CHAPTER XXXI.
A CATECHIST.
Mr. Geddie parted from his companions in the village, and finding he had missed the Laird, set forth on a solitary walk back to Auchlippie. It had been but a sorry day's work, with much that was painful in its course, and no good done to show for it. He sighed as he passed in the waning light the remembered landmarks of the morning, and recalled the very different state of feeling in which he had then remarked them. The light had faded in himself as well as in the sky overhead. Then, was he not going forth in his might? a Gideon in armour to vanquish the armies of the aliens? or Ithuriel, perhaps, his bright pinions flashing in the sun, the long sharp spear of truth in his hand, gleaming like a star, and ready to pierce through sin and falsehood? Now it was different. The spear was blunted or had lost its point, the wings hung limp and useless from his shoulders, and the feathers were all in disarray, like some poor game-bird worsted in the fight, or caught in heavy rain; the gay plumage draggled pitifully and dim, the neck and tail, that erst stood so erect, now drooping and forlorn in wisps of humiliation. The day had faded and the sun had gone down. It was a new chapter added to his ministerial experience. Alas, for the persistency of the besotted human heart in sin, and its callous insensibility to words in season, spoken in love and faithfulness. Mankind must be wickeder even than he had thought, and he had been taught to believe in their total depravity. It never occurred to him that there might be some mistake. The accusers comprised nearly the whole body of office-bearers in the church--the excellent of the earth, men with the same 'views' and shibboleths as himself; and more than that, most attentive hearers and great admirers of his preaching--the strongest possible proof in favour of their credibility and soundness of judgment. He felt fully justified in adopting their suspicions and accepting them as certainties--facts either already established or about to be proved, and then with the characteristic tenacity of the clerical mind, he held them fast. It was true that this accused brother had hitherto led an exemplary life, that, refusing opportunities of greater ease and emolument, he had declined to be a candidate for more than one city charge, and that his life in the parish had hitherto been an almost apostolic example of all the charities and virtues; still, to err was human; and had not the most conspicuous saints been permitted at times, (doubtless for wise purposes and the good of their souls, in saving them from spiritual pride), to fall into grievous sin? 'Humanly speaking,' and 'to the eye of sense,' the man's whole walk and conversation' stamped the charge with improbability. But what was that to the theologian equipped at all points to contend with error? The doctrine of total depravity removed all difficulty on that point, and the more improbable from a mere worldly point of view, the more likely it became when attributed to a wile of the enemy. He felt that his erring brother must have been over confident, hence his fall. Still it was a new view of total depravity, and an appalling one, that it should have been able to withstand his preaching. He went over in his mind all the telling things he had said, and considered how they might have been intensified, but he found that he could have added little to their force. And yet all had been in vain. His words had fallen like drops of rain on the flinty hardness of that obdurate heart, and failed of any effect. It was a bitter experience, but he resolved to profit by it, and as he went along he thought over the heads for a discourse to backsliders, in which this sad incident should be introduced, and might perhaps even turn to good in the end, if it warned some wayward sheep to retrace his steps.
Thus meditating, Mr. Geddie beguiled the time away. He had come within sight of Auchlippie gate, whence Joseph Smiley was issuing at that moment, and coming towards him. Joseph descried his reverence simultaneously, and prepared for an interview by passing his sleeve across his lips. 'I wuss he mayna be findin' out the dram on me,' he muttered to himself; but added reassuringly--'Hoot, no! They're glaiket bodies thae ministers! They wadna ken their ain parritch gin ye didna haud the spune fornent their nebs.'
'Well, my friend!' said Mr. Geddie, with outstretched hand and a condescending smile. 'I am glad to have another opportunity of speaking to you. That was a very sad meeting at which I saw you give your evidence yesterday--a sad and a humbling investigation!'
'Hech, sir, an' it was a' that. Terrible backslidings were na they, sir? But ye see, sir, it's just the flesh 'at's sae weak. We canna a' houpe to be strong in the word, an' able to resist, sir, as ye can, an' sae there's aye some o' 's gettin' a tum'le.'
'I fear, my friend, I must not venture to rejoice in my strength,' replied the minister, much gratified, and smiling with pensive radiance, as one who, after long neglect, is appreciated at last. 'It is humility alone that can hope to pass scatheless along the seductive paths of life.'
'Deed ay, sir. Let him 'at thinks he's stan'in' tak tent he dizna fa', says Scripter. We're but puir craeters! That's me an' my likes, I mean, sir. As for a godly minister an' a powerfu' preacher, wha's praise is in a' the churches, I wadna venture to say the like o' him.'
'I fear we are all alike, Joseph! (is not that your name?) said Mr. Geddie, slowly shaking his head, and blushing with pleasure so far as his drab and yellow complexion would allow. 'I fear we are all alike,' he repeated, still toying with the sweet morsel before he swallowed it.
'Ou ay, sir! Dawvit was a man, an' sae was Sant Paul! A man of like paussions, an' sae aiblins a body micht ventur to say o' yersel'; but it's terrible odds atween the likes o' ye, an' hiz 'at's creepin' on wur bellies, as I may say, just worms o' the dust!'
'Alas! alas! Joseph, there are no exceptions! Just look at the unhappy man who has created so sad a scandal in this very parish!'
