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Updated: June 26, 2025
Wullie's words comforted her, gave her a sense of security as she sat at his side toasting fish for the last time and eating the cake that somehow did not taste quite so good as usual. As she said good-bye to him before she went the round of the village bidding everyone good-bye, something impelled her to kiss his brown cheek.
He paused, and moved impatiently. "It's hard to piece thoughts together when you're weak. Can you finish my thought for me, Marcella? It's getting muddled down under sand and stones like Castle Lashcairn under Lashnagar." Marcella hesitated. Then she told him Wullie's idea about the path. "He says other things beside God walk along our lives, but in the end God's footmarks burn out all the rest."
Many a time in the sun-drowned days and windless nights Marcella was reminded of those old tales she had heard on Lashnagar from Wullie's lips, of the hot summer when the witch-woman came and men went mad just before the destruction came on the village. It was as though the Oriana went on ploughing through the waters, with the Dog-Star hitched to her masthead inflaming men's blood.
She shivered to think of Wullie's brother Tammas and his son Jock out fishing in the night with icy salt water pouring over chafed hands, soaking through their oilskins; she cried after a savagely silent meal of herrings and oatcake when she had not noticed what she was eating, to think of the villagers with nothing but herrings and oatcakes. She hated to think of things hungry, things in pain.
He told her that Jock had been washed from his little boat one rough night, and his body had never been found. The reek of the green wood fires came to them on the salt breeze. "What's that remind you of, Louis?" she asked him. "Gorse!" he said with a grimace. "I love it!" she said simply. The door of Wullie's hut stood open. He was silhouetted dark against the light within. The doctor drew up.
Marcella was very sympathetic but quite unhelpful, and after a while got away and went below to arrange her things in her cabin. It fascinated her; it was quite the smallest thing she had ever seen, much smaller than Wullie's hut, and the shining whiteness of the new enamel particularly appealed to her, though the smell of it was not very pleasing.
But probably it is quite worth consideration by those with large families." Marcella was crying as she banged open the door of Wullie's hut. "I thought ye'd be coming, Marcella," he said, looking at her with mournful brown eyes that recalled Hoodie's. "Jock's wife's made ye a seed cake to eat the day, and anither tae pack in yer grip.
She had often cooked on Wullie's open fire at Lashnagar, and Louis quickly explained that he would make a bush oven outside. Neither of the rooms leaning against the kitchen had any furniture, but Mrs. Twist seemed to have laid in a whole ship's stores of navy hammocks, which she said they could have until Louis had carpentered bed for them.
Marcella, standing by Wullie, was shivering with nervous dread, and suddenly noting his red-rimmed eyes, blazing and wild, she clutched Wullie's arm. "Wullie look at him!" she whispered. "He's been at the bar'l," muttered Wullie, and with a cry she started forward. But Wullie caught her back gently.
I like to think that Wullie's an example of the law of compensation and, by losing physical strength and beauty, has gained a beautiful soul. But for the Lord's sake don't go telling anyone I a doctor talked such arrant nonsense," he added with a laugh as he puffed at his pipe. "It seems wrong to me," said Marcella slowly.
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