Читать книгу The Song in the Green Thorn Tree - James William Barke - Страница 11

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The summer passed and harvest came in the late autumn. It was a gloomy harvest at Mossgiel. Robin had bought the seed that spring, and he had bought badly. Not that he was to blame. The seed had looked good and Gilbert had thought it excellent. Alas, it returned very poor crops.

In such a situation they were helpless. Gilbert worked at his accounts and showed that, bad though the position was, it was not disastrous: by cutting expenses down to the bone they would be able to survive the winter.

Still, their first harvest since Lochlea was a failure, and Robin and Gilbert were despondent.

Robin’s visits to Machlin became more frequent. He experienced an overwhelming desire for company, for conversation. He needed employment for his intellect, needed something into which he could bite his mental teeth.

Nor were Richmond, Smith, Brice or Hunter always the most satisfactory company. In many important respects their intellectual world was narrow and circumscribed. Not that they were ignorant. Smith had excellent wit and native shrewdness; Brice could argue all night about David Hume; Hunter was sweepingly radical in his political opinions; Richmond was a mine of accurate information on a host of matters...

But there were times when Robin relished the more mature conversation of men like Doctor MacKenzie and Gavin Hamilton. This back-end he enjoyed many a conversation in Gavin Hamilton’s study at the end of a hard day’s work.

The political situation of Great Britain was much discussed. William Pitt had become Prime Minister in December, 1783, as William Burns had fretted on his death-bed. Now his resounding victory at the polls was the subject of much speculation. Robin, Hamilton and MacKenzie expected much from Pitt by way of reform.

But Scottish affairs were not neglected in their discussions, and though Henry Dundas, Pitt’s henchman, was not yet the official uncrowned King of Scotland, his ironic title of Henry the Ninth was in the immediate offing.

Nobody but the privileged few in Scotland trusted Dundas, even though Pitt depended more and more on the votes of the Scottish M.P.s who were in Dundas’s pocket and who, since they owed him their political existence, obeyed his every whim.

Burgh and ecclesiastical reforms were the order of the day in Scotland, and the public prints, The Caledonian Mercury and The Scots Magazine, were filled with items of reforming news.

Robin had long been an insatiable reader of the press. There was little news, home or foreign, that escaped his attention. Hamilton and MacKenzie soon found that he was much better informed than themselves.

In his early discussions Robin was careful not to embarrass his friends with his superior knowledge. He had still to feel his way with them. He did not argue as he argued in John Dow’s—or as he had debated in Jock Richards’ howff in Tarbolton. He seemed to defer to his professional friends when, in fact, he was drawing them out.

But as he got to know them better and became more at ease in their company, and realised that he was infinitely better read than they were, he occasionally lifted the bushel from his light—without lifting it far enough to blind them.

One night when they had been discussing at length the need to reform the election of local government representation, he leaned across to Gavin Hamilton.

“Every man and woman who works to produce the wealth of the nation is entitled to have a say in how the nation shall be governed. But elections in the Burghs don’t exist as elections: offices are held by friends and dispensed among friends. As for Scotland: we have a population of a rough million and a half; we are represented in the Westminster Parliament by forty-five members—and they are elected by not more than three thousand unrepresentative privileged landlords and their crooked nominees and agents. How then are we to talk of liberty and of the dignity of civil government when such a state of affairs exists?”

“True enough, Robert—true enough. We could do with a broader representation. But it would never do to give votes to everybody and anybody. The possession of land must ever be the basis of electoral right. What do you say, MacKenzie?”

“Much as I sympathise with Robert, I must say that I hold with you, Gavin: it would never do to give the rabble a vote. If not land, then property of some sort must be the essential qualification... And I think Robert agrees with us.”

“The rabble! Yes; but who are the rabble? Our drunken gentles are as much a rabble as any. Worth and wealth have never gone hand in hand as far as my experience in reading or in life has gone.”

“And who’s to determine worth, Robert?”

“Politically you can’t, Mr. Hamilton: so you are thrown back on honest labour as your criterion and yardstick of assessment. And both you, sir, and the doctor here are honest labourers of undoubted worth by the yardstick I have in mind.”

“But would you include auld Robin Gibb, the bellman? I’ll warrant he’s honest enough—and worthy!”

“And why not? Auld Clinkum’s no fool.”

“Maybe; but would you say his interest in the welfare of the country was equal to that of, say, Claude Alexander of Ballochmyle?”