'Nae doubt, sir, an' I'm wae to think o't. But after a' he's but young--an' he's no ordeened--an' ye ken, sir, his faither was a moderate! That maks a terrible odds! What says Scripter? "The faithers hae aeten soor grapes," (gye an' like the grosets, I'm thinkin', afore they're just ripe), an the bairns' teeth is set on edge. (I see na sae weel what that means, but I'm thinkin' it's just 'at it gars their rotten teeth dirl). An' again the sins o' the faithers on the children til the third an' fourth generation. Hech, sirse! It's weel for me my granny wasna a moderate! an' as for my faither, I ne'er heard tell o' him.'
'Yes, Joseph! (I believe I am right in calling you Joseph?) But you have a fine lively knowledge of Scripture, and I think--I hope--I may almost say I am sure, from what I have seen, that the root of the matter is in you. Now, my friend, would you not like to come forward openly, to take a plainer, bolder, stronger, nobler stand for the truth? Does not your heart burn within you? when you see this glen and other glens too, my brother, there are so many other glens, given over to sin and worldliness, or it may be to moderatism--as soul-destroying an error as any of them. Does not your heart burn within you? And do you not feel constrained to cry aloud--"Here am I, send me?" To put it to you in plainer, if less moving words, how would you like to be a catechist?'
Joseph's heart did indeed burn at the suggestion, though not perhaps exactly in the sense intended by Mr. Geddie. It had been promotion for him when he was made beadle and appointed to carry the great Bible up and down the pulpit stairs,--a ministrant, and in his own opinion an essential one, in all the public functions of religion; and he loved to skip about among the hushed and reverent worshippers, showing one where he might sit, and admonishing another to behave. But what was all that to being a catechist? which was 'the next door,' as he told himself, 'to a minister a' thegither;' not merely to go up the pulpit stairs, but to go into the pulpit and sit down, while future beadles would meekly follow, and close the pulpit door behind his reverence. It was too delightful! An utterly beatific vision! He had just parted from Jean Macaulay, and his mind had been full of schemings how to secure her for a wife. But would Jean make a help-meet for a catechist? Even with Elspeth's croft and her savings, he feared Jean would scarcely be equal to that higher sphere; and before even he had replied to Mr. Geddie, he had almost made up his mind that she would not suit.
'Aweel, sir! there's nae misdoubtin' but it wad be a preevilege to be layin' out the truith afore the neglecket puir. But whaur was't ye was wantin't for?'
'There is a neglected district along the coast, where the people are too poor to support a minister; but yet they should not be left a prey to Erastianism, and it has been proposed to send some pious man to labour among them who would read to them and talk to them, enlighten them on Free Church principles, and address them occasionally. How would the work suit you? And would you like to give it a trial?'
'Aweel sir! I wad like weel to be direckin' the puir bodies the gate they suld gang. An' what's the waages, sir? Or I'm thinkin' I hae heard tell it's saalary ye ca' a catechist's pay, being mair honorable.'
'About thirty pounds a-year we think we could raise. You would live among them, of course, and you would find it a most interesting and constant employment. I should think for an earnest and active man like you it would be the very thing.'
'But thirty pound the year's no twal shilling e'y week, an' the folk ye say's puir, an' gin a man gaed out an' in amang them, he beut to help them whiles wi' siller. I see na hoo yer catechist cud do't at the price.'
'Think on the privilege, Joseph! And if you do well no doubt we will be able to find higher work for you.'
'Ay! But a man canna just eat an' drink his preevileges, an' he canna sell them for siller to buy shune! I'm but a bederal, sir, but week out an' week in, it 's liker twunty shillin's, what I can mak atween that an' my tred.'
'Well! we must think it over, Joseph, and you can write to me what you think you could undertake the work for, and we'll consider how much we can give. Mr. Sangster! I am so sorry to have missed you, but I understood you had gone home.'
'I have been waiting for you at the inn for an hour past. Never mind! get in now.'
The Laird in his gig had driven up during the negotiation with the proposed catechist. He now caught up Mr. Geddie, and left Joseph in the middle of the road to pursue his reflections.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHANGES.
Three weeks passed after the sitting of the Congregational Council which had agreed that there was a 'fama clamosa' in the parish. The Presbytery had sat with closed doors to consider the case. It had adjourned, and met again to further consider, decide, and order under the circumstances. Enquiry into the facts, and such like trifles, would come later, when the evidence for the prosecution was matured. Clearly there could be no defence until there was an indictment, a defence in its very nature being a reply; and until the thesis of accusation could be formulated, there was nothing to reply to. Wherefore Mr. Brown could not be heard either in person or through his friends at this early stage of the proceedings. Still he was suspected, though not formally accused; and, although he possessed the common right of all men to be deemed innocent till found guilty, he was by no means in the position of an innocent man. The immortal interests of the Free Church adherents in the Parish of Kilrundle were at stake, and could by no means be left for a single day exposed to the influence of a perhaps improper person. He had been notified to discontinue his duties till further notice, and another young man had been sent to fill his place, as well as (but these were his private instructions from the leaders and wire-pullers who guided the Presbytery's movements) to act as amateur detective in ferreting out evidence for the prosecution, which, singularly enough, was yet too defective to warrant bringing the case into court.
