Bounty (Mumford)

by Ethel Watts Mumford

Illustration: Old Bounty lifted the honey-colored bow of magic, and the night was filled with music. Hours long he played. Suddenly the boy asked, “I'll na dee, will I, mither?” “Na,” said Old Bounty. “Laddie, hae ye fergotten that were tae play duets? It's alive ye maun to be to learn the cello, the dead hae na execution”

 

BOUNTY

By Ethel Watts Mumford

Illustrated by Walter Biggs

THE town-folk called tall, spare, unsmiling Allistaer McDonald “Post-Office MacDonald” to his face, because of the location of his tall, spare, unsmiling stone house adjoining the general store of Tomantoul; but behind his back he was known as “Bounty”—and for cause. In the winter months he taught the youth of the Spey Valley the merry art of dancing, receiving no fixed salary for his services. Each youngster's tuition was paid for by the bounty of his or her parents, for Allistaer argued that an artist might accept a gift, but that under no circumstances could he be any man's hireling.

Of McDonald's summer activities nothing was definitely known. One rumor, fortunately for him unsubstantiated, had it that he played the fiddle in an Edinburgh theater; another accusation was that the West Coast knew him in a dance orchestra—but that way lies mystery.

Late October always saw him back in Tomantoul, the same gaunt, beetle-browed, large featured eccentric that had wandered south in May time. These unsettled habits placed him outside the realm of the respectable, on a par with gypsies and tinkers. Few, indeed, were his companions, yet he was never lonely while he had his violin. That it was a genuine Guardinini meant nothing to his compatriots, to whom the make of a pipe was all-important; to them it was a fiddle, nothing more. To Allistaer it was a child, a familiar, a beloved, second only in importance to his dour Scotch honor. Two bows cuddled against the worn broadcloth of the ancient case; one a gold-colored, slender wand, the concert bow, reserved for festal occasions; the other, known to its victim as the thwacker, presided at the dancing-classes, and imparted nimbleness, strict attention, and “manners” to the pupils who literally “learned at his feet.”

Illustration: “He's no ower young fer ye ter inveigle from his duty, ye loose, mishifted fiddler!” a voice roared, and Factor Duncan strode forward. He turned upon his son. “As fer ye, Tammas Duncan, awa' wi' ye, an quick. An' if I catch ye consortin' wi' vagabones again, I'll beat ye blue”

One ardent admirer Old Bounty had, one Tommy Duncan, the factor's son. Tommy was only a ramshackled boy, with eyes too large and hands too fine, a heart full of dreams and a head full of tunes; and though his horrified parents forbade the intimacy, there was seldom a day in the happy interim between Bounty's return and the advent of winter that the two were not out on the moors together. They sat now, side by side, on a flat gray stone, the boy hunched over, chin on knees, slender hands clasped low over lean shanks; but the minstrel sat erect as ever, his gaunt face alight with emotion—that queer mixture of hardness and softness which is a Scotchman melted wholly into the artist. He was playing, improvising unutterable things that settled at last to queer shifting melodies, which seemed to emanate from the long reaches of the bare hills, the crowding gray-rose sky, and the golden mists in which the sun wrapped himself at his setting. Before them stretched the great broken masses of the Grampians, ragged and still, crackled by sudden black ravines, powdered here and there on inaccessible summits with a trace of snow. Far below ran the road that crossed the pass.

Almost beneath them, but far, far down, stood the steep gray roofs of The Thistle Inn, its tall-piped chimneys sending up the reek of peat into the fast chilling air. Save the comfort of that smell of burning clods and its suggestion of inglenook, stock-pot, and grog, there was nothing human in the solitude. Just a waste of lonely hills, where grouse and hares made their shifting homes, the setting sun, and the music of a violin. McDonald paused. His hand, suspended, held the golden bow like the wand of a magician, the last note of the aching little melody died away softly, as if absorbed by the breathless heather. Tommy sighed.

