Magnus Merriman (33 page)

The next day, on his way to the Bu, Magnus met Peter and Alec coming down the farm-road beside a cart loaded with barbed-wire and fencing-posts. Peter let Alec go on alone and stayed to talk with Magnus.

‘Man,' he said, ‘I was just delighted to hear you were back. I've been expecting nothing else. After all that interest you showed in farming, and in the kye particularly, I knew fine you wouldn't long be happy in London. I said to the wife more than once, “You'll see Mansie back before the New Year. He'll no be satisfied till he's got a farm of his own and breeding his own beasts.” I saw that you'd taken a notion for it, and I knew it was just a question of time before you made up your mind. Man, you should have let me know you were coming home. That farm near Stromness, that I
told you about in the summer, was bought no more than a week ago. But we'll find something else for you, if you're wanting to start at once.'

‘That's very good of you, Peter,' said Magnus. ‘I was hoping that you'd help me. But I haven't quite made up my mind as to what I want yet.'

‘Just so, just so,' said Peter. ‘But there's two or three places in the market, and—let me see: this is the 18th—you've got ten days till the term, so if you're in a hurry you'll maybe find something to suit you before then, and you can get to work right away.'

Magnus, who had been thinking that perhaps Peter might be able to tell him of a cottage he could rent for the winter, was somewhat taken aback by the instant assumption that he intended to buy a farm. He had almost forgotten his enthusiasm of the summer, and now, while they stood in a cold wind that brought with it recurrent showers of colder rain, and the sky loomed black above them, the prospect of being a farmer was less attractive than it had seemed in the sunny spacious days of July. But Peter talked of a farm in the East Mainland, of another in Evie, and a third in the island of Stronsay, as though it were concluded that Magnus was going to take one of them. Peter had a quick and energetic nature. Where others would pause and consider the idea for weeks or even months, Peter would make up his mind in the morning and go off to buy his cow or sell it between dinner-time and tea. And sometimes his initiative paid him, and sometimes it did not. Now he was convinced that Magnus would be well advised to buy a farm at once, and he was already calculating, at current prices, the cost of stocking it.

That happened which had happened before, and as he talked Magnus, despite the weather, gradually became infected by his enthusiasm. The more he thought of it the more he became persuaded that if he was going to live in Orkney—and Rose elsewhere would be unhappy and ill-situated as Pocahontas at the court of James VI—the only sensible thing to do was to become a farmer. He remembered Peter's black cattle, the shining and magnificent Clydesdale mares at the Dounby Show. And
Rose would make a splendid wife for a farmer, though a poor and awkward one for a suburban author. Peter, moreover, would be well disposed to him if he agreed to buy such-a-place in Evie or what's-its-name in Stronsay, and he earnestly desired Peter's goodwill before telling him that he proposed to marry his daughter in something like an improper hurry. He grew light-hearted to think of the gamble that was offered him—opportunistic it might be, but still it was a gamble: a double gamble: a wife and a farm together, good Lord!—and whenever he became light-hearted his mind was made up.

‘Very well, then, Peter,' he said, ‘we'll go round tomorrow and look at the two places on the Mainland, and if neither suits me we might take a trip to Stronsay.'

‘That's fine, man,' said Peter. ‘Man, I couldna be more pleased though you made me a present of all three of them.'

‘And now,' said Magnus, ‘I've got a surprise for you. I want to marry Rose.'

Peter looked at him for a long time in silence. ‘Ay,' he said at last, ‘that is a surprise.'

Magnus waited.

‘You're sure of yourselves?' asked Peter.

‘Yes,' said Magnus, ‘we both want to get married, and we want to get married soon. Almost immediately.'

‘She's young,' said Peter thoughtfully, ‘but that's a mending fault.'

Then he said, ‘You'll not have spoken to her mother yet?'

‘Not yet,' said Magnus.

‘It'll fairly be a surprise for her. But you'll get settled in your new farm before you think of marrying?'

‘I don't see why we should wait for that.'

‘You're surely in an awful hurry,' said Peter, and his voice grew a tone less friendly.

‘Perhaps I'm being selfish,' said Magnus, ‘but Rose has agreed with me that there's nothing to be gained by waiting.'

‘And this is what brought you back from London?'

‘Well, partly.'

‘You'd better come up to the house and see the wife,' said Peter, and walked in silence back to Bu.

