The Silver Darlings (51 page)

CHAPTER XX

FINN GOES TO HELMSDALE

T
he following week, Finn set off with Barbara for Dale. It was a fine September day with yellow here and there on the dark green of the birches and an air that was fresh and invigorating. The earth looked calm and lovely, and folk had pleasant greetings, with a smile on their faces. It was good to go striding down the lands, to be off on a journey under the morning sun, with a high heart in a tireless body.

“I’m silly,” said Barbara, wiping her eyes.

Finn laughed at her, and from the tears of parting her face cleared in a bright smile.

“Will you promise me to come back next year?” asked Finn.

“Yes,” said Barbara.

“That’s grand,” declared Finn. “That relieves my mind. But remember—it’s a promise.”

“All right,” said Barbara, taking a quick step or two as his mother did sometimes.

“Did you really like being here?”

“I loved it,” said Barbara. “Your mother—she’s so kind.”

“And what about me?”

“Ach,” she said, “you’re—you’ll do!”

They both laughed. Barbara was very excited, her dark eyes bright as sun on peaty water. He teased her and had her arguing and disputing, but her heart was merry. “You’re glad to be going home,” said Finn, “and that’s the truth.”

“I am,” said Barbara. “I’m longing to see them.” Her voice was urgent with longing.

“And yet you pretend you’re sorry to go!” He gave a sarcastic chuckle

She stopped speaking, her face in front. He gave her a side-glance. Her top lip was drawing down. This amused him. But when she remained silent, he decided to put her at ease again and said sensibly, “I’m only teasing you. It’s natural that you should be wanting to go home. It would be a queer thing if you weren’t.”

But instead of her young face clearing, it tautened still more, and then a gulp of a sob came through. At a complete loss, Finn glanced about him to make sure that no one was about. In a minute she was herself again, and Finn let out a deep breath of relief. He would have to watch what he said.

“You think I’m silly,” she said.

“No, I don’t,” declared Finn. “Honestly.”

“You’re a great ass,” she said, with emphasis.

He laughed, delighted. “That’s better!”

But he kept all further teasings in check until they were resting near the far top of the Langwell glen. Then he got talking of the fishings and the gutting, and she said that next season she would be nearly seventeen, and his mother had suggested to her that if she wanted to make a little money for herself, she could do so at Dunster.

“Why, that would be grand!” cried Finn. And she looked as if he had given her a secret present. This amused him. “Ha! Quite!” He nodded enigmatically.

“What?”

“Very likely,” said Finn with a serious air, “there will be boats over again from the south side.”

“Very likely,” she said, with an innocent air.

“Quite so. Special boats with special crews.”

“Will there?” She arched her brows.

Would he make her weep? He would. She deserved it. “Extra special crews, with names like Beel and Jock and—and Andie. A nice name, Andie, don’t you think?”

She leaned back, laughing. She doubled over, laughing. “Oh, you’re funny!” she spluttered.

Finn didn’t feel funny. “I think all girls are a bit queer, myself.” And when she laughed again, he felt piqued.

“Oh, dear,” she sighed; “that was a good laugh!”

“It didn’t cost much, anyway,” he said breezily.

“Oh, don’t make me laugh again,” she begged him. “Don’t!” Her body, like an opening bud, was immature and tender, a little stiff, but it was full of young life bursting through its restraints, exaggeratedly, but somehow very attractively, too. He helped himself to a snuff.

“Why do you think girls are queer?” she asked.

“I don’t know why they’re queer, I’m sure,” he
answered
. “It’s probably the nature of the animal.”

She neither laughed nor protested, but kept her head down, picking at the heather. “Sometimes they may have to do things they don’t want to do.”

“Have they?” He laughed, out of a great and amusing knowledge. “If so, they hide it very well!” She did not answer. “They hide it so well,” said Finn humorously, “that no one would ever suspect it!”