“Some day,” he said, very low, that the pitch of his voice might not disturb the ghosts of harmonies that yet hung on the air, “I'll be awa' to Edinboro, and I'll learn the cello, and then we'll play together, you and me.”

But McDonald's ungregarious soul desired no duets; much as he loved Tommy, he loved his nomadic freedom more.

“Houich!” he grunted. “The instrument ye mention is grand for solos; and just ye worrk, laddie. Plannin' is only breedin' disappointment. All things get decided, strive ye muckel, strive ye' no. Let be plannin', let be.”

“But I must plan,” persisted the lad. He hesitated, loosened his grip on his knees, and began nervously prodding the sod with his heather brogues. “My faither's set on me bein' a professional. All his sons, he says is tae be professionals. Jim's for the church, and Bruce a doctor, and me for the law; and if I do not say I will na, I will na, over and over tae masel', I'll never be able tae say it tae him; so I say tae masel', 'I'll tae Edinboro, I'll tae Edinboro.' Then perhaps it'll come when the time comes.

“Lad, lad,” objected Allistaer, “yer ower young tae——”

“He's no ower young fer ye tae inveigle from his duty, ye loose, mishifted fiddler!” roared a voice behind them, and Factor Duncan strode forward, his red hand gripping clubwise a knotted thorn walking-stick. His features were distorted with fury, his purple lips swelled with the rage that was in him. He turned upon his son, threatening him with the bludgeon. “As fer ye, Tammas Duncan, awa' wi' ye, and quick, before I lay hands on ye. An' ever I catch ye consortin' wi' vagabones again, I'll beat ye blue.”

Then it was that training showed; not for nothing had Thomas Duncan drilled himself to rebellion.

“I will na! I will na!” he shrieked, and, raw from the insults heaped upon his friend, he added, “Allistaer's no a vagabone, he's an airtist!”

“An airtist, is it!” snarled his father. “An' what's an airtist but a vagabone? Homeless tinkers, all of 'em! Thieves liars an' drunkards an' stealers of children, that no respectable mon would hae in his hoose. Aye! I mean it!” He tuned menacingly on the musician. “Bounty, they ca' ye—aye, Bounty! ye'll tak what the fule wimmen will gie ye fer teachin' their loons tae make grasshoppies of themsel's! Not a penny did ye ever make at a mon's worrk. Ye'll not put notions into my lad's heed—he's tae be a decent mon an' earn his decent livin'. An' I forbid ye tae see him. If ye do, I'll tak it oot on ye an' him. Am I understood?”

Under the avalanch of words McDonald had stood with unbowed head till the blast of the factor's wrath was spent.

“Ye tyrant!” Allistaer cast at him. “Ye fule! ye could na prevent yer son fra bein' born a musician, could ye? Nor can ye circumvent the Lord that made him. The Lord gied him his soul, Factor Duncan; ye had nane of yer own tae gie him—and the soul the Lord has gied him is his ain. As fer me, hae done wi' yer silly taunts, drunkard or no, I'll be spierin' wi God on the judgment-day when yer fair hidin' behind yer grave, hangin' roon in the kirkyard, afeerd tae come oot!”

“I'll tak ma chance wi' the judgment-day,” the factor exploded, “and ye'll find yer own judgment-day quick if ever ye set fute inside ma hoose, an' I'll see to it that that disobedient, impairtinant, ungrateful son of mine has sma' chance to get oot of it.”

McDonald drew himself up to his full height and glowered at the factor with brilliant eyes. “As fer settin' fute over yer duresill, Allan Duncan,” he said, “ye need have no fear I wud do ye that honor. Sooner than set fute in yer hoose, ye blasphemous worm, ye hireling tax-collector, I'd break my violin wi' ma ain hand, an' on that ye hae ma word an' oath, never fear—me, under yer roof! Factor Duncan, ye hae mair reason tae fear a daecent thought would come into yer kin head; but,” and he turned toward the boy, who, sobbing hoarsely, ground the scalding tears into his hollow eye-sockets with his too slender hands, “but, Tammas, lad, mebbe we'll tae Edinboro yet. Whaur I am ye can come tae me,” his voice softened, “but, as I waur sayin' when this Bull o' Basham, this Soundin' Brass interrupted me, yer ower young yet fer yer ta mak a deceesion. Gang awa' hame noo. Yer mither'll na' let yon bully hurt ye; an' if ye run, he canna catch ye. Quick, laddie, do as I tell ye—run awa' hame.”

