The Silver Darlings (65 page)

“Do you think she really cares?”

“She might. You never know,” answered Catrine.

“I wonder how I could find out?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” And the herring flew from her quick hands.

“I’ll have to think it over,” said Finn seriously.

A dark swift glance like an electric spark shot into his eyes and vanished.

He hove away a trifle excited, and remembered Callum’s suggestion that he had better watch himself. But that was always the sort of suggestion people did make. There was a profound humour in this. And, anyway, how could a prick of conscience produce such a pleasant sensation?

With the herring out and Henry in Bain’s office, Callum had very clear ideas on a pint of beer. His flesh was wrung dry and his mouth like leather.

But Rob was wary. “Where to?” he asked.

“You know fine where to,” replied Callum. “So don’t be wasting time.”

“Well, there’s a place here——”

“There’s nothing of the sort,” said Callum. “You’re a dam’ fine fellow anyway. Have you no thought for the woman who has endured all these nights wondering if you were drowned?”

“If that’s what you mean,” said Rob, stiffening, “I’m not going. And that’s short.”

Callum winked to Finn, who took Rob’s arm. “Come on, Rob, never mind him.”

Rob drew his arm away abruptly. “Will you be quiet,” he said harshly, “and the people seeing us.”

“What do we care for the people?” asked Callum. “We have nothing to be ashamed of. At least—I hope not.”

“Go away!” growled Rob, growing angry. Then he
scratched his beard and looked at the sky, so that decent folk might see they were only discussing the weather.

Callum laughed. “If you don’t come, then we’re going, and by the lord we’ll tell her.”

“It’s a good drying wind that,” said Rob, walking on, because one or two youngsters had stopped to listen to the daring seamen whom folk had thought drowned. “I’m ashamed of you,” muttered Rob, “that you don’t know how to behave in a strange place. Black affronted. I’m going home.”

“I hope,” said Callum, “that we know how to behave ourselves as well as you. This way.”

“No. I’m not going,” said Rob. And they stood still again.

“Very well,” said Callum. “If you’re frightened to face the woman, that’s your concern. But——”

“What was I going to be frightened of?”

“Well—why not come?” asked Callum.

“I must say, Rob, to be candid,” admitted Finn, as if more than a little hurt, “that I don’t like you sort of
implying
that we don’t know how to behave ourselves in a decent woman’s house. I don’t think we deserve that.”

Rob looked at him with a suspicious snort. “I know you,” he said. “And moreover I know both of you.”

“I hope so,” said Callum. “Are you coming?”

“If you say anything out of the way,” threatened Rob, “it’ll be the last that ever I’ll have to do with either of you. Take it or leave it.” And he strode on towards the widow’s public-house.

Callum gave Finn a sharp dig with his elbow and his left eye disappeared completely.

CHAPTER XXV

THE BIRCH WOOD

T
heir reception on the beach at home was far beyond anything of the kind ever experienced before. One or two of the women started waving and crying in a hysterical. way. The tears streaming down the face of Henry’s wife brought a shamed darkness to her husband’s features. The assumed pleasant indifference of the crew was pierced through at first by awkwardness and then by dismay.

They had not long to wait, however, to learn the reason for this extreme behaviour, for it so chanced that Mr. Hendry was among the crowd and he greeted them with direct words. Indeed his words were in the nature of a short speech of instruction and reprimand. His importance
carried
off the occasion in some measure, for he was a
fishcurer
in a large way now and spent much of his time in Wick where, it was rumoured, he would one of these days take up his abode permanently.

But there was some general impatience with him, too, for what cared Henry’s wife whether her husband had written or not, now that he was safe? Or Callum’s wife and children? Or anyone else, for that matter? News had
filtered
through from Poolewe that they had been caught in a storm off the Shiants and had all perished—and lo! here they were, each one of them, safe, and walking in life.

It was a tremendous moment for those who had gone through days of fear and despair, and why should they restrain a few tears and much enthusiasm and laughter
now? It was not every day the beloved dead come home alive.

The crew filtered through the crowd, and here was Meg, running. “Hullo, Finn!” As she shook hands, she looked him over. Yes, he seemed to be in it! “Have you brought me a present from Stornoway?”

“Nothing but myself—if that’s any good to you?”

“That’s all you know!” She lifted her voice in a yell: “Una!”

Una approached, smiling, a little gravely, and shyly. “Welcome home.”

“How polite we are!” exclaimed Meg as the two shook hands.

Finn’s colour deepened and he turned to accept other greetings.

But on the way home, he said abruptly to Donnie, “One minute,” lowered his end of the chest and called “Una!”

The five in Una’s group stopped as Finn walked towards them. “He wants to speak to you,” said Meg quickly, and with the other three moved on.

“I forgot to ask you how Duncan is?”

“He’s fine, thank you,” said Una.

