Flemington And Tales From Angus. Violet Jacob

some outlandish savage ruler, it brought treasures unnumbered in the wealth of the more civilised earth. Here and there a branch of broom stood, like a sceptre, among the black jewels of its hanging pods, and brambles, pushing through the whin-thickets like flames, hung in ragged splashes of carmine and orange and acid yellow. Bushes of that sweetbrier whose little ardent-coloured rose is one of the glories of eastern Scotland were dressed in the scarlet hips succeeding their bloom, and between them and the whin the thrifty spider had woven her net. Underfoot, bracken, escaping from the ditches, had invaded the loaning to clothe it in lemon and russet. Where the ground was marshy, patches of fine rush mixed with the small purple scabious which has its home in the vagabond corners of the land. As Jessie-Mary emerged from the trees her sun-bleached hair seemed the right culmination to this scale of natural colour; had it not been for the dark blue of her cotton gown she might as easily have become absorbed into her surroundings as the roe-deer, which is lost, a brown streak, in the labyrinth of trunks.

      The air had the faint scent of coming decay which haunts even the earliest of autumn days, and the pale, high sky wore a blue suggestive of tears; the exhalations of earth were touched with the bitterness of lichen and fungus. Far away under the slope of the fields, and so hidden from sight, Montrose lay between the ocean and the estuary of the South Esk, with, beyond its spire, the sweep of the North Sea.

      A few minutes later she found herself standing on the large, flat stone which bridged the burn where the footpath crossed it by her grandmother’s hovel. She remained gazing at the walls rising from the unkempt tangle to which months of neglect were reducing the garden. The fence was broken in many places, and clumps of phlox, growing in a corner, had been trodden by the feet of strayed animals. Beneath her, the water sang with the same irresponsible babble which had once been the accompaniment to her life; she turned to follow it with her eyes as it dived under the matted grasses and disappeared into the wood.

      All at once, from beyond the cottage, there rose a shout that made her heart jump, and she started to see two figures approaching through the field by the side of the burn; the blood left her face as she recognised one of them as Peter Muirhead. She sprang quickly from the stone and over the rail dividing the wood from the path; it was a foolish action and it produced its natural result. As she did so, a yell came from the field and she saw that Peter and his companion had begun to run.

      Through the trees she fled, the derisive voices whooping behind her. She was terrified of her tormentor and the unreasoning animal fear of pursuit was upon her. As she heard the rail crack she knew that he had entered the wood, and instinct turned her towards the loaning, where the cover was thick and where she might turn aside in the tangle and be lost in some hidden nook while they passed her by. It was her best chance.

      She plunged out from among the firs into the open track. For a hundred yards ahead the bushes were sparse and there was no obstacle to hinder her flight. She was swift of foot, and the damp earth flew beneath her. Through the whins beyond she went, scratching her hands on protruding brambles and stumbling among the roots. Once her dress caught on a stiff branch and she rent it away, tearing it from knee to hem. The voices behind her rose again and her breath was giving out.

      Emerging from the thicket, she almost bounded into a little circle of fire, the smoke of which she had been too much excited to notice, though it was rising, blue and fine, from the clearing she had reached. A small tent was before her, made of tattered sail-cloth stretched over some dry branches, and beside it a light cart reposed, empty, upon its tailboard, the shafts to the sky.

      In front of the tent stood a tall, lean man. His look was fixed upon her as she appeared and he had evidently been listening to the sound of her approaching feet. His face was as brown as the fir-stems that closed him in on either side of the loaning, and his eyes, brown also, had a peculiar, watchful light that was almost startling. He stood as still as though he were an image, and he wore a gold ring in either ear.

      To Jessie-Mary, a living creature at this moment represented salvation, and before the man had time to turn his head she had leaped into the tent. Inside, by a little heap of brushwood, lay a tarpaulin, evidently used in wet weather to supplement its shelter, and she flung herself down on the ground and dragged the thing over her. The man stood immovable, looking fixedly at the bushes, from the other side of which came the noise of jeering voices.

      As Peter Muirhead and his friend pushed into the open space, red and panting, they came upon the unexpected apparition with some astonishment. Tinkers and gipsies were far from uncommon in the debatable land, but the tall, still figure, with its intent eyes, brought them to a standstill. Peter mopped his forehead.

      ‘Did ye see a lassie gae by yon way?’ he inquired, halting dishevelled from his race through the undergrowth, the sensational tie under one ear.

      The brown man nodded, and, without a word, pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction in which they were going.

      Peter and his companion glanced at each other; the former was rather blown, for he was not naturally active.

      ‘Huts! a’ve had eneuch o’ yon damned tawpie!’ he exclaimed, throwing his cap on the ground.

      The brown man looked him carefully over and smiled; there was a kind of primitive subtlety in his face.

      Like many ill-favoured persons, Peter was vain and the look displeased him, for its faint ridicule was sharpened by the silence that accompanied it.

      ‘A’ll awa’ to Montrose an’ get the pollis tae ye the nicht,’ he said, with as much superiority as he could muster; ‘the like o’ you’s better oot o’ this.’

      ‘Ye’ll no can rin sae far,’ replied the other.

      The answer was a mere burst of abuse.

      ‘Come awa’ noo, come awa’,’ said Peter’s friend, scenting difficulties and unwilling to embroil himself.

      But Peter was in a quarrelsome humour, and it was some time before the two young men disappeared down the track and Jessie-Mary could crawl from her hiding-place. She came out from under the sail-cloth, holding together the rent in her gown. The brown man smiled a different smile from the one with which he had regarded Peter; then he stepped up on a high tussock of rush to look after the pursuers.

      ‘Are they awa’?’ she asked, her eyes still dilated.

      ‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘A didna tell on ye, ye see.’

      ‘A’d like fine tae bide a bit,’ said the girl nervously, ‘they michtna be far yet.’

      ‘Just sit ye doon there,’ said he, pointing to his tattered apology for a dwelling.

      She re-entered the tent and he seated himself before her on the threshold. For some minutes neither spoke and he considered her from head to foot. It was plain he was one chary of words. He took a short pipe from his pocket and, stuffing in some tobacco, lit it deliberately.

      ‘A saw yon lad last time a was this way,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction in which Peter had disappeared.

      As she opened her mouth to reply the snort of a horse came through the bushes a few yards from where they sat. She started violently. There was a sudden gleam in his face which seemed to be his nearest approach to a laugh. ‘Dod, ye needna be feared,’ he said. ‘Naebody’ll touch ye wi’ me.’

      ‘A was fine an’ glad tae see ye,’ broke out the girl. ‘Yon Muirhead’s an ill lad tae hae i’ the hoose – a bide wi’ his mither, ye ken.’

      As she spoke the tears welled up in her eyes and rolled over. She was by no means given to weeping, but she was a good deal shaken by her flight, and it was months since she had spoken to anyone whose point of view could approach her own. Not that she had any conscious point of view, but in common with us all she had a subconscious one. She brushed her sleeve across her eyes.

      He sat silent, pulling at his pipe. From the trees came the long-drawn note of a wood-pigeon.

      ‘A’ll need tae be awa’ hame and see tae the hens,’ said the girl, at last.

      The man sat still as she rose,