Mary Isbister took the tidings as a joke at first, and cried, ‘My mercy! Mansie's far too bigsy [Conceited] nowadays to marry a lass from hereabout!' But when Magnus assured her that he was in earnest she became too flustered to be coherent, and talked of this and that, and called Rose to come and tell them what it was all about, and scolded her for no reason, and again said that Magnus was having a joke at her expense, and began to speak of a sale of furniture that was advertised, and finished by laughing heartily and saying it was time indeed she had some more grandchildren, for her married daughter had only two bairns and James Robert in New Zealand, though married a year, had none at all.

Peter sat in his chair without speaking during all this discussion, and Rose stood almost as silent. But her aspect was more friendly than it had been on the previous evening, she smiled at Magnus, and though in some degree her shyness had returned, her affection for him became evident enough before the end of the parley. Magnus's spirit mounted high, and when at last an opportunity arrived to take Rose, without undue ostentation, to the empty ben-room, he found to his delight that she was almost as lovingly disposed towards him as she had been on that moon-lit night in the ruined broch. She told him, too, how glad she was that he had come so promptly in answer to her letter, for though she had never doubted his coming she had feared that business of some kind might delay him. Magnus told her that nothing on earth could have kept him from her, and won the reward of virtue that he had hoped for in vain on the night before.

He faced the necessity of telling Janet about his impending marriage with scarcely a qualm, but he was hard-pressed by his sister's arguments, and found it difficult to persuade her of the wisdom of his intention. Janet was ambitious for him, and though she was fond of Rose she did not think her good enough to marry Magnus, and she did not hesitate to say so. She talked of his books and of the name he had made for himself, and she spoke with such emotion that Magnus feared she was going to cry over him. He had never seen his sister in tears, and tears so foreign to her nature that he became acutely embarrassed by the prospect of her weeping, and argued with the greatest eloquence about the prudence
and sagacity and acumen of his decision. Willy came to his rescue with a series of questions about the farms that Peter had recommended, and the subject of the wedding gradually disappeared in the larger topic of agriculture.

On the following day Magnus hired a car from the garage in Dounby and drove with Peter to inspect the farm in Evie and that in the East Mainland. Both were large, as farms go in Orkney, and Magnus felt a proleptic pride of ownership as he walked the boundaries and pretended to be knowing about the condition of the land, the steadings, and so forth. A fleeting doubt assailed him that he could hardly afford a place so large as one of these, for when the cost of stocking it was added to the purchase price it made a total but little short of his entire capital. But farming was still a fairly profitable occupation in Orkney, no matter what it was in other parts of the country, and Peter had sold a hundred lambs for a good price only a few weeks before. So why should he hesitate at sinking his whole capital? He would be making a sound investment, and the larger the investment the larger the profits. Though Magnus was by no means an authority on financial matters he knew that that was a fundamental axiom.

Rose, however, had other ideas. She was indignant when she heard that Magnus was contemplating the purchase of so large a farm, and she declared that no power on earth would make her live either in that in the East Mainland or the nearer one in Evie.

‘But why?' asked Magnus.

‘Because you know nothing about farming, and you'd be ruined in a year if you went to a place of that size.'

‘I know a great deal about it,' said Magnus. ‘I don't pretend to be an expert, but I've a fairly good idea of the general principles and your father says that I'm a useful judge of cattle already. And he would help me if I were in difficulty about anything, and I daresay you know a lot about animals yourself.'

‘So you're depending on me and my father to do the work for you?'

‘Not at all. But I don't deny that I may want help occasionally.'

‘Why don't you take a small place to begin with, and then if you do well in it you can find a bigger one later on?'

Magnus admitted there was something to be said for this suggestion, but maintained that for several reasons the ownership of a large and handsome farm was preferable to possession of a small and narrow one. But Rose was not to be persuaded. Peter and her mother joined the discussion, and Rose revealed such decision, such knowledge of her own mind, that Magnus was amazed to find this wealth of determined character behind the front of shyness that was almost all he knew of her. He was compelled to admire her firmness, but he could not wholly exclude from his mind a small and vague feeling of uneasiness about it.

It appeared that Rose already knew the proper place for them. There was a little farm called Mossetter on the hillside no more than a mile from the Bu. It also was for sale. The man of Mossetter had died, there were no children, and his widow was going to live with her sister in Kirkwall as soon as she could dispose of the farm. Mossetter would suit them very well indeed, said Rose.

‘You didn't tell me about it, Peter,' said Magnus.