Recognizing the immediate wisdom of this advice, Tommy, with a final gulp, took to his heels down the steep sheep-path toward the road. With many a backward-thrown curse, and many a shake of his clenched fist, his father followed.

Allistaer McDonald sighed, turned his back, bent above the open violin case, and lovingly restored violin and bow to its snug embrace. He closed the lid, snapped its catches, hefted its weight familiarly in his hand, and trudged off across the moors toward Tomantoul and his gaunt, unsmiling gray house.

A bare six weeks after this encounter Old Bounty had already opened the Cromdale carpenter's shop, waxed and cleaned its board floor, pushed back the long benches against the wall to serve as seats for his pupils, hung on its accustomed peg by the door the mahogany framed mirror, borrowed yearly from the Grant Arms, cleaned out the pipe, that the wood stove might burn warm and bright, and donned his official dancing costume black broadcloth, thin-soled French pumps, speckless linen, velvet waistcoat, and white lawn tie, counterpart of the minister's own, and an annual offense to that worthy gentleman. The first class of the year was in progress. Under the master's chin nestled the violin, in his hand he held the thwack bow—efficacious and strong, of ebony, with an ivory tip, an evil-omened object to the youngsters gathered before him.

“Some say the de'il is dead, de'il is dead, de'il is dead,” the inspiring tune leaped forth, setting little toes apointing and little fingers snapping as twenty looneys and lassies leaped and bounded in response to this hopeful surmise.

All the old pupils were back—all but one. Thomas Duncan's place was vacant. Allistaer's lips were grim as he looked over his pupils. But if his heart was sore, it did not prevent his giving to pupils of bountiful parents their full moneys' worth. Never had he been more exacting.

“Houich! Robbie Grant!” he snapped. “Pit yer fingers to yer hip wi' manner, wi manner, lad. Yer no pinchin' yer hip clean off! Look at Johnny Farres. This may be a carpenter's shop, but it's no wood yer tae be. Hech! hech!” he chuckled angrily, “yer points, lad, mind yer points! What for hae ye toes, do ye mind? 'Tae point wi', tae point wi, I say!”

With the suddenness and precision of a coachman's whip the thwacking bow shot out, descended with snapping force on Robbie's hip-clutching fingers, and flew back to the strings, never losing a beat. The culprit roared with pain.

“Wull ye mind yer points the noo?” demanded Allistaer, and Robbie, swallowing a howl, whirled with dainty toes till his kilts stood out stiff above his red legs.

With the fear of just retribution in its heart, the class strove strenuously, until the taskmaster nodded entire satisfaction and declared a recess. The gasping children ranged themselves along the walls, with sundry kicks and cuffs administered with caution and secrecy. Old Bounty crossed to the red-hot stove, and poured himself a generous potation, thinned by water from the singing kettle. His eyes softened, and he stood absently picking a tune, guitar-wise, on the strings of the beloved Guardinini, his long, thin foot gently tapping, his eyes staring vacantly at the upper end of the first bench. Robbie the wooden stirred uneasily under the stare, but he had his trepidation for his pains, for McDonald saw him not. He was thinking of the responsive tremulous boy who had sat there the three winters previous, and his heart was sad, for he had heard that Tommy was ailing—a cold, nothing to worry about, of course, but the lad was so lean and overgrown! Allistaer recalled with a pang the ungainly coltish joints, the narrow shoulders, the thin neck of his protégé. Meanwhile his fingers plucked at the strings. A melody was tugging at his subconsciousness. What was it? He groped for it, humming softly. Absently he laid down the heavy thwacker, and extracted the concert bow from its pegs. Aye! that was better. Presently the violin began a thin, eery, aching melody. Forgotten were the eager, impish children nudging each other on the whittled forms. Gone were the yellow pine walls of the carpenter's shop; even the steaming Scotch-and-water ceased to exist. Aye! that was it, the tune that had come to him out on the moors above Tomantoul that last day, when Tammas had declared his ambition and received its quietus.

