquire after her health, and take with her in a neighborly way some little delicacy in the shape of soup or pudding. At one time she tried to furnish her with some orders for stockings, but it turned out that the Lamonts considered it next door to heresy to take payment from the priest's house, and Penny's charitable attempts were frustrated. She found it better to "borrow" a few eggs occasionally (even though she was not in great need of them), and to more than pay their value in little presents--an acknowledgment of the kindness of the lenders.

"The very thing for the Lamonts!" exclaimed Val at breakfast one morning. He had been reading his letters, just delivered, and I was glancing through that day's paper. I looked up in token of interest.

"I have an application from the Inspector of the Poor," he continued, "for a quiet, reliable family, who would be willing to take charge, for payment, of a poor daft fellow. He is about thirty, and has been in this state since he was eighteen, when he had a bad fever. He is perfectly tractable, quite inoffensive, and thoroughly good-tempered.

The only reason for moving him from his present home is that it is in a village, and the children tease and annoy him. I fancy the Lamonts would jump at the opportunity."

I quite agreed with him. To my mind, Robina Lamont was a match for a far more dangerous character. She would be equal in strength to many an able-bodied man. But I felt doubtful whether the arrangement would be satisfactory as regarded the old widow. She was so helpless that unless the man was actually as harmless as was supposed it might he risky to place him in such a house. I voiced my objection, but Val was not impressed by it. He had great confidence in the judgment of the Inspector--a thoroughly able man, and shrewd withal.

When the question was proposed to the Lamonts they at once warmed to the idea. It appeared that one of the lads of their own family--now long dead--had been in much the same state, though _he_ was inclined to be unruly at times; consequently neither the widow nor her daughter felt the least apprehension of difficulties in managing their patient.

Thus it came about that Bildy Gow became a member of our community.

In Scotland we have many more diminutive forms of ordinary Christian names than is the case in England. William, for example, figures as w.i.l.l.y, Wildy, Will, Bill, Billy, and Bildy. The variety is useful in cases, which are of frequent occurrence, where the same name belongs to grandfather, father, and son; William, Wildy, and Bill are perfectly distinct. It was as Bildy that William Gow became known among us; before long every one dropped the unnecessary surname and he was spoken of habitually as Bildy simply.

Robina brought her lodger to Ma.s.s with her in state on the very first Sunday. He was rather a good-looking fellow, tall and straight, with fresh complexion, regular features and light-brown hair and moustache.

He was neatly dressed, too, for he had evidently been fitted out for his new home by the liberality of the Inspector. Beyond a shy, vacant expression, Bildy gave no evidence of mental incapacity in his appearance. He kept close to Robina when they emerged from church, and seemed to rely upon her protection with the air of a shy lad, which was rather pathetic to witness. He was not a Catholic, but he had shown such distress when Robina had told him to sit at home with her mother that they were forced to let him go to church to keep him quiet.

On further acquaintance, Bildy did not belie the good character given him by the Inspector. He was merely a grown-up child. In his youth he must have been of a thoroughly quiet, innocent nature, for he showed it in his aspect still; his character had never developed beyond that innocent adolescence, while his mind had retrograded to a state resembling early childhood. If one spoke to him on the road he at once a.s.sumed the air of an exceedingly shy bairn--frightened and embarra.s.sed. It would have been amusing were it not so sad. I could never extract a word from him on such occasions, so overawed was he!

From the first, while looking upon Robina as the supreme authority to which he owed implicit obedience, Bildy seemed to give all his affection to the old widow. He liked nothing better than to sit opposite her by the fireside, watching the tireless swiftness of her knitting needles as they flashed in the firelight. When summoned by Robina for any duty, he would promptly comply, returning as soon as free to his favorite attraction.

I was pa.s.sing by the Lamonts' house one afternoon, and as Robina was working in her garden I stopped for a chat. After asking after her mother and things in general, the conversation turned on Bildy. Robina praised him highly.

"He's as biddable as a bairn," she declared. "He carries a' the water for us frae the spring, an' takes oot the coo, an' fetches her hame as weel as I could masel'. He's nae tribble to us whateever!"