‘It's too small a place for my father to think about,' said Rose. ‘He's got grand ideas, the same as your own.'

‘Man, man,' said Peter, ‘Mossetter's not the place for you at all. There's no more than twenty-five acres of arable, and a small bit of outrun for sheep. You'll do no good at all there.'

‘It's Mossetter or nowhere,' said Rose.

After a great deal of argument Rose had her way, and a week later Magnus bought the little farm for £400. The widow had already sold off the stock except for a cow, a couple of sheep, and the hens. Magnus bought these and also such of the farm implements as Peter recommended. Peter relented when he saw there was no hope of fruition for his own ideas, and helped Magnus in the purchase of suitable stock. He sold him a good cow in calf and a yearling beast at a fair and even generous price.

But Rose's industry far surpassed Magnus's. She refused to have anything to do with the widow's furniture, and, taking her mother with her, she spent day after day in
Kirkwall buying chairs and lamps and linoleum and pots and pans and all the other things for which there is room in even the smallest of houses: and the dwelling-house of Mossetter was little enough. But for major articles of furniture she relied on the catalogues of greater firms than existed in Kirkwall. She had sent for these catalogues weeks before, and knew exactly what she wanted. She took no little pride in ordering a bed from London, and though she had insisted on Magnus being economical in his purchase of the farm, she proved somewhat extravagant in the purchase of furniture, and Mossetter had a rather crowded appearance when she had bought all she wanted.

It was Rose, too, who made arrangements for their names to be cried in the parish church, and though preparations for the wedding were mainly in her mother's hands, Rose directed them. Magnus proposed that the wedding should be as small and quiet as possible, but Rose declared she did not mean to be married as though she were ashamed to be seen in a veil, and proceeded to invite friends and relations from far and near.

Because of this bustle and busyness Magnus found few opportunities for private conversation with Rose, and even when he was alone with her she generally had some problem to discuss that interfered with the display of affection. She was clearly very fond of him, and well pleased that she was going to be married to him, but she appeared to treat her feelings with less indulgence than Magnus showed to his. She seemed, in fact, to believe that frequent embracing was a sign of moral weakness, and was often impatient with herself for yielding to an amorous temptation.

A few days before his wedding Magnus had the misfortune, while shaving, of cutting off a small pimple on his upper lip. The tiny wound became infected, and on his wedding morning he observed with extreme disfavour that the small but objectionable sore was no better. He felt far from well. He had slept poorly and he had a sour taste in his mouth. He considered the approaching ceremony without enthusiasm.

The postman brought him a few letters forwarded from
his London address. There was an invitation to dine in Kensington, an invitation to speak on
Modern Criticism
at a literary luncheon. A press-cutting agency sent three reviews of
The Returning Sun
, which had just been published. One was tolerant, one was severe, and the third endeavoured to be amusing at his expense. In the opinion of these three, at any rate,
The Returning Sun
was a failure.

There was also a copy of the
Morning Call
. Janet was responsible for its presence. She had carefully studied Lady Mercy's scheme for the distribution of free gifts to registered readers, and discovered that a year's subscription carried the bonus of a cottage-piano. It soon occurred to her that by paying a year's subscription in Magnus's name she could give him a very handsome wedding-present at a very trifling cost to herself, and being of an economical turn of mind—though generous in the acts of hospitality, that did not cost ready money—she took advantage of Lady Mercy's kind offer and Magnus now possessed a piano, somewhat damaged in transit, that neither he nor Rose could play. He was also assured of tidings from the outer world for twelve months to come. And as though for a marriage greeting the present copy contained a news item of particular interest.

On the back page there was the photograph of a newly-wedded couple with the caption below: Mr J. J. Chamberlain French and Miss Frieda Forsyth, of New York, after their marriage yesterday at the London Register Office. A brief paragraph on an inner page repeated the information that Miss Forsyth was an American, and added that Mr French had resigned his commission in the Guards, and the bride and bridegroom were sailing in the
Empress of Britain
on its third luxury-cruise round the world.

Among a variety of minor sensations Magnus's predominant feeling was amusement: not, however, the robust after-dinner merriment of bachelor-parties, but something akin to the weak laughter of a convalescent. Frieda had got her man, and even if she failed to keep him he could not desert her without proper compensation. And Frieda, whose fate had so troubled him, was going round the world in luxury, while he was about to settle himself in a small farm in Orkney. It was clearly an occasion for laughter, and had he been feeling
better he might have laughed more heartily. But owing to his
malaise
there was a certain frailty in his amusement.

