Читать книгу The Song in the Green Thorn Tree - James William Barke - Страница 12

Table of Contents

When Lizzie Paton proved with child, and the fact could no longer be concealed from the parish, tongues began to wag. Saunders Tait, still rankling in Tarbolton (Robert was now the most active member of the Masonic Lodge there) launched into a poem:

“Search Scotland all around, by Lorn, next round by Leith and Abercorn, through a’ Ayrshire, by the Sorn, tak’ merry turns, there’s nane can sound the bawdy horn, like you and Burns. Mess John cries, ‘Fornicator Poet, you and Rab Burns hae been so roit, the good tap-pickle ye hae gloyt, of Moll and Meg; Jean, Sue and Lizzie, a’ decoy’t, there’s sax wi’ egg...”

It was highly relished for its vigorous bawdry in Manson’s howff and was soon being repeated, with impromptu variations throughout the township and the neighbouring farms.

John Rankine learned the news from a source nearer to Largieside, and immediately announced the fact to Robert in a letter.

Robert, of course, had received the news from Lizzie herself. She had never really hoped Robert would marry her. She sensed that though he loved her as she was unlikely to be loved again, it was not the kind of love that led to marriage.

Nevertheless he had not denied her, had not sought to avoid her company; and there had been no interruption of their intimacy. Whether or not he might yet marry her, it was some satisfaction to know that he was not going to deny the child.

Robert’s reactions were conflicting. He wanted to marry Lizzie immediately: by every law of God and man he knew this to be his duty. He would not shrink from doing his duty; and his emotions revolted at the thought of betraying the girl who had so generously yielded to him.

But he did not love Lizzie: he had never loved her—not to the point of marriage. The question of marriage had never been discussed between them: he had made her no promises. Nor could she for a single moment have been blind to the ultimate consequence of her yielding.

Perhaps, then, it would be a mistake to marry Lizzie: a mistake they would regret all their lives!

He debated the question with himself for many weeks. And it was a many-sided question. No matter what happened now he would have to compear before the Session and do penance on the cutty stool. For pre-marital fornication if he married Lizzie: for simple (but more heinous) fornication if he didn’t.

The prospect was far from agreeable. But at least he would do penance in Tarbolton Kirk under Doctor Woodrow or John MacMath—they would be more lenient to him than Daddy Auld.

It was a damnable and outrageous business this compearing before the Session, answering all their intimate questions while they probed every detail of the affair. Worse still, the public humiliation of having to mount the cutty stool three Sundays in succession and bear the public rebuke from the pulpit.

There was no religion, no piety about such an inquisition: it would only fill the mouths of the congregation for weeks: grist to the mill of scandal-mongering.

The more he thought of the public humiliation that lay before him, the more his mood hardened and the less he thought of his responsibility for Lizzie.

He would show them. If they were prepared to brand him with the seal of fornication he would turn the role of fornicator against them. He would accept their valuation of him and defy them.

So he replied to John Rankine in rollicking vein and put the affair at its true artistic level. His was a mere poaching offence. He’d had his sport and had enjoyed it; and so had the bonnie moorhen. No doubt the lads in black would demand their gowd guinea of a fee. But what of it? He wasn’t the first: he most certainly wouldn’t be the last. Life had to be lived subject to life’s own laws. And when the laws of life went diametrically against the laws of the Kirk, so much the worse for the Kirk: life was greater (and sweeter) than all the kirks and all the denominations.

But the affair wasn’t so easily dismissed in the family circle at Mossgiel.

Gilbert was furious: Nancy and Bell were shocked and outraged—and deeply distressed. Mrs. Burns alone remained normal. She was not surprised. She had expected something of the kind long ago. She was merely confirmed in her estimate of the character of her first-born.

The family discussed the affair in Robert’s absence. Gilbert led the attack.

“It’s not only himself he’s disgraced. He’s disgraced the family. I won’t be able to hold up my head in the parish.”

Nancy said: “Lizzie Paton, of all the dirty sluts!”

Bell said: “I don’t know how Robin could have fallen so low.”

Mrs. Burns said: “Bess Paton’s no slut: she’s a sensible hizzie. She’s made her mistake. But I blame our Rab: he’s bewitched the lassie wi’ that tongue o’ his. Weel: disgrace or no’: he’ll just have to marry her.”

At this the family were up in arms.

“Marry her, mother? It’s ridiculous. She’s not fit to marry into the family. She’s beneath him in every way.”

But Mrs. Burns was an Ayrshire peasant and she wasn’t to be persuaded by such talk.

“She’s been beneath him the only way he kens: so she can be beneath him in the proper way; and that’s by marriage. We’ll hae nae bastards in the family.”

“I’ll never own her as a good-sister: never!” cried Nancy.

And Bell added: “If he does marry her he’ll need to take her away frae here. I couldna live under the same roof wi’ her.”

Gilbert weighed in again. “Here we are just getting settled into the place and we get this thrust on the top of us. It puts out all my reckonings—and every bawbee’s laid out in advance. Robin canna leave us like this: it would mean we would all need to give up the place. And he canna bring a wife like that here. We just canna afford a wife—and a wife and a bairn’s clean out of the question. We canna think of it, mother: we just canna begin to think of it. And that’s no’ counting the shame o’ it.”

One day Mrs. Burns cornered Robert in the byre. There was no escape.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Robert,” she began. “But you canna avoid your mither. I’ll no’ catechise you: I’ll leave that to the Session. I’d just like to ken how you ettle for to act wi’ Bess Paton?”

“I think that’s my own affair, mother: I would rather no’ discuss it.”