An ill-suppressed giggle brought Bounty back to business. He passed a loving hand over the honey-colored surface of his instrument, mentally and quite unself-consciously begging its pardon for demeaning it to the utterance of reels and flings for unappreciative and unmanageable children. Methodically he replaced the slender bow, and with equal precision took out the thwacker, crossed the room, and with ceremonious thoroughness applied it to the head of the offending giggler.

“The reel,” he announced impersonally, “wull be the last dance of the aifternoon. Attention! Tak yer pairtners.”

Gleeful with the knowledge of nearing liberation, the reel was executed with perfection and grace. Old Bounty himself, in order to round out their numbers, footed it neatly with them, playing all the while.

The door opened, softly. A shawled figure slipped in and sank unobtrusively upon the bench. The reel went on, finished without a fault, and Allistaer stood aside, heels together, left thumb and forefinger between the second and third buttons of his waistcoat, awaiting the formal farewells of his charges, a homage he exacted as due both to their manners and his own worth. Never once did he glance at the shawled figure in the shadow. Voluminously coated, mothers and nurses called for and bundled up their perspiring charges, and after passing a few polite words with Allistaer, disappeared into the fast gathering murk of an early coming night, starred with the season's first snowfall. If they saw the waiting woman they gave no sign. If Margaret Duncan was by way of desiring speech with Allistaer McDonald, every one knew the reason. “Poor wumman, the factor was a hard man!”

WHEN the last parent had conveyed the last child into the outer darkness and the door closed on the deepening twilight of the big bare room, Allistaer turned with grave formality to his visitor and bowed, a very courtly obeisance. But Margaret Duncan's heart was too full for formalities. She came toward him with trembling eagerness. Her thin, emotional face was so like her son's in its appealing intensity that Allistaer winced.

“Mister McDonald,” she began, “it's a favor—a vera great favor—I'm wantin' for Tommy—it's for ma boy.”

It is with great regret that I learned of his sickness,” said Allistaer stiffly, “and if there's aught that I can do—”

“Oh, there is! there is!” she cried. “He's greetin' fer ye, Mister McDonald. He will na speak to his faither—he doesna ask fer me, his mither—he wants ye, Mister McDonald, and the fiddle—nicht and day, nicht and day he's calling fer ye and the fiddle music. I could bear it na mair. Will ye come, Allistaer McDonald, in the name o' God, will ye come?”

“Did Factor Duncan send ye here?” he demanded.

She shook her head and involuntarily glanced over her shoulder. “Na, na.” She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “He's at Advie, getting Doctor McQueen. Come now—now—oh, come! It's Tommy's mither beggin' ye.”

“Wumman,” he growled, and his voice was the harder for the pain the refusal caused him, “I swore tae yer husband that never wud I darken his dure nor pit ma fute across his threshold. The lad kens it—he will understand. Tell him I will wait fer him outside the dure.”

She gave a little despairing cry, and threw herself onto her knees. “But ye must. Ye must come! Mebbe it'll be the savin' of him, Ye canna ken how he's fain fer ye and the fiddle. I tell ye, it's like the possession they tell about in the Bible. What can ye care fer a word spoken in anger when the bairn is breakin' his puir hairt?”

“Ye must realize,” rasped McDonald, at his wits' end, and therefore driven to abstract argument, “that a mon's word, a mon's oath is the verra basis of all law an' order an' truth an' recht an' honor. No matter what it be, a mon's word comes first.”