Magnus's brother Robert, the schoolmaster in South Ronaldsay, had come to be his best man. It was Janet who had insisted on his being asked to perform the service, for Magnus had no great friendliness towards his brother, who was a dull and disagreeable person. But Janet maintained that it was his privilege to be best man, and Magnus's duty to ask him to accept the office. So Robert had arrived and Magnus found his company not the least of his burdens.

In the early afternoon Robert discovered the press-cuttings and read them. ‘These people don't seem to think much of that poem of yours,' he said.

‘No,' said Magnus.

‘It's a pity,' said Robert.

‘I don't care a damn what they say.'

‘But they form public opinion, don't they?'

‘To hell with public opinion.'

‘Well, perhaps you can afford to say that now. I don't suppose public opinion matters much to a man farming twenty-five acres of land in the middle of Orkney.'

‘No, and your opinion doesn't affect me either.'

‘If you had asked it earlier,' said Robert, ‘I would certainly have advised you against this absurd idea of becoming a farmer. However, I suppose it's too late to say anything now.'

‘Look here,' said Magnus, ‘will you mind your own business? I know perfectly well what I'm doing, and I'm doing it because I want to, and for no other reason.'

‘Oh,' said Robert. ‘I assumed you were marrying Rose because you had to.'

Magnus lost his temper. ‘I've never done anything in my life because I had to do it,' he shouted. ‘I do as I please and I always have done as I pleased. Because you're one of nature's conscripts you think that everyone else must act as though circumstances were a sergeant-major and the whole world a Prussian parade-ground. But I'm not a conscript: I'm a volunteer and I always have been!'

Magnus paused. His rodomontade was growing dangerous. The military metaphor might be extended and his
marriage be said to resemble confinement to barracks. But Robert failed to observe his opportunity.

‘You're a dull fellow,' said Magnus.

‘I'm quite content to be what I am.'

‘I know you are. Let's have a drink, and forget it.'

But Robert refused to drink, so Magnus took his own dram and that which he had poured for Robert as well, and felt more cheerful because of them.

The marriage ceremony took place in the ben-room at the Bu, and the number of people who contrived to be present in that little space was remarkable. Yet they were only a small proportion of the guests. Others filled the passage outside or stood in the garden and peered through the windows. There were more in the kitchen, and still more in the barn that had been cleared for dancing. And through the gathering darkness late-comers were approaching the Bu from all directions, some on foot and some on bicycles, some in motor cars and a few in old-fashioned gigs. Rose was to be gratified in her desire for a large and popular wedding.

She made a charming picture in her bridal array, and bore herself with such dignified composure that, in comparison, Magnus's behaviour seemed to be merely an improvisation of the bridegroom's part. Rose received congratulations as one accustomed from early childhood to a multiplicity of compliments, but Magnus endeavoured to minimize the seriousness of the occasion by a jocular acceptance of all the well-wishing.

The marriage service was but a minor part of the celebrations. The minister left before the last guest had arrived, and feasting and dancing continued till the tardy dawn. Mary Isbister and her assistants had prepared such vast quantities of food as might have served for a siege. Sheep had been killed, poultry slaughtered without ruth or counting, puddings made, bread baked, ale brewed enough to drown a horse, whisky bought, cakes and biscuits had been bought, and the bride's cog prepared with such heat, richness, potency, and savour that the mere perfume, as it was borne from mouth to mouth, fortified the senses and was carried in a sweet breeze of intoxication to the barn where the fiddlers waited.

Except for the busy women who filled and replenished the tables, a fine air of leisure characterized the early behaviour of the guests. The night was before them, and while they waited their turn to eat they stood in little groups in the barn, at the house-end, in the yard—for the night was fine though cold—and gossiped and drank the ale that was brought to them. But a richer atmosphere enfolded them when dancing began, and the fiddlers' music quickened their blood, and the ale came faster.

Rose danced as vigorously as though she were already lightened of her child, and Magnus, who had drunk liberally and often, forgot his
malaise
, and threw off his coat, and clasped whatever girl was nearest, and felt that a wedding was the finest way of spending a night he had ever found. Then he grew thirsty and went indoors. Peter was sitting with half a dozen men of his own age and three or four stout, brisk, and talkative women.