There is no power like a democracy for precipitate and arbitrary action. The units composing it so fully realize their authority, and so like to exercise it; while, being many, and co-ordinate, they have little or no sense of individual responsibility. They propose, vote, and order, each in obedience to his individual whim or impulse, and imagine that they are doing great things; but it is the body corporate, the official abstraction, which is left to bear the blame when justice or policy miscarry. In this respect, if in no other, the one-man power has the advantage, the king or bishop is personally identified with each transaction of his reign, and when a failure occurs he feels himself personally discredited; he has therefore the strongest incentive to walk circumspectly, that he may not have hereafter to retrace his steps, while with popular assemblies, a reversal of policy or a change of front is immaterial, so long as the majority has its way.
Roderick, therefore, being suspected, was now placed under a vigorous taboo--boycotted we would have called it thirty-five years later, but boycotted under a wisely modified form. Ebenezer Prittie or Peter Malloch would still have been happy to sell him all they had in their shops,--at a proper advance on cost--seeing that the coin of an excommunicate is no worse than other people's, and money, however come by, is 'all right,' as Vespasian found out long ago. There was no fear, therefore, of his being starved out so long as he continued able to buy. But intercourse with his parishioners had come to an end. Some few were veritably unwilling to have dealings with iniquity, but the majority dared not offend public opinion by appearing to hold communication with him; and these secretly knowing the shakiness of their own principles were the loudest in denouncing any one who should venture to approach the Browns, thereby contributing much of the strength of that public opinion which tyrannized over themselves. The only exceptions were Roderick's pensioners. These, defying the censorious, presented themselves in shy and deprecatory fashion (deprecatory alike to the offended righteous without, and to the indignant and maligned within), each as his pay-day came round. The money had become an established item in their income, which those who disapproved would assuredly not make good; wherefore, they felt constrained to revisit the flesh pots. After all, even if the worst were true, what was it but a spoiling of the Egyptians? A perfectly allowable, perhaps a praiseworthy act, which Moses himself had suggested, and even recommended to the chosen people of old. They took the money, therefore, in defiance of such as shook their heads, and, finding it retained its old purchasing power, were none the worse.
The days dragged wearily along for Roderick and his sister. October, which began in summer sunshine, relieved but not chilled by bracing airs, was waning in cloud and gloom; dull foggy days of rain, or windy tempests ending in early frosts. The sick room was close and damp. The ruddier the blaze upon the hearth, the stronger the flavour of mould and damp drawn out from the oozy walls and cold clay floor. The chamber would grow close but never warm, and the capacious chimney seemed powerless for ventilation, and served only as an escape for the heat. After undergoing the visitation of Mr. Geddie and his companions, Roderick had had a return of his more serious symptoms. Indignation and outraged feelings sent the blood boiling in stormy tumult through his veins, and he was not weak enough to obtain the relief of tears. Self-respect required him to preserve calmness before the friends who were with him; and his irritation, deprived of vent in speech or action, settled in the morbid part of his system, and rekindled the expiring inflammation in his chest. He was therefore a prisoner once more to his bed, when he would gladly have been removing himself from the scene of his mortifications, and had no alleviation save the visits of Kenneth and the Laird; but these were frequent.
Whenever other matters brought the former to the village he made a point of calling to enquire; and it was remarkable how frequently business demanded his presence there at this time. During the first week the gossips observed him ride three alternate days down their street, and the traders began seriously to consider whether they could not so improve their stocks as to tempt some share of the Inchbracken petty custom from Inverlyon. After that, however, his visits became daily, there was no longer even a pretence of other business, and Ebenezer Prittie abandoned the hope of supplying the Drysdale property with nails and ironmongery. Kenneth was sincerely interested in his friend's health, and sat sympathizingly by his bedside, but the patient was not able to talk much, and even if he had been, was forbidden to try. He was often drowsy, too, and sometimes slept, owing to the restless wakefulness of his nights. It fell, therefore, on Mary to make the conversation, a duty which she fulfilled apparently to their mutual satisfaction, seeing that the visits grew more frequent and of longer and longer duration. What they found to talk about no one can say, for their voices were pitched in the lowest tones--of course that the patient might not be disturbed; and apparently he was not, if we may judge from the ease with which he soon fell into an established routine. He would welcome his visitor with a cordial handshake, answer the regulation questions about his health, hear any little item of news that might be stirring, and then calmly close his eyes, and turn round for another nap.
When two people find pleasure in each other's conversation, surrounding circumstances are of little account. The most momentous questions have ere now been asked and answered during the gyrations of a waltz, or the intervals of a square dance. Pyramus and Thisbe were happy in whispering to each other through the chink in a paling, and my neighbour next door used to save shoeleather by chatting to a young lady at the other end of the town down the pipe of a telephone. That turned out badly, however, in the end, as one night his soft engaging whisper was replied to in the gruff and stormy tones of papa! who bade him have done with his nonsense, or he would put the d--d wire out of the house! He had done something of the same kind to my poor friend already. It was nothing new, therefore, if these two young people forgot for the time the stuffy little room in which they sat, and the gruesome army of medicine bottles, getting more and more numerous every day. They were as utterly content as though they had been sitting under one of the great shady trees of Eden, with only birds, flowers, and tame lions to listen to their discourse. The flowers, at least, they had in ever increasing profusion, as poor Colewort knew to his cost, in the sad devastation that fell on his most sacred preserves in the greenhouses of Inchbracken. Their sweetness brought something like the freshness of spring, (or was it only of hope?) into that close and frowsy place; even the fumes of damp and mouldiness fled before the breath of these children of dew and sunshine.