“I’m glad of that,” said Finn. “I just wanted to hear.”

“Yes, he’s fine.”

“That’s good. I just wanted to know.”

“Yes, he’s all right.”

“That’s fine.”

“Yes.”

“You’re all well?”

“Yes, thank you. We’re all fine.”

“That’s good. Well, I’d better be getting up.” And, with the grimace broadening, he glanced at her face.

Beneath her expression there was the movement of the spirit that he had once glimpsed on the cliff-top, a
movement
that had seemed to him then as profound as tragedy or death, but that now was caught in a strange pallor
behind
her smile.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, with an almost uncouth manifestation of his usual easy manner and turned away with a hearty salute.

“I forgot,” he explained to Donnie largely, “to ask how Duncan was.”

“He must be at the peats, or he would have been here,” said Donnie.

“Yes, the peats,” nodded Finn. “Lord, there are a few things to do! …”

Donnie insisted on coming right to the door of the house, and here was Barbara flying—and Elspet on the
threshold
.

When the greetings were over and the peat smoke of the kitchen in a swirl, Finn asked, “And how’s everyone?”

“You haven’t heard?” cried Elspet, looking at him shrewdly while Barbara glanced sideways.

“What?”

“That you have got a new brother.”

“A what?”

“Your mother has had a son, a real fine boy, a little treasure.”

“Oh! And is she quite well?”

“They’re both as healthy as trouts. Now, isn’t that fine news for you?”

“It’s news certainly,” said Finn.

“You must go up and see them whenever you’ve had something to eat,” suggested Elspet. “You’ll do that, won’t you?”

“Surely,” replied Finn. “We must inspect the marvel.”

“He’s a little darling,” said Barbara, with a swift rush of feeling that sounded like relief.

“Did you ever hear of a baby that wasn’t?” asked Finn. “However, first things first.” And he began to unrope his chest. “How is Roddie taking it?”

There was a distinct cackle from Elspet. And at that weird sound, Finn laughed.

.      .      .      .     .      .

Supper over, Elspet reminded him about going to Roddie’s. “Right,” said Finn. “Coming, Barbara?”

Barbara hesitated, but Elspet told her to go.

“I’ll take my present with me,” said Barbara swiftly,

Finn’s mind was kept on its toes by Barbara’s presence. He was fond of her, and she obviously thought no less of him than before. In front of the house Finn saw Roddie
lifting
a bundle in his hands and gurgling up at it. Barbara’s eyes troubled at the harsh sarcastic sound from Finn’s throat.

Roddie saw them and shouted.

Inside, Catrine heard the shout, and, glancing out of the window, beheld Finn and Barbara coming. She went pale and short of breath and pressed a strong palm against her heart. Drawing back a pace from the window in the
instinctive
movement of one who would not be seen, she remained still, feeling slightly faint.

“Hullo, Finn!” cried Roddie. “Welcome back!”

“Hullo!” answered Finn.

“What do you think of this?” asked Roddie. “Eh? Look at him!”

“So this is him?” said Finn. “Hullo, boy!” And he inspected the child with a critical half-amused look.

“Isn’t he a great fellow?” asked Roddie. “Eh?” Then he spoke to the child. “This is Finn. Yes, this is Finn, back from the sea, far far away.”

The small head waggled in little jerks, the unwinking eyes stared, lifted to the sky, fell to distant vistas of the moor, to Barbara (who thereupon chortled at him) and once more to Finn.

“Ah, he’s beginning to know you!” cried Roddie with triumph.

Finn’s scepticism issued in a soft gust. Roddie, the great seaman, the Viking, carrying on like a silly woman! This sort of behaviour embarrassed Finn at any time, for he had never seen a child of this age that didn’t look like a skinned rabbit. He was always relieved when the thing was taken away.

“Who do you think he’s like?” asked Roddie.

Even that question!

“It’s difficult to say yet,” replied Finn. “But I believe the poor thing is in for it.”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Roddie.

“There is a certain vague but general resemblance,” said Finn, “to yourself.”

Roddie laughed. Suddenly the tiny features were
congested
and the mouth opened and yelled.

“Do you hear that?” cried Roddie, lifting the child beyond Barbara’s reach. “Hasn’t he got great lungs? And the strength that’s in him! I can hardly hold him! As sure as death!”

Barbara took the child. “Now watch you don’t let him fall,” Roddie cautioned her. “Well, Finn, and how are you? Come away in. We’ve been hearing already that you have had a fair fishing.”

As Finn entered, his mother was standing by the
window
. She said quietly,” You have got back?”

“Yes,” replied Finn, shaking hands and smiling as he glanced around “And where is himself?”

“He’s keeping to his bed,” answered Catrine. “He hasn’t been too well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Finn.

“That lassie will never stop the bairn crying,” remarked Roddie, hearkening to the row outside.