“Are ye mad, to talk so?” interrupted Margaret Duncan wildly. “What has law an' order an' recht to do wi' it? I'm beggin' ye, fer the love of God an' the love of ma boy, to forget yer honor an' yer recht!”

“Oh, oh!” cried the distraught man. “If the minister shud hear ye!”

“If the minister shud hear me,” she stormed, “I'd tell him the same. Do ye think, Allistaer McDonald, that the Lord sets such store on a mon's word? If he did, every time ye damned and swore ye'd be in hell fire, as the Testament says in so many words.”

McDonald was stumped, but he could not at once accept this new gospel. He sought refuge after the manner of Adam. “Wumman, do not set temptation before me. It is not fer females to expound the law.”

“No,” her voice was shrill with pain, “no, it's fer the wummen to see their children suffer fer want of the common sense of men! It's fer wummen to greet—fer men to lose their tempers!”

“Wumman,” he exclaimed again, and then backing down, he collapsed heavily on the carpenter's bench and leaned his head on his hand.

MARGARET DUNCAN should have known better than to believe her cause was won. Bitter well she knew iron Scotch honor.

“Ye will! ye will!” she cried. “Oh, thank ye, fra' the bottom o' a mither's hairt, Allistaer McDonald.”

But he rocked from side to side, repeating, “I canna—I canna—I passed ma word. I took ma oath. Just tell the laddie, I'll be waitin' outside the dure.” Suddenly he straightened hopefully. “I hae it!” he cried, “I hae it! I did na swear I'd not go to the dure, or, mebbe the window. I'll play outside. Do you leave the window open or the dure ajar.”

He was already on his feet and reaching for his fur-lined overcoat—the cause of much uncomplimentary speculation in the parish. But Tommy's mother buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

“Hae ye no sense!—it's the pleurisy! How can I hae the dures ajar an' open the windows: Ye must come in an' bide in. Ye canna cut halvers wi' God!”

Allistaer sat down again brokenly, like a marionette whose strings are severed. “Ye canna understand!” he groaned. Something in his tone convinced even her determined hope. She rose from her knees, gathered her shawl about her, pulled down her knitted cap, and without a word, without a look, her fumbling fingers found the latch, and she was gone, leaving Allistaer McDonald alone with his thoughts.

Hour after hour he sat on the carpenter's bench in the darkness, staring blindly at the red bars of light the stove's isinglass eyes cast on the polished floor. Outside the wind of the rising storm shrieked and whined. The distant rush of the flooding river came to his ears in the dreary lulls; then the queer, minor hoot of the south-bound train from Elgin warned him of the hour—seven. The red glow had died down in the stove, black dark occupied the carpenter's shop from wall to wall and floor to ceiling—and its old companion, cold, fingered at casement and door, seeking entry.

Allistaer rose stiffly from the bench. He had seen a way, the only way, and he was ready to take it. Once his decision made, all else was simple. With firm fingers he struck a light, found and lit the stable lantern he was wont to use when belated, wrapped the violin with tender solicitude in the silken folds of a giant white silk handkerchief, snuggled it to rest, found his coat and tam, locked the shop door behind him, and faced the blustering outside world.

A JANUARY snow-storm that had lost its way and wandered into late November was in full blast. Old Bounty grinned sourly as he met the stinging gusts, shook his spare shoulders, pulled the disapproved-of fur collar high about his ears, and firmly set his face toward the Spey Bridge and Factor Duncan's house. The wind pushed at him, dissuading him from his purpose with shrieking protest. He strode on sullenly. In the thick fir woods of Langlie the tall tree-tops moaned and rocked together, waving distressed hands to a relentless sky. Out again in the open, beyond the sunken sheep pastures, by the blasted Hanging Tree of evil fame, he made his way, the elements in no greater turmoil than that which raged within him. At last he hypnotized himself into a thoughtless daze in which his plodding feet alone realized his destination.

On the right the rushing river roared suddenly under the old stone arch of the bridge; to the left branched the steep road to Tomantoul and his tall, unsmiling, gray home.