“Since Ballochmyle made his money in India there is no more to be said. For Henry MacKenzie in The Man of Feeling put down the last word on that subject. My own father was worth any ten Claude Alexanders—aye, or a nation of men like him.”

“You’ve gotten some queer ideas, Robert. That’s the poet in you. Your ideas wouldna work out in practice: they would turn the country upside down.”

“Some day the country will be turned upside down—and it’ll be found to be as practical the one way as the other. The American War turned that part of the country upside down. And the people there have found it eminently practical. Nobody can deny but that they have achieved a great political and human advancement...”

“That war was the cause of great misery and ruination to trade in the West here, Robert.”

“The war itself was due to the headlong folly of the North administration: so much for our men of worth in Westminster—a parcel o’ rogues in a nation.”

“Ah! You’re a wild man, Robert. I’m afeared there’s a lump o’ the Jacobite in you yet.”

“And why not? I never held with the divine right o’ kings: consequently I never held with the Stewarts. But Scotland lost more than Charles Edward on Drummossie Moor. She lost the last hope of her national independence. My forefathers were out in the Fifteen—and they were good Protestants and good Scots. They were ruined in consequence.”

“Damned, you’ll better put a bridle on your tongue, lad—that’s dangerous talk.”

“Not among friends surely——”

“No, no: you’re safe enough wi’ the doctor and me; but I’d have a care where I uttered siccan Jacobite sentiments.”

“There comes a time, Mr. Hamilton, when care has to be thrown to the winds. I’m no Jacobite in the political sense o’ the term—but I’m a damned sight less of a Hanoverian.”

MacKenzie, who had remained silent for a long time, now entered the conversation.

“I’m no more Hanoverian than you, Robert. I ken fine what we lost on Culloden Moor. But there’s no point in harking back to what is now lost and lost for ever. We’ve got to work out our destiny and our salvation along a different road. We’re yoked to England. What good will it do to thraw i’ the yoke? We’ll till nae soil that way. Freedom is a relative thing; and freedom and poverty are poor bedfellows. What we need is trade and industry; plenty of good hard work to make us prosperous and thriving. Poverty is the curse of Scotland: poverty—and ignorance that’s bred from poverty.”

“Lord God! and do you think that I don’t know that? Poverty’s been my lot since the cradle. My father was killed by poverty. The harder he worked—the harder we all worked—the deeper we got bogged in poverty and want. And was William Burns an ignorant man? Poverty and slavery—I was reared on them. Do the politicians raise their voices for the poor? Do the clergy? Do the gentry? The poor help the poor; and when they can’t help each other they die. I’ve seen them die—and so have you. Politics that don’t concern themselves wi’ poverty are but the politics o’ graft and corruption and naked self-interest. Aye: we want trade and industry; but not to make the rich richer and the poor poorer but to raise the prosperity of the whole nation.”

“You put it better in that epistle you wrote to your brother-poet Sillar in Tarbolton.” MacKenzie leaned back in his chair and quoted:

“I grudge a wee the great-folk’s gift, that live sae bien an’ snug: I tent less, and want less their roomy fireside; but hanker, and canker, to see their cursed pride.

“It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r, to keep, at times, frae being sour, to see how things are shar’d; how best o’ chiels are whyles in want, while coofs on countless thousands rant, and ken na how to ware’t.”

Gavin Hamilton sipped at his whisky. With the general drift of Robin’s dialectic he was in emotional agreement. But he wasn’t sure that he liked the intellectual implications. It was one thing to reform society: it was quite another to turn it upside down; to make bold and sweeping alterations; to challenge the foundations of society; to make labouring-worth the criterion of social standing and consequence... But emotionally, yes. Why, wasn’t he known as the poor man’s friend? It was a good name to have; and it brought him a lot of business. Aha ... he would do well to keep an eye on his brilliant Mossgiel tenant. He was already rousing much talk in the parish. Many douce respectable citizens were beginning to shake their heads. When James Armour had been repairing his roof the other day he had spoken very sharply about the Mossgiel farmer with the wild blaspheming tongue... On the other hand, Robert might be useful in attacking the Machlin Session. He had appealed against Auld to the Ayr Presbytery. He would sound Robert about it some day: a popular squib or two in his favour and to the discomfit of Auld and the Session wouldn’t do him any harm.