“Yes, she will. Just leave them,” said Catrine. “And had you a good season?” she asked her son, as if he were a stranger.

“Just fair, I think,” and he addressed Roddie, “that the West is going to be worse before it’s better.”

The two men discussed the fishing and Stornoway in easy tones. Catrine sat still, listening, saying no word.

“Was Bain as large as life?” asked Roddie.

“Larger,” said Finn. “When we came in with the shot that time after the storm——”

“Ay, we just heard you were caught in a bit of a storm,”
interrupted Roddie, with a secret wink to Finn, who thus became aware that the news had been kept from his mother until that moment.

“Oh, it wasn’t much,” said Finn. “But as I was saying about Bain …”

Roddie kept putting questions to him, and Finn
responded
with more and more humour. “Yes, Rob was in good form, but we pressed him hard sometimes. It wasn’t fair. Remember the widow woman who has the
public-house
?”

“Yes.” Roddie laughed, and then explained the position to Catrine, as if he were an interpreter.

Finn smiled. “There’s something in it.”

“No?” cried Roddie.

Barbara came in with the pacified child and stood near the door.

Amid the amusement he drew from Rob’s indirect
courtship
of the widow woman, Finn began to open his brown paper parcel. “I’m the great one for the presents,” he said to Roddie humorously.

“You might have a worse fault,” answered Roddie.

“This is for you,” said Finn to his mother, handing her a large brown Shetland shawl, cunningly knitted and light in weight.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s lovely.” She bent her face over it and smoothed it with her hand.

“And look! What do you think of this for winter
footwear
?” he asked Roddie. “Remember the old fellow in the shop? …” He handed the boots to his mother negligently, saying, “Now, what do you think of this?” and exposed for Roddie’s critical admiration a small curved horn
snuffbox
.

“Well, isn’t it a neat one!” declared Roddie.

“I thought you would like it,” said Finn.

“Do you mean it’s for me? God bless me, boy, you’ve been fairly going it!”

“Haven’t I! But I owe you a few snuffs in my time. And
talking of snuff, I have an ounce here for the old man
himself
. Oh, special stuff. There’s some of it in that horn of yours. Try it.”

Meantime Barbara had drawn near to Catrine, anxious to show her own silken present, holding it out in its brown paper for Catrine to unfold. As Catrine lifted her face, the eyes were wet and very bright, and the lower lip held. There was a softness and beauty about the eyes that went straight to Barbara’s heart, a nearness of emotion that made her want to weep.

“Good, isn’t it?” asked Finn.

“Extra special. Fragrant,” agreed Roddie, sniffing with deep appreciation.

“Well, that’s about all,” declared Finn, “except for one small thing.” And now he did not look at any of them, as he lifted an article wrapped in tissue-paper. “You have all,” he said largely, “heard of the horn spoon of our
forefathers
and of being born with a silver spoon in the mouth. Now, didn’t I happen to see a little horn spoon with silver at the end of the handle—look!—and I thought, well you never know but it might come in handy sometime. And here it is. It’s for the little fellow himself,” and he handed the spoon to his mother. “Do you like it?” he asked
practically
, picking up the brown paper.

Catrine did her best. She strove hard. But the held breath broke through her nostrils in two terrible sobs and, getting quickly to her feet, she went blindly from the kitchen.

Barbara followed, weeping. And presently the wails of the little fellow rose upon the air.

“God save us, boy, it’s the howling match now! You’ll have a dram,” said Roddie.

“A small one. I’ll be getting down. I can do with a good sleep. Stop!”

“Ach, it’ll do you no harm. We’re glad to see you again.” He hesitated a moment, and about his face came the old remote smile. “I would rather
you had done that than a thousand pounds. Well, good health!”

When Finn had paid his respects to the old man, Roddie accompanied him to the top of the wood, discussing the fishing, and what had to be done to-morrow at the shore.

As Finn went on alone, he felt tired and life seemed fairly empty. But the remoteness, the feeling of loneliness, was not altogether unpleasant. He was glad he had done what he had done. A great desire for sleep came over him.

A week later, Finn sat alone on the Knoll of Peace. He was feeling tired and wretched, his finger-tips burning from the handling of sun-dried peat. This mood was the more inexplicable because in less than two days now he was going to Wick to bring home his new boat, the
Gannet.
The thought of this culminating act in the growth towards responsible manhood had so often excited him that perhaps he was now suffering no more than a temporary reaction. Often a person before running a race or starting on some perilous adventure experiences an almost sickly
apprehension
. In fact, when Finn lifted his mind, he saw the clean green seas running, and knew that freedom was there, and adventure, and the song of man’s strength. He would be all right when he looked at the lifting stem of his own boat. Then would come upon him a freedom that would have in it the gaiety of revenge over all the cluttering doubts and anxieties of the earth.