“Fine I ken you would rather no’ discuss it. But you’re ower late in the day thinking about that. And I’m still your mither. There’s yae thing, Robert: I’m glad your father’s away: it would hae been a sair, sair hurt to him.”

“I don’t think you’ve any right to bring my father’s name into this.”

“Maybe no; but he warned me this would happen no’ so long afore he slipped away... It’s nae surprise to me, Robert; but it’s been a gey shock to your brothers and sisters.”

“They’ll want me to marry Lizzie——?”

“No: I’m the only one that wants that. And that’s what ye canna escape. You’re a Broun as weel as a Burns, Robert; and you’ve a conscience off baith sides.”

“Maybe I’ll have a double dose then?”

“If ye marry the lass, Robert, you’ll hae my blessing: you’ll be doing what’s right—and marriage’ll settle you.”

“You think I need settlin’?”

“I never knew a laddie that needed it mair. I ken you’ve nae ears for ony word o’ your auld mither, Robert; but you’re aye my son; and it hurts me to see the road you’re travellin’. If you dinna act your part wi’ Bess, you’ll live to rue it. Mark my words—me that wouldna see a hair on you straiked the wrang way. If the lass was good enough for you afore, surely she means mair to you now. Neither Broun nor Burns ever had the name o’ a blackgaird afore, and it’ll be an ill day when you merit the dishonour. Oh, I ken you’ll gang your ain gait—you were doing that long afore your faither died. But think weel what you dae, son; and seek God to guide you. It’ll be nae disgrace gin you marry the lass: that’s happened to better folks than you afore this. But if you jilt the lass and leave her to mither a faitherless bairn, it’s no curse o’ mine that’ll be on you; but it’s a curse that’ll go doon wi’ you into the grave.”

“I never said I wouldna marry Lizzie—but I never said I would: neither to Lizzie nor onybody. I’ve made no promises one way or the other—and I’m making none.”

“Weel, son: I canna say mair nor I have. But a lass like Bess doesna give herself to a man withouten she has some kind o’ a promise—even if it’s no’ made in sae mony words.”

“And would you have me ruin my life just because I made a mistake?”

“Ah, but Robin, my son: you’ve made the mistake ower often for it to be a mistake. And puir Bess hasna the wit to be upsides o’ a man wi’ a tongue like yours. You’ve a tongue wad wile the bird frae a bush——”

“I never deceived Lizzie Paton——”

“No ... maybe no. You just neither looked to your right nor your left but held to your ain inclination. But it’ll no’ dae ... it’ll no’ dae.”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet—it’s no’ easy, mother: no’ as easy as you think.”

“We’ll leave it at that then. But whatever way you make your bed, mind it’s yourself will hae the lying on’t. Mind you can be poor and still look the world in the face. But it’s a gey affront when you meet folk in the road and have to pass them wi’ your head among your feet.”

She turned and left the byre. Robert’s head was among his feet. Several times he had raised his head slightly so that his eyes came level with the bowed grey-headed figure that was his mother.

She had stood there old and bent and seemingly frail, and had talked to him with a softness of tone such as she had never used to him before.

Aye: she was his mother; and he was blood of her blood as well as the blood of William Burns. And she was right: there was no escaping her forthright logic. Her logic was only to be countered by another logic—and this logic would have to be of his own devising.

That night he saddled his favourite mare, and rode back to Adamhill to consult with John Rankine.

Adamhill welcomed him heartily.

“So I’m rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, am I? You’re a hell o’ a lad getting, Rab. And what’s biting you? Aye ... so that’s it, is it? Put your mind at ease, Rab: put your mind at ease. The Paton lass was just like ony other heifer in the park yonder roaring for the bull. If it hadna been you it would have been another. That’s the sum and substance o’ it, Rab. Oh, I ken you’ve been runnin’ aboot wi’ the lass back and forward. But, since you’ve made no promise the one way or the other... In ony case, Rab, Lizzie Paton’s no’ the lass for you ava’. A marriage there would be a mockery. I know, I know: you dinna like the idea o’ fathering a bastard into the parish ... and between ourselves, Rab, I’ve had a bit twinge o’ conscience that road myself. Oh, I’ll no’ deny it: it gars ye wonder at times... But still: marriage is no’ to be thocht o’... Now, if it had been Annie, as it micht well hae been! But that’s finished now. She’s gotten a good man, Annie: John Merry. It’s a good-going change-house at New Cumnock they fell into. You’ll need to go down and see them sometime, Rab. Oh, she aye speirs after you. I’ll warrant she’ll aye hae a soft side to the rigs o’ barley. You were a silly beggar for yourself, Rab. God, boy; but she’d have made you a grand wife... Now, I dinna want to see you worrying, about this bit ploy; but you’ll need to watch that gun o’ yours or some dark night you’ll be shooting the wrong bird... Come on, damn you: you’re neither drinking nor saying a word.”

Riding home, Robert felt relieved and refreshed. John Rankine had an astonishing fund of solid common sense. And no doubt he had the truth of the matter. Lizzie had been built that way, and if it hadn’t been him it most certainly would have been another. For there could be no doubt: Lizzie had been as willing as he had been eager.

And yet and yet... There was his mother standing there bowed and grey, speaking in a voice strangely moving and sympathetic, telling him that he was a Broun as well as a Burns and that he had inherited conscience from them both.

Folk could say what they liked; but it wasn’t easy to do the right thing—wasn’t easy to know what was the right thing.

Maybe if he had married Annie Rankine... But what was the use... There were none of them suitable for marriage—not the marriage he wanted—supposing he knew what kind of marriage he wanted. All he knew was the marriage he didn’t want.