At length there came a day, after many others that had been made bright with flowers, and fragrant with sweeter words, when Kenneth brought nothing in his hand but a bunch of violets, which he told her his mother had sent. A slip of paper was tied to them on which was written, 'For dearest Mary.' 'And so you may know, Mary,' he said, 'that everything between us is known at home, and you will be made welcome. My mother will come and see you, or if that cannot be managed she will write to you, after you have left Glen Effick; and I think you will overlook her not coming here. After the decided stand our family has taken against this church secession, she would rather not do that; and as you are going to be one of the family yourself, you will not wish us to stultify ourselves. That is what the old gentleman calls it at least, though I daresay it is nonsense. Still, he is an old man, and he is going to be very fond of you, so we must humour him.' There came a tear in Mary's eye, a smile to her lip, a blush, and words presently. She said exactly what was prettiest and nicest, or so thought Kenneth. Every nice girl knows what the words would be, they were just what she would say herself on a like occasion. As for the men, they will hear them, each for himself let us hope, when the time comes; therefore let us not rub the bloom from the plum by unwise anticipation.
The visits of the Laird were somewhat less frequent; but he was fortunate in always finding Roderick awake, and, after the first few days following the relapse, eager to converse; and as the visits were repeated two or three times a week, an intimacy sprung up between the two men which had not existed before. The Laird was pleased to find what he had not hitherto looked for, a sound and mature judgment and abundant common sense where he had been wont to expect only pious good intentions and a youthful enthusiasm, beautiful and interesting enough but somewhat raw, and needing much of the pressure of time and circumstance to squeeze out the green and vapid whey of youth and inexperience. Roderick was equally surprised to find that the husk of hard dry business shrewdness, which he had hitherto looked upon as the man himself, was but the dried or hardened scars or cicatrices of rubs and bruises long since endured by a true and gentle nature, now healed and wholesome, and that beneath the somewhat repulsive exterior, there were rich stores of experience, charity and christian wisdom. Heretofore their intercourse had consisted in visits from Roderick to Auchlippie on parochial business; and on these occasions Mrs. Sangster in her character of Mother in Israel, high patroness and Lady Bountiful to the congregation, was always present. It might be Roderick who proposed the subject to be considered or it might be the Laird, but at the first opening Mrs. Sangster would take up her parable, and after that there was little opportunity for any one else to slip in a word even edgewise. She loved the sound of her own sweet voice better than any other music, and with a silent, perforce an attentive audience, her periods would swell and round themselves with evangelical commonplaces, and a general overflowing of conventional piety. When his lady opened her mouth on any subject, it was the Laird's practice to close his for good and all; that was his mode of fulfilling the apostolic precept to honour the weaker vessel. Had he spoken, he would have been compelled to distinguish and except, to rip up sophisms and show that the conclusion arrived at was not deducible from the premises stated, and endless altercation would have ensued. Wherefore, like a sensible man, he held his peace, and left his fair partner to discourse at her own sweet will. When, also, it became necessary for him to express his own views, he would do it in the dryest, clearest, and most concise form, leaving no room for question or debate from his better and more loquacious half. It was therefore as if for the first time that these two met and became acquainted in that sickroom; and the discovery each made of the other was an unexpected happiness to both. Timidly and doubtfully Roderick would sometimes bring the conversation round to Sophia, but it was in a diffident and uncertain way. He hungered to hear or talk of her, but as regarded his hopes and aspirations he felt bound to keep silence. His instinct of what was fitting withheld him from attempting to entangle his friend in his more genial moments, in any kind of promise or consent, so long as a breath, however groundless, hung over his reputation. It was true that the Laird did not believe a syllable to his disadvantage, but on that very account he felt so deeply indebted to him, when all the world beside had turned its back, that he could not take advantage of the old man's goodwill.