She did not answer. His eyes followed her hand, that seemed nervous, as if her young thought was too deep for utterance. He looked at her head, the parting of her dark hair, the red silk ribbon he had given her keeping it in place. The virgin’s snood. A faint warmth went over him, a tenderness for this young cousin of his. As if she felt his eyes, she lifted her head and looked down over the birches and away to the mountains.

“Doesn’t the world feel young to-day?” asked Finn in his pleasant voice.

She did not answer for a moment; then she said, “It seems to me very old and wrinkled. It’s we who are young.”

Finn checked his laugh, in a marvelling astonishment. “You have the wisdom of an old woman!”

She glanced at him quickly, smiling. “Come on, we’ll go.”

In no time Barbara was as interested in the world as a young butterfly. She was attracted by the smallest things, as if the journey were a thrilling adventure. Often they walked in silence. At the Grey Hen’s Well, Barbara drank twice. “Once for Auntie Catrine and once for myself,” she murmured, wiping the water from her nose.

“Why that?” he asked, astonished.

“This is where your mother rested,” she said, “long, long ago, when for the first time she crossed the Ord and entered into a strange land.”

He smiled at her legendary tone, but he saw, too, that there was something behind it and, whatever it was, all in a moment it touched his heart. So he got down and drank—hesitated—and drank a second time.

“Tell me,” she said, glowing, “—for what?”

But he shook his head mysteriously and went on.

“Oh, Finn, do!” she pleaded, and hung on to his arm. “Do.”

“No.”

“That’s not fair. I told you.” She tugged him; she held him back. Her bundle fell from his shoulder as he jerked her forward by the wrist in a rush against him. His arms held her close. “I have you now,” he said. “Do you promise to come quietly?” Her struggles ceased. His eyes went over the lonely stretches of moor and hill. “Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

He let her go. She did not look at him. She was flushed, but before either of them could think, she cried, “You’re mean.”

“How?”

“Not telling me.”

He laughed and tried to speak in the most ordinary tone, “Well, I’ll tell you.”

“Promise it’s the truth?”

“Yes. Cut my throat and burn my breath.”

She laughed excitedly at his gesture.

He hesitated. “I don’t know if I will.”

“Oh, you promised!”

He acted reluctance for a little longer, then he began to speak in a simple, brotherly way as they walked together, of the sea and boats and the rise of the fishing, how this brought money and comfort to the poor, dispossessed people, and how fine life was going to be on this coast yet. “And so,” he concluded, letting his great secret out in an easy tone, “I have been thinking of getting a boat of my own.”

“Have you?” she said. “Wouldn’t that be fine?”

“Do you think so?” he asked lightly, his ear eager for her wonder.

“I do. I think it would be grand,” she declared.

But his ear did not catch the inner tone of wonder, the hush of surprise.

“It’s not settled, so you mustn’t say anything about it. After all, I mightn’t bother.”

“But you should,” she insisted. “I hope you do. You will, won’t you?”

“I’ll see,” he said.

“I would like you to have a boat of your own. That would be fine!”

“It just occurred to me. But we’ll see. Are you feeling tired?”

“Me? No,” she declared, with a look at him.

He was going to have suggested a rest, but now he went on walking, talking about several things amusingly. The delicate feeling of harmony between them had gone, and presently, after a silence, when he asked with dry humour, “What are you thinking about?” she answered quietly, without looking at him, “I was thinking about your boat.”

This irritated him, so he laughed and asked, “What wonderful thing were you expecting me to say—instead of about the boat?”

She did not answer.

“Come on!” he teased her. “Tell me.”

“I wasn’t thinking about anything else.”

“You were. I know you were.”

“I was not,” she said.

“Ah, do, Barbara. Tell me. Please.” He took her arm. But she snatched it from him. He laughed, and she went walking on alone. He followed, without making any effort to overtake her. Her body was slim and straight, from her bare heels to the crown of her head. He began to make mocking noises in his throat. She sat down, turning her face to the sea. He walked past, remarking politely on the fine weather. In time they grew friendly again. Just before they came to the top of the last rise, he paused, saying, “Now for the first glimpse of the home of your heart!” She hesitated half a second, and ran on.