MacKenzie, on the other hand, found Robert’s arguments intellectually stimulating. He knew poverty as Hamilton didn’t know it—knew it on sick-beds and death-beds; knew it in all its pain, anguish and humiliation... Aye, of course the wealth of the world was divided with cruel disregard for human worth and merit. It was altogether wrong that a gifted family like the Burns family should suffer from such grinding poverty. William Burns had been a remarkable man, gifted with intelligence and integrity far beyond the common run. And his sons, Robert and Gilbert, were even more remarkable... If Robert here wasn’t shaping towards genius then he didn’t know the meaning of the word. And yet there he was, slaving himself on Mossgiel when he should be studying and writing. Well ... there wasn’t much he could do about that in any financial sense: he was having something of a struggle himself. But, before the Lord, if there was anything he could do by way of friendship and encouragement...

Gavin Hamilton came out of his reverie, poured himself and his guests another drink, and turned abruptly to Robin.

“You’re gey big with Richmond my clerk, Robert?”

“He’s one of my best friends in Machlin.”

“I’m not trying to pump you, Robert. I suppose he’s told you of his trouble with Jenny Surgeoner?”

“I’m not at any liberty to discuss my friend’s troubles, Mr. Hamilton.”

“It was for his good, Robert. I was wondering maybe if you could inform me as to his affections for the lass—he’s hardly in the position to marry her. Indeed, it would ruin his career at the outset. I’ve had a talk with him: he came to me for advice. Yet I’ve no wish to see the lassie wronged—the Surgeoners are a decent family. If you could help me to make up my mind on the best advice to give the lad... The beagles o’ the Session will be on his track any day now: there’ll be no escaping them unless he can get Jenny out of the way till her trouble blows past. Of course, maybe you don’t know much about Richmond’s affairs, Robert?”

“No ... not his intimate affairs. And I would rather I had a word with Richmond first. But I understand he’s been friendly with Jenny for a long time. I think Richmond’s a man of honour in these matters.”

“Aye ... if he can afford to be a man of honour. But I notice that my nursemaid, Mary Campbell, is gey big with Jenny Surgeoner; and you’re not above passing the time o’ day wi’ her yourself, Robert. If you can find out the way the wind lies, I’ll see what I can do for Richmond. You’ll be doing him a good service.”

MacKenzie rose with a feigned tiredness, and Robin saw it was time for him to go. He bade a respectful good-night to his host, saluted the doctor and let himself out into the garden.

It was then he met Mary Campbell. They exchanged greetings.

“Come into the Tower here, Mary: I want a word wi’ you.”

“With me, Robert? I couldna go into the Tower and it night.”

“Just for a few minutes. I have Mr. Hamilton’s permission to have a talk with you; but it had better be private and the old Tower here’s as convenient and private as you could wish.”

Mary Campbell saw he was serious and the two of them slipped over to the old Tower of the Melrose monks that Hamilton used as a store. Inside the Tower it was impenetrably black, so they stood in the doorway.

“It’s about Jenny Surgeoner, Mary. You’re in her confidence, aren’t you?”

“She’s a nice lass Jenny.”

“Is she in love with John Richmond?”

“In love? I’m sure I don’t know now.”

“Mary: what you tell me will go no further than this old wall. I may be able to do your friend Jenny and my friend Richmond something of a good turn.”

“But what would I be knowing, Robert? There’s very little I’m knowing about yourself when I think of it.”

“And whose fault is that? But you’ll get to know me, Mary: I’m not hard to know.”

“You’re a nice lad, Robert, I’m sure.”

“You know you can trust me?”

“But what would I have to be trusting you about?”

“Mary: you’ll have to trust me just as I’ll have to trust you. Do you know about Jenny and my friend Richmond? Maybe you don’t like Richmond?”

“I never said a word against him.”

“Forget Richmond then: I see you don’t admire him. But you like Jenny. Right! You know Jenny will have to mount the cutty stool with Richmond—with or without him?”

“The poor girl—and I never knew. Och, I’m not surprised either: but the poor girl... Does Mr. Hamilton know?”

“Soon the whole parish will know. Jenny never said a word to you?”

“I knew she was worried——”

“Mary: if Richmond doesn’t marry her—how do you think she’ll take it?”

“Oh, the scoundrel! He wouldn’t be disowning the lass and her in her trial and sorrow.”