Whether the Laird saw more than Roderick put in words, it would not be easy to say; but it is certain that at that time an understanding sprung up between himself and his daughter which had not existed before. He had hitherto regarded her simply as a child, female child, belonging to his wife, and rather a dull one as that. It now first seemed to dawn on him that she was a woman, a distinct person, and his own daughter, and that it was in her to become the dearest companion of his life. What he may have known of her relations with her mother, incident to Roderick's letter, cannot be known, for he never told; but from the evening after the congregational council, when she plucked up courage to enter into conversation with him, and glean such news about the proceedings as she could ask or he communicate, they found they had entered upon new relations with each other. It may have been the Sangster element in her, of which her mother so loudly complained that engaged his sympathy so directly, or it may have been the incense of her feminine hero worship, seeing that he appeared to her so great, and strong, and good, in opposing himself singly to the universal prejudice, and manfully espousing the cause of worth and innocence maligned, but certainly from that day forth, father and daughter became fast friends and constant companions. Often she would accompany him in his walks to the village, and though she would not defy her mother by accompanying him to the Browns', still her father would carry messages to and fro between her and Mary, which brought assurance both to Roderick and herself that they were not parted. The old lady was the only party dissatisfied with these new combinations. She felt her authority slipping from her fingers. Her daughter had, she could not tell how, developed an independent personality of her own, and was evidently now held in allegiance to herself only by a sense of duty. The daughter was also establishing a hold on her father's regard, which her mother herself had long since allowed to pass from her, as costing too much trouble to retain; and Mrs. Sangster beheld already in prophetic vision, herself as a meek old lady seated by her work-table near the fire, while Sophia, the mistress of Auchlippie, ruled the roast! The meekness of her future rôle had not as yet, however, come to Mrs. Sangster. She fumed and fretted like a spirit in chains, and the mornings which mother and daughter spent together were by no means smooth or enjoyable for poor Sophia. Her mother's grievance being incapable of statement, the ebullitions thence arising could neither be foreseen nor assigned to any specific cause. The scandalous rumours relating to the Browns were retailed and enlarged on in a way that, but a few short weeks before, Mrs. Sangster would have been shocked to think she could indulge in before her carefully nurtured child; and Sophia, as her only defence, had to fall back on the paternal gift of silence. But that invariably drove her mother vanquished from the field, seeing that it takes two to fight, and with a parting shot at the dull dour blood of the Sangsters, she would seek relief in the privacy of her chamber from that sovereign remedy, 'a good cry.'
At the end of three weeks Roderick was found well enough to travel, and it was time that they should start, if, in those ante-railway days, they would avoid the delays, discomforts, and extra fatigue of bad roads. They took the stage coach as far as Dundee, where they would embark in the steamer for London. Thence there was railway westward, and with more staging, they would reach their destination.
It need scarcely be said that Eppie and the baby stood on the inn steps to watch the travellers drive away, and wish them 'God-speed.' Mary kissed them both, hoping a father might shortly be found for the little one, but grudgingly, for she deeply loved it herself. Kenneth was there, likewise, with regretful adieux and repetition of the already-made promises to write soon and often. So too was the Laird, and this time Sophy was on his arm, and Roderick thenceforth had at least one smile and handshake to treasure in his memory, unspoken answers to his letter of a month back, and tokens from which to bode hopefully of the future.
There were other onlookers, but they peered from windows, over averted shoulders, or from behind corners. The parishioners had begun to find out many differences between their new pastor and his predecessor. There were no alms now, for the new man had no money to give; and there was less sympathy, for he was a stranger in the parish, and likewise new to ministerial work. Shame kept them from coming forward; but when the guard blew his horn, the coachman tipped up his leaders with the whip, and the lumbering vehicle rolled up the eastern brae, every one felt that he had a friend the less left in Glen Effick.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
DISCOMFITED.
Within the Post Office as well as in other places, there stood a group watching Roderick's departure, and among them, as might be supposed, was Joseph Smiley. It would have been a very unexpected event indeed that could have transpired in the village without his being there to see.
'I wuss we may na hae dune the laad some wrang,' sighed Angus Kilgour. 'He gangs like's he thocht nae shame, an' gin there cam few to bid him "Gude bi wi' ye," thae few war the first e'y land. See to the young Captain, hoo he's crackin' til Eppie an' the bairn 'at a' body said was merry-begotten. That looks like 's he didna think sae.'
'Hoot awa!' said Ebenezer, who had become a man of consequence through the prominent part he had taken in the minister hunt, and would tolerate no gainsaying. 'Hae na we scripter for't, Angus, 'at evil men an' seducers wax warse an' warse? An' think ye, 'at gin a chield was sae far left til himsel as yon puir laad maun hae been, he wad turn round that easy an' own til his fau't? Na, na! The De'il's a hard master 'at's aye wantin' mair service. An' as for puir Mester Brown, I'm sure I wuss him nae ill, but juist 'at he may be brocht til own til his transgressions. He's gangin' the gate o' thae wanderin' staars for whum is reserved the blackness o' darkness! I think naething o' yer young Captain comin' to see him awa. He's been danderin' round him ilka day sin' he fell out wi' his flock, or sin' they fand him out I suld say. He's juist a laad o' Belial 'at cares naething for the sauls o' hiz puir folk, (dizna he get a' the nails an' the pleughs an' the iron wark for the property doon by at Inverlyon?) an' he wants to pu' down the wa's o' Zion. He's juist like Tobiah the Ammonite 'at fashed Nehemiah langsyne, but it's no a tod like him rinnin' on the wa's o' our Jerusalem, 'at's gaun to kick them ower. An' as for the Laird comin' wi' his dochter, he's been sair left til himsel', but we a' ken he's pridefu' an' winna be direcket by puirer folk, an' that's what's made him sae camstairy. But I'm juist winnerin' 'at Mistress Sangster (an' sic a graand christian as she is!) lets him gang sic daftlike gates!'