She then launched into details concerning Bildy which were very entertaining, and gave much amus.e.m.e.nt to Val over our dinner. It appeared that the poor fellow had formed a most reverential opinion of the priest on his first visit to our church for Ma.s.s. On his return home he sat by the fire smiling delightedly and murmuring to himself.

They did not catch what he said, but after repeated questioning Robina found that he was quite pleased with the "chapel."

"An' yon mon!" he exclaimed. "Isna' he dressed fine? Wha's yon mon wi' the fine dress?"

"Yen's the priest," explained Robina. "Father Fleming, he's callit."

"Father Fleming! Father Fleming!" repeated Bildy over and over again, as though to familiarize himself with the sound of it.

"Aye, aye! He's the boy! He can gab, canna' he? He's the boy to tell us what to dee!" he continued in his broad Scots.

"It's extraordinary how well he behaves at Ma.s.s--or at any rate during the sermon," said Val when he heard the story. "I wish some others were as good!"

That reminded me of another anecdote. After one or two Sundays, Bildy had got familiar with the church, and was inclined to gaze about more than Robina approved of. She therefore took it upon herself to instruct him upon the sacred character of the place, and to threaten to keep him at home if he did not behave better.

"Remember, Bildy," she said as they started next Sunday, "it's the hoose o' G.o.d ye're goin' tee. Ye musna' glower aboot! Juist sit ye still an' look straicht at Father Fleming a' the time."

After that his manner was irreproachable. But one Sunday, as Penny was leaving the church after Ma.s.s, she caught sight of Bildy furiously shaking his fist--at her, she thought! So she mentioned the fact quietly to Robina, who promised to investigate the matter. It turned out that poor Bildy had so thoroughly a.s.similated her instructions as to the requisite behavior in church that he had been silently reproving what he thought irreverence. He had seen a crofter whom he knew very well dozing during the sermon, and had "wagged his fist" at him--righteously indignant.

"Sleepin' i' the hoose o' G.o.d!" cried Bildy. "Yon's nae the place to sleep in! I waggit my fist, an' I sair fleggit him!"

Bildy evidently congratulated himself on having so successfully "sore frighted" the delinquent that he would never dare to behave so badly again.

Bildy's respect for Val never waned. He never caught sight of the priest, even at some little distance, but his hand flew up to his cap in salutation, and remained there until Val had seen him and had returned his salute. This would happen if he saw Val at a window of our house just the same as when outside.

Penny took quite a motherly interest in the poor afflicted fellow.

Whenever he came on any errand from the Lamonts he was always given a piece of cake or fruit--anything sweet, for he had a child's taste.

But although Bildy was supremely delighted, he seldom said more than "thank you, Ma'am!" I once suggested that she should refer to Val, and the experiment was successful in opening Bildy's mouth. After that the conversation would almost invariably run thus:

"Did you see Father Fleming on Sunday, Bildy?"

"Aye, aye! He's the boy! Father Fleming's the boy!"

Next to the old widow, Bildy loved the cow. She was his particular charge, and he was soon on intimate terms with her. Not only did he carry on familiar conversations with her, on his part, but it appeared that the cow made him her confidant in return. If he began to murmur something to himself as he sat by the chimney corner, they would inquire what he was talking about. It was generally arrant nonsense that he told them. Once Robina asked:

"Wha tellit ye that rubbish, Bildy?"

"The coo," he gravely answered.

On a damp, misty morning he had gone out as usual to drive the cow out to the meadow to graze. Widow Lamont, from her place opposite the window, noticed that they did not pa.s.s out in the customary way, and notified the fact to Robina. The latter accordingly ran out at once to inquire the reason of the delay. She found Bildy quietly fastening the door of the byre before returning to the house.

"Ye havna' fetched oot the coo!" she exclaimed. "Gae in an' drive her oot, Bildy!"

"Na, na," replied he, solemnly shaking his head. "She says it's ower cauld the day. She'll bide inside."