There was still time to save himself, but he never wavered. Across the bridge lights burned in the windows of the factor's house. They drew him swiftly on. He found himself before the green painted door with the neat brass plate that bore the name he loved and hated. He knocked methodically, without excitement or hurry, and a moment later stood bowing in the neat, narrow hall, facing the unbelieving eyes of Margaret Duncan. She put out a trembling hand and touched his sleeve, and assured of the reality of his presence, her fingers gripped him. Her mouth twitched, two tears fell and spread on her white fichu.

“The Doctor says, 'Mebbe yes, mebbe no.' I ken—ye can mak it yes. Listen! listen,” she said in a shaking voice.

From the floor above came a faint gasping singing—a wee thin breath of a broken tune. The humming stopped and a querulous, hoarse voice complained: “Hoo does it go? Hoo—does it go? I canna get it a'.” And again the little melody began and broke and ended.

Margaret Duncan sat down helplessly on a lower step of the stair and leaned her head against the newel-post.

Softly, McDonald took off his coat, unlatched the mighty galoshes from his feet, and carefully dried his hands before opening the violin case. Slowly he took out the golden Guardinini and held it lovingly for a moment. Again the broken little tune sounded from the room above—the melody that had come to him on the moors, that last day when he and the boy—

Gently he lifted the concert bow from its pegs. His lean fingers crept over the strings, finding them in tune. Then as the feverish utterance cracked into silence, the violin took up the strain. Soft as a benediction, the little aching melody rose and drifted through the house, bringing with it the sense of vast solitary moorland, the calm of sunset, peat-reek, and silence, the fluttering of fur and feather snuggling in the gloaming, gray-rose huddling skies and purpling heather. It drifted to a ghost and was still.

Came a whisper. “Mister McDonald, air ye there?”

“Aye, laddie,” said Allistaer, “I'm here, and I'm comin' ben.”

“Oh,” sighed the boy again, the light of recognition in his fever-bright eyes, as his hero entered the plain square bedroom. “Oh, Mister McDonald, I'd gien over hope, indeed, I had! Please, Mister Allistaer, play me tae sleep—he can, mither, I told ye he culd. Lift me high, and cover me warm—and listen.” A sudden gasp of fright escaped him. “Faither, where's faither?”

“Faither went out after the doctor left, laddie,” his mother reassured him. “He'll no hear. I'll watch below.”

TOMMY closed his eyes. Old Bounty lifted the honey-colored bow of magic, and the night was filled with music. Hours long he played, going from one simple air to another, worn familiar tunes, catching up and threading song on song—bits from many an outlandish opera, strains from little known or forgotten masters, improvisations of his own, and ever and anon the little tune about the moors of Tomantoul.

“I'll na dee, will I, mither?” asked the boy suddenly.

“Na,” said Old Bounty. “Laddie, hae ye fergotten that we're tae play duets? It's alive ye maun be to learn the cello, the dead hae no execution—dinna ferget that.”

“Mither,” he whispered, “Mister McDonald wants me tae learn the cello—did ye hear, mither, fer duets.”

“Aye,” chimed Allistaer, “duets.”

“I'll sleep now,” the boy announced, “but dinna ye stop playin', wull ye?”

“I'll no stop,” said Bounty, “while there's songs to play. Rest ye, laddie, rest ye.”

True to his word he played on, and long after the tired eyes had closed and the labored breathing had settled to a calmer measure. Bounty was saying good-by to his violin, which he had sworn he would sooner destroy than ever cross the Duncan threshold again. Twelve o'clock rang naggingly from the nervous dining-room clock, and Margaret Duncan's tortured mind suddenly fled from its present distress to a new anxiety.

“Whaur can himself hae gone to!” she whispered. For hours she had sat dreading the factor's return, now she trembled in fear of what might have befallen him. “On sic a nicht, she repeated. 'It's as wild as the de'il's own.” an awful thought assailed her. Perhaps he knew that McDonald, the fiddler, had dared his wrath and come into his house. Perhaps he would never come back at all! Her spirit cringed, then rose again in a burst of protest. Were all men fools and blind, she raged inwardly, to make gods of their tempers and Mede-and-Persian laws of their angry words?