Joseph listened to the harangue with respectful attention, looking approval but saying nothing. Instinctively he had the wisdom in conduct by which men have become Roman Popes or American Presidents. If he had few friends, he gave no offence, and made no enemies. The friends are but broken reeds to lean upon in getting one in, but the unfriends are omnipotent in keeping him out. It was popedom in a small way that Joseph contemplated, catechist being as great a rise in life for the Glen Effick beadle as Pope for the Archbishops and Princes of the Church. The emoluments, as stated by Mr. Geddie, were, of course, altogether inadequate, but then Free Trade principles were just about that time being established as the economic faith of the nation, and he understood perfectly that even Mr. Geddie, a merchantman in search of goodly pearls, felt disposed to dabble in the law of supply and demand, and if he could pick up a catechist at half price, would not 'feel justified' in paying him more. Economic piety is apt to be economical as well, and alas, alas, for the Church and the world! it is the spurious article for sale that is best able to haggle with the greedy religiousness that would buy. Saintly holiness is sent at half price to labour in the slums, while sensational pretence gets the velvet-mounted pulpit, the snug parsonage, and the comfortable living.
Joseph was not much of a letter writer. He never had had opportunity to practise the craft, or doubtless his pen would have grown as glib as his tongue. If he wrote to Mr. Geddie himself, his letter might stamp him illiterate, and consequently a half price article; and even if not, being but an obscure person, he could not hope to influence conveners, committees, contributors, and the rest of the sacred machinery in Mr. Geddie's church, whence the money was to come. He thought therefore to procure intercession. He would petition Mrs. Sangster to write on his behalf, and by and by he would ask Ebenezer to say a word in his favour, after he knew the lady's letter had been sent.
With this view he set out for Auchlippie, whither he had gone less frequently of late, fearing to compromise himself with Jean Macaulay.
As already said, Jean's expectations made her unquestionably 'a catch' for the beadle, but Joseph found she might prove a millstone about the neck of a catechist. For Joseph was far-seeing. Such imaginative faculty as had been vouchsafed him was circumscribed within the hopes or possible achievements of Joseph Smiley, but within these bounds at times they soared! Once a catechist he might find favour in zealous and wealthy eyes, and he might be enabled to attend the Divinity Hall, whence he would issue a full-fledged minister. Favouring circumstances might work out so much for a bachelor, but who would undertake a man already weighted with a wife and family? Vulgar too! and unfit to associate with the upper classes as minister's wife! If, however, he should fail to secure any such enthusiastic person, and he knew they were rare, Jean would not be so far amiss as spouse to a catechist for life. The placens uxor he could appreciate when more substantial considerations did not stand in the way, and her tocher would be 'a help,' and enable him, if still subordinate to the Established clergy and those of the Free Church, to hold his own with 'Seceder bodies' (there were no U.P.'s in those days), 'Baptists, Methodists, and sic like.' At that time there was no word of voluntary principles in the Free Church, and it required a good many years 'in opposition,' as politicians would say, before it even was suggested to drop the twenty-third chapter of the Confession of Faith, and along with it the old feeling of superiority to the dissenting communions.
When Joseph reached Auchlippie, he was considerably taken aback by Jean's extreme coolness. He had been considering as he fared along, the exact degree of friendliness it would be prudent to show to Jean. He must be kind but not quite fond, friendly but not intimate, with just a suggestion of the superiority which he hoped was hovering over him and he trusted might alight. Distinctly then, he felt taken aback by Jean's reception.
'Ye want to see the mistress? Gang intil the laundry than, an' set ye doon, an' whan I'm through here I'll gang ben an' speer gin ye can see her.'
'But I cud help ye to shell the peas, Jean.'
'Wha's seekin' yer help? Tak yer guttery shune out ower the clean kitchen, an' gang intil the laundry or I'se prin the dish-clout til yer tail! Think ye I haena gowks eneugh e'y stable-yard to shell my peas gin I wanted their help? Awa' wi' ye!'
Nothing like a little cool repulsion to draw on the young men when they begin to hang back. The cherries a little out of reach are always redder than those which hang ready to the hand. Looking at the buxom lass and the saucy twinkle in her merry black eye, Joseph's foreseeing circumspection began insensibly to abate, or rather he forgot all about it.
'What ails ye, Jean, woman?' he poured out in his most insinuating tones, and his queer little eyes looked plaintive or nearly so. 'An' me juist hungerin' for a glint o' yer bonny eyen!'
'Get out my gate, ye blatherin' skate!' with a jaunty toss of her head. It is pleasant to be appreciated, is it not? No matter by whom. But she had no thought of relenting yet awhile. 'It's like's ye cudna bide awa frae me, ye leein' twa-faced body! It'll be four weeks come Thursday sin' I hae seen a sicht o' ye, an' I hae dune brawly wantin' ye. Gae back to them ye saw last an' bide there. It's no Jean Macaulay 'at's wantin' ye. An' gang out ower the clean kitchen! See til the jaups o' glaar, about yer guttery trotters! Gang out ower, I'm sayin'! or I'se lay the taings about yer cantle.'
'Whisht, woman! an' I'se tell ye a' about it,' said Joseph, sideling nearer. Then throwing the right arm round her waist, he drew up the left to protect his face from nails or accidents, and attempted to steal a salute.
Jean screamed and sprang aside, catching hold of a broomstick, and her face aflame with crimson wrath, ordered him out of the kitchen. At that moment an inner door opened and Mrs. Sangster stood on the threshold surveying the scene.