“Listen, Mary. Richmond’s no scoundrel: he’ll do what’s best. But if they don’t love each other——”

“Of course Jenny loves him. She would never——What am I saying? I don’t think we should be talking about this. I know nothing about such things.”

“You haven’t sat in Machlin Kirk and listened to Daddy Auld haranguing the poor devils on the cutty stool without knowing how things are likely to turn out for Jenny. Mind you: it’s none of our business. But both Mr. Hamilton and myself would like to help as much as we can. There’s not much I can do; but there’s no end to the good Gavin Hamilton could do—if he knew the right way of things. Maybe, you see, it would be better if Jenny went away somewhere till her trouble blew over...”

“Till her trouble blew over...! Why has it always to be the lass who has to be going away somewhere? Would you ask a lass to go away, Robert?”

“No ... I wouldna do that, Mary. But ... sometimes things are difficult—as they may be with Jock Richmond.”

“It’s cruel for a man to send a lass away in her trouble. And the man who would do that is nothing but a heartless scoundrel.”

“I agree, Mary: I agree. But maybe if Jenny has to go away it will only be till Richmond can make arrangements to marry her—and to save her from the holy beagles like Holy Willie.”

“Aye ... but he could marry her quietly?”

“You mean irregularly?”

“They could do penance for that later on—they would be married and the lass would have some comfort in her trouble when she would be needing it most. Och, Robin: I canna see that a man could be so heartless as to deceive a lass.”

Thinking of Betty Paton, Robin squirmed.

“Mary: there are many trials and tribulations in this life. The road’s not always easy. A lad and a lass can sometimes be guilty of folly—if you call it folly—and maybe they don’t love each other enough for marriage. Marriage isn’t for a day’s or a year’s daffing: it’s for the rest of their earthly days. Oh, dinna think I’m trying to excuse any blackguard that would deceive a lass and leave her to face her ordeal by herself. Only—it isn’t always easy; isn’t always best to run into marriage just because of foolishness and the weakness of a night in the gloaming.”

“Aye ... but it’s seldom just the one night, Robert: you know that as well as me.”

“Ah well, Mary; you and me won’t quarrel about Richmond and Jenny, will we?”

“No... Who’s your lass in Machlin, Robert? Or maybe you have one about Mossgiel?”

“I’m heart-whole, Mary. But maybe if you and me were seeing more of each other——”

“You’re a terrible man. Have you not been making a poem on any of the lassies? Och, I’m sure you must have made a lot of verses?”

Robin slipped his arm under her shawl and round her thin, lithe waist, and drew her towards him. Mary Campbell did not resist. She liked Robin. She was lonely in Machlin among strange people. She missed the soft Gaelic tongue of her native Cowal, missed the Arran mountains in whose shadows she had lived so long. Folks made fun of her strange Gaelic accent—especially the young lads. But Robert Burns was different. He was so sympathetic and understanding; and there was so much that was soothing and caressing in his words; soft words spoken softly without the harsh edge of the Ayrshire folk. Almost Gaelic he could be in his softness of speech, the fine sweet words dropping like honey from his lips. Never the trace of mockery or insincerity. He was black like the Campbells: black-haired, dun-complexioned, strong and vigorous in his sturdy build. And his eyes, glowing and smouldering ... not Highland eyes, not Lowland eyes, not a man’s eyes at all. Something of the sloe eyes of a dark Campbell beauty, but with the fire in them that no lass, whatever her beauty, could ever have. It would be easy, fatally easy, to fall in love with Robert Burns. She would have to keep a fierce grip on her emotions.

His lips were drugging her resistance, sapping away her will to resist.

“Oh Robert, Robert: you must be letting me go in now...”

“You trust me, Mary—my Highland Mary?”

“It’s myself I canna be trusting, Robert. I don’t know why I let you kiss me.”

“Because you know there’s no harm to my kissing, Mary.”

“Do you love me, Robert? You’ve never said you loved me.”

“There’s some things that dinna need words put on them, Mary. It’s the heart speaks o’ love: not the tongue; and lips answer in a language that canna be heard.”

“You’re a witch, Robert. You should have had the Gaelic on your tongue—it’s the language that speaks from the heart as the English canna.”

“Then I’ll just have to make good honest Lallans do duty for both.”

It was cold in the old Tower. Robin drew Mary under his heavy plaid, and held her tightly in his strong arms. A long sobbing sigh came from Mary; but she was happy as she had never known happiness. Yet it was terrible to love a man as she loved Robert Burns.