Careless of the factor's coming, Allistaer played on. Little it mattered to him now when the clash should come. He would see to it that the boy for whom he was prepared to make his supreme sacrifice was not disturbed. Once outside the door, he would make good the word; that was all. But, as the night drew to its close and the first hour of the new day tinkled from the hysterical Victorian timepiece his nerves, too, began to tighten. What could be keeping the factor? Through the open bedroom door, he could see Margaret, haggard and worn, leaning over the banister, her eyes, from which the tears had burned away, staring down into the well of the hall. And still he played, and the boy slept, and Margaret stared at the door.

Through the thickness of double windows and storm-inclosed porches no sound crept in from the outer world; there was no warning when suddenly the door opened, and Factor Duncan, snow covered and stooped with weariness, stood in his own entryway. He was wet to the knees, even the bottom of his heavy gray overcoat was stiffly frozen. Under the arm he carried a package, and he stood glowering up at his wife with eyes that glinted beneath his tam-o'-shanter. Without word or sign he glowered, while the voice of the violin called through the house and echoed down the stair.

Perhaps a whiff of the cold incoming air warned McDonald that the hour of reckoning had come; perhaps it was a deeper, subtler intuition; at any rate, he knew. He stood very still for a moment caressing the golden violin, Then he crossed, and with an even gentler touch, brushed the hair of the sleeping boy. Turning away, he walked to the hall and down the stairs deliberately, ceremoniously.

THE factor looked the fiddler in the eye, and the fiddler continued to descend the steep stairs with regal presumption, neither a beat faster nor slower than was his wont, his unwinking gaze fixed with stern calm on the tired wind-whipped visage of his adversary. In the fiddler's hand was his beloved instrument, no longer carefully cradled, but, grasped by the neck like a tennis-racket, it hung at his side. True he had sworn to break it, but he had not stated what on.

“Tammas is sleepin',” he announced in an even voice, “an' if ye are lukin' fer yer recht, ye'll get it ootside.”

The factor gazed at him in silence.

Margaret, from her place in the shadow at the stair-top, started forward to claim her due share of blame, but stopped abruptly as McDonald continued: “I came with the full knowledge of what was said between us, Factor, and after due consideration. I told ye, shud I ever cross yer dure-step I'd break ma violin wi ma ain hand, an' that is ma intention the noe.”

“Mon,” said Duncan hoarsely, “ye dinna ken—I hae been tae Tomantoul this nicht tae fetch ye here.”

McDonald looked at him amazed. “Tae Tomantoul!” he repeated.

“Aye, I hae crossed yer ain dure-step, Allistaer McDonald, breakin' my oath fer love of yon laddie.”

“That has no way tae do wi' ma honor.” Allistaer glowered. “Ma word was passed an' ma oath sworn, an' ma word an' oath I keep! I cam here prepared tae break ma violin as I said I wud. I cam fer ma love of yon laddie, an' I'll pay ye fer it.”

Duncan held out a restraining hand. “Wait, Mister McDonald, before ye break yon music-box. Remember—remember—ye never said which fiddle.”

“I hae but one,” said McDonald stiffly.

“Na,” said Duncan, “ye hae twa, countin' this one.” He tore the paper wrappings from his parcel. A raw-red mahogany make-shift of a violin appeared. “And,” he complained angrily, “Jem-the-Poacher wus verra drunk at the Grant Arms, an' he made me pay twa guineas for the feckless thing!”

The factor and the outcast looked at each another.

“Yer recht,” said Allistaer slowly, “I did not say which one. And thank ye,” he added, with a last stab of wrath at the insults of the past, “fer yer bounty.”

“Yer na a vagabone,” said his host, eating his words like a bitter cud. “Allistaer McDonald, ye air an airtist.”