'Jean Macaulay! what is the meaning of this? Do you take my kitchen for a country tavern, to go touzelling with strange men in it in that unseemly way? When I engaged you I said distinctly that no followers were allowed.'
'There's nae touzellin' here, mem; an' what's mair, I winna hae 't said o' me by ony body, sae ye can suit yersel' wi' anither lass 'at taks less tent o' her gude name nor I do! The man's nae follower o' mine; it was yersel' he came speerin' for, sae I cudna tak on mysel' to pet him out, an' syne the impident rascal he grippet me about the waist, an' I skirled, an' ye see the lave o't.'
'It's Joseph Smiley, the minister's man! I declare. What do you want? You may well be ashamed, and hang your head! What will the session say? You, that ought to be an example of sober and godly deportment, to be raising a riot in a gentleman's kitchen!'
Joseph was abashed. All his bright schemes seemed to dissipate themselves before his eyes, like a morning mist, and he could only wish himself away. He coughed behind his hand, and stood balancing himself first on one foot, then on the other.
'I'm sair dumfoondered, mem!' he said at last. 'An' I'm thinkin' I juist canna be very weel. My head gaed clean soomin' ey noo, an' I cudna keep my feet, an' sae I out wi' my arm to catch something, an' it was her I grippet, puir lass. An' Jean, it's like she thocht it wasna mo-odest, an' sae she gae the bit skirl. But there was nae wrang intil't ava, mem, as ye may weel ken. Wad it be likely noo, mem, e'en gin I was ane o' the licht mindet kind, as a' the folk in Kilrundle Free Kirk kens weel I'm no', for me to be comin' intil the kitchen o' the first leddy e'y laand, an' carryin' on wi' rigs, an' daffin', an' touzellin's? Weel I wat, mem, ye'll own I hae mair sense nor that.'
Joseph's demeanor was so deeply humble, and his way of putting the case so respectfully argumentative that Mrs. Sangster was considerably mollified, but consistency required some continuance of rigour.
'I fear, Joseph Smiley, you must have been drinking this morning. That would explain the giddiness you describe, as well as your trying to steady yourself against Jean Macaulay, which was not like the conduct of a sober man. And, after all, from what you say, Jean's conduct seems to have been perfectly proper. So, Jean, I will not consider that you have given me notice to suit myself with a new maid until you say it again!'
'There's naething but a wheen parritch gane down my craig this day, mem, an' I'm wae 'at ye suld think sae ill o' me,' said Joseph, feeling his way back into the usual sanctimonious groove. 'I'm no' weel, mem, an' I'm juist fear'd I'm no' lang for this world, an' that's what's brocht me here this day. I cam seekin' a word o' ye, mem!'
'Then follow me, Joseph.'
Joseph followed, and laid before Mrs. Sangster the statement of his hopes and desires. 'I'm no' lang for this warld, mem, an' gin I cud do some gude first I wad be mair contented like, but they wad need to double the steepend, mem. I cudna gang for less.'
'If you are going to die so soon, Joseph, I should think the temporal reward would be of little consequence to you.'
'Ou ay, mem! But ye ken the labourer is worthy of his hire.'
'I should doubt your ability for the work, Joseph; and at any rate you must wait till your giddiness is cured. A giddy catechist, to judge from the scene in my kitchen to-day, might give rise to serious scandals! I know a person who will exactly suit Mr. Geddie, if the salary can be made sufficient; and I am much obliged to you, Joseph, for having brought me the information. You may rest assured too, Joseph, that if you will but do your duty with all your might, in the circumstances in which Providence has placed you, you are making the very best preparation for the great change which, sooner or later, will overtake us all.' And with this moral sentiment still ringing in his ears, Joseph found himself dismissed and on the gravel in front of the house, not only a disappointed, but an utterly discomfited man. He retraced his steps to the village, and went back to his joiner-work thinking how little good had come to him out of his idle morning.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"WOOED AN' MARRIED AN' A'."
Joseph Smiley lived in a small cottage all by himself. It was not on the main street, but built in what should have been the back yard of a house on that thoroughfare, and was approached by a narrow passage round the end of the house in front. It was just the place for any one who desired retirement, being extremely private, which, strangely enough, seems the great desideratum of all inquisitive people. Joseph was extremely expert in spelling out the affairs of his neighbours from external signs, and it may have been owing to that, that he kept his own life so studiously in the shade, knowing so well how much may be divined from passing glimpses. He spoke of his home as 'juist the bit placey whaur he bed,' 'weel eneugh for a quiet lanesome chield like himsel', but no' fit to tak folk til,' which was scarcely doing it justice, seeing that it was perhaps the snuggest little cabin in the village; for Joseph was a Sybarite according to his lights. It was the best feather bed in the village on which he took his nightly rest, and there was a comfortably cushioned chair or two in which he might repose during the day. The cupboard contained pickles, spices, and a good many bottles; for his fare was dainty, and far different from the vigorous parritch on which he professed to subsist. Parritch may be said to have been the food of his imagination, for he continually spoke of it, but it was with something considerably more succulent that he nourished his material frame.
Yet Joseph enjoyed a high reputation for saving thrift.