There it was! He looked sideways, with a smile, at her eager face. “Come on!” she cried and began running; then waited for him.

“Run on,” he said. “Don’t wait for me.”

“You’re a great big fool,” she said.

“Ho-ho! Why so?”

“Just because you are.”

“Enjoyed your walk?”

“Yes, very much. Did you?”

“In bits,” he said. “Bits.”

“What bits?”

“If you tell me what bit you enjoyed best, I’ll tell you my bit.”

“I enjoyed many bits,” she said.

“So did I,” he answered.

“Tell me,” she begged.

“No. It’s you first.”

“Will you guess what bit I thought best and then I’ll guess what bit you thought best?”

“You guess first.”

She suddenly looked at him, not shyly but in a
penetrating
glance, with a surprising touch of devilment in it. A
certain warmth beset him inwardly, for his mind was
running
on the moment when he had held her. She looked away. “There’s Uncle Angus!” she cried.

“Ho-ho!” he mocked. “You’re frightened!”

She turned her head and gave him the same glance. “I’m not guessing,” she said. “I know—now. It was when you spoke of your boat,” and she ran down the brae-face
shouting
, “Uncle Angus!”

Finn felt the bottom of the warmth fall out of him.

There was a big change in Dale since the day Catrine had walked out of it. Not that much extra land had been taken into cultivation, for the small plot given to each croft could not grow in size, unless upward into the mountain rock. But the lazy beds, heavy with ripening grain and freshly coloured with the potato flower, lay against the hill-side in an attractive pattern of straight line and serpent twist, like a great quilt. There were more houses, too, small two-roomed thatched cottages, with little or no land attached to them. The real change lay in the comfort of the folk, which they harvested not from the land but from the sea. Many of the young men had left Dale and were living permanently in the rapidly growing village of Helmsdale. They all had a hunger for a bit of land, but seeing it could not be got, they gave more and more their whole attention to the sea. A row of potatoes here and there on a croft each would have, and he gave harvest labour for it, but he now bought his oatmeal. With fresh fish, salt fish, a barrel of cured herring, meal, potatoes, and—for the greater part of the year—milk, butter, and cheese, life was given a solid backing that neither chance nor mischance could affect greatly. A side of a pig, a barrel of porter, meat on more than one day of the week, syrup, eatables bought out of a shop, would be encountered in many a place, and when there was no milk for porridge, children grew excited over the change to treacle, nursing the dark spoonful in the centre of the plate. The rise of the fishing had pushed
poverty from the door and beyond the little fields, and though its spectre might haunt the mind now and then, there was a good way of dealing with it, especially when a stranger came, like Finn. It was the hand into the store of hidden shillings then and swift feet for “something special” to the shop. For the women were jealous of hospitality’s good name and, to come near the truth, they would indulge in hospitality as men on a market or settling-day would
indulge
in drink. They loved it, its carefree giving, its talk, its laughter, its swept house, its clean table, its bright face, its delicate pride. “Is it yourself, Finn? How pleased I am to see you! Come away in!”

And Finn knew how to take it all, with a bright voice, a merry retort, a quick movement or sympathetic word, so that they were delighted to see him. He seemed to have relations in swarms, and he wondered if the shillings he had taken with him would cover the youngest of them.

Catrine’s mother was now well over seventy, and she looked at her grandson with the clear eyes that saw not only his straight young manhood but the nature of the spirit behind. He knew he was being assessed but did not feel uncomfortable, for the expression of her eyes was kindly, and when she went on talking it was satisfied and fulfilled. He enjoyed the responses that rose in him, an ease of manners, a clearness in the voice. There was an essence of the spirit somewhere that was delicate yet full of life, the gaiety and hope in life, like a song running in the mind. Now and then in little surges it brought a great desire to be generous.