‘Come away, Mansie,' he said, and made room for him, and gave him a glass of whisky. ‘Man, we were just talking about the old days and the hard drinking there was in Orkney. My father used to tell about a wedding in Hoy when they brewed far stronger ale than they do nowadays, and some time after their tea all the men went outside together to settle an argument about which of them were fou' and which were still sober. And some said the moon was rising in the east, and some in the west. And they werena fou'. And some said there were two moons in the sky. And they werena fou' either. But one man said there was no moon at all, and
he
was fou': he was damn fou', fair fou', fine fou', skin fou', blin' fou', and fou' altogether.'

‘He must have been like Peter o' Taing,' said an old man with blue eyes and a white beard. ‘He's dead now, but he lived to a great age. I mind him saying once—and he was fou' at the time—“Man, I've only got one vice, but it's given me more pleasure than all my virtues”.'

Then someone remembered that Peter o' Taing had once been asked at what age a woman would no longer take a man, and he had answered, ‘So long as her shin will bleed I wouldna trust her.'

The conversation grew Rabelaisian. A succession of ripe
anecdotes followed this story, and all the dead worthies of the country were remembered, their eccentricities recalled, their quips and the quirks of their robust independence recited with deep relish. A new ambition revealed itself to Magnus while he listened to these tales, and he thought how enviable was a rustic immortality. His mind leapt forward and he greatly desired that in time to come his jests and the oddities of his behaviour would be remembered and woven to a legend. He would cultivate a humorous eccentricity; he would be unorthodox and witty; in his old age he would be a notable figure in the country and his conversation would bristle with memorable remarks; he would, in fact, prepare to become a tradition. But while he was meditating how to set about it, and when he had but finished his second dram, Rose came in to look for him, and said that she hoped he hadn't been drinking too much, and took him away to dance again, and was no sooner dancing with him than she complained about the odour of whisky on his breath.

‘It'll be worse by morning,' said Magnus, and lifted her briskly round in a Highland Schottische.

The barn was now like the inside of a smoky lamp on a summer evening when the moths, maddened by the light, have come to dance in the round globe. It was hot as a lamp, noisy, full of ceaseless movement and a smoky yellow light. Red faces shone with sweat and the girls' bright frocks were creased and crumpled. But the fiddlers played with a tireless spirit and ale was there for all who wanted it.

Magnus went outside to cool himself and met a man called Jock of the Brecks whose wife, some little time before, had taken him home and put him to bed thinking he had drunk enough and might disgrace her if he were allowed to drink more. But Jock was a shrewd fellow, amiable in his temper yet not easily discouraged. He had agreed to go to bed, and then, as soon as his wife had left him, he got up again, and dressed himself, and took his bicycle and put a bottle of whisky in his pocket and returned to the wedding as fast as he could. Now Magnus took a drink from his bottle and told him he had done well. And Jock had a drink himself and invited some other men, dimly seen in the darkness of the yard, to join them and drink also. The party grew and
Jock's story induced such merriment in them that a witty fellow called Johnny Peace began to make a song about it, and declared that with another dram or two to help him he would make a very good song indeed. Then Magnus said that he would sing a song, and gave them the scandalous ditty of
Reilly's Farm
. This jocular noise attracted more people, and presently there were almost as many men listening to him as there were dancing. So Magnus sang, for an encore, the dolorous but robust ballad of
Samuel Hall
, and the sonorous notes of its vindictive refrain echoed magnificently about the yard.

During the penultimate verse Rose interrupted the recital. She thrust her way through the audience and taking Magnus firmly by the arm bade him to come with her.

‘Do you think that's the way to behave at a wedding?' she demanded.

‘It's my wedding as well as yours,' said Magnus, ‘and I'm going to enjoy myself.'

‘You've had your last drink for this night,' said Rose, ‘except a cup of tea.'

But already the full darkness of night was fading, and sombre grey was creeping into the sky. Rose went to change her dress and Magnus to make ready for their journey. A honeymoon is not usual among the Orkney farmers, but Magnus had determined to take Rose to Edinburgh for a week. He was not ashamed of his bride, and he was going to show that he wasn't ashamed of her. They were to cross the Firth that morning.

The remainder guests were breakfasting when they left. A short distance from the house their car stopped beside a man, one who had lately been dancing and drinking most vigorously, who now was faring homewards, slowly but resolutely, on his hands and knees. Magnus got out and asked if he needed help.

‘Is this the road to Birsay?' asked the crawler.

‘Yes,' said Magnus. ‘But you've six miles to go.'

‘It's early yet,' said the crawler, and plodded on.