This was owing to the fierceness of his principles, his tenacity in holding them, and the vigour with which he carried them out. There is nothing in the world so helpful as a clear understanding between a man and himself as to what it really is which he wants, and a consistent pertinacity in meaning to have it; and yet it seems even rarer than the self-knowledge so highly recommended. Think of the force wasted in desultory effort for the attainment of what is really not desired!
Joseph's principles might all have been resolved into one, and that was to take care of Joseph Smiley. Nothing was too good for that cherished person, so he got the lead; and as nobody else ever got anything at all, it was not more costly than an unprincipled life of impulse, and much more comfortable to the beloved object. Had his brother man been allowed to dip with him in the dish, both must have contented themselves with plain fare, but by letting the brother forage elsewhere, a smaller and choicer mess would be enough for the rest of the party.
When Joseph went out in the morning he locked his door and handed the key to Peggy Mathieson, his neighbour, whom he employed to make his bed, cook his meals, and 'do' for him generally. Peggy was a lone widow, who supplied the youth of the village with bullseyes and marbles. She was discreet and silent, asked no questions and told no tales, and knew how to make him comfortable.
On the evening of the day which had witnessed Joseph's discomfiture at Auchlippie, Peggy was engaged as usual in preparing his evening meal. The fire was lit, and the kettle set to boil, the floor swept, the tea things arranged on the table, and a neat rasher stood ready for the frying pan when he should come in. She was giving a last look around to see that all was in order before retiring to her own premises, when the door opened and Tibbie Tirpie walked in, followed by her daughter carrying a baby. Each had a basket on her arm, and both took seats, which they drew up to the hearth, and seated themselves, before either appeared to observe that any one else was present. As for Peggy, she was a woman of few words, and her employer she knew to be what in higher circles is called a peculiar person, that is one with whose affairs it is safest not to meddle, except by his particular request; therefore she stood silent waiting to be addressed.
'I wuss ye gude e'en, Peggy!' said Tibbie. 'We're juist waitin' for Joseph to come in, and we'll bide till then, e'en gin he be late; sae ye needna mind stoppin' here for hiz. We'se mak out brawly our lane!'
'Aweel, Tibbie, I'se leave ye, for my yett's steikit, an' aiblins there's bairns wantin' some o' my sma' trokes, an' wearyin' to get in.'
'An' noo, Tibbie,' said the mother when they were left alone, 'gie me the bairn, an' gang ye til yer bed. Aiblins ye'll can sleep. Ony gate steik yer eyen ticht, an' dinna cheep, what e'er may come o't; an' let's see gin I canna gar this balksome naig o' yours tak baith bridle an' saidle, ay, an' a lick or twa o' the whup as weel afore I'm through wi' him. Heest ye, lass! an' dinna staand there fummlin' wi' prins. Aff wi' yer bannet an' in wi' ye! Juist hap up weel. It's a kittle job at the best, but gin I'm to hae ye at the greetin' on my haands, forby him, I may lay by afore I begin. In wi'ye!'
Thus exhorted, the daughter lay down in the bed, and covered herself with the blankets.
'Turn round t'ey wa', Tibbie! Ye'd be for keekin' at ween yer eyen, an' greetin', (wha kens?) an' gin he catches sicht o' a sign o' saftness in ye, it's a' ower wi' you an' the bairn!'
The daughter complied, and Tibbie, seated before the fire, brought out certain little habiliments from her basket, and proceeded to array her grandchild for the night, hanging his daylight apparel on chairs, on all the chairs she could find, and marshalling them before the fire, till that staid apartment assumed the appearance not only of a nursery, but of one for a dozen infants. Having got so far, she had leisure to survey the refreshments provided for her son-in-law.
'Od, Tibbie! ye'll be rael crouse here, woman! The best o' a' thing, an' plenty! An' here's as bonny a fry o' bacon as e'er was seen! I'se on wi' 't til the fire. It gars a body's mouth water juist to see til 't! He little thocht, honest man, it wad be his gudemother wad fry his supper for him the nicht! Ay faigs! 'An' eat her share o' 't as weel. But there's little enough for twa here,' she added, going to the cupboard where the remainder of the flitch was discovered, as well as the other little comforts and supplies with which Joseph had provided himself.
'My certie, laad! But ye live weel! An' ye'll do credit to yer gudemither or a's dune! He was aye ane o' the unco gude, an' here's the gude livin'! Whether it be holy livin' or no'.'
Another plentiful rasher was cut, the frying-pan laid on the coals, and Tibbie returned to her seat. But now, disturbed by so many gettings-up and sittings-down, the babe began to whimper.
'Whist, my bonny man! Ye'se hae yer share o' yer daddie's supper as weel as the lave!' And thereupon she emptied the contents of Joseph's milk jug into a basin. Then she cut the nice new loaf and broke some of the bread into the milk; after that a contribution was levied on the sugar basin, and lastly the singing kettle completed the gracious mess, of which the wandering heir thus unexpectedly returned to his father's halls partook with appetite. Then stretching himself out in his grandmother's arms, he fell asleep.
Joseph Smiley being a beadle, and liable to be called away at all times and seasons, worked by the piece. He was a good workman, and so could dictate in some measure his terms. He was working on the new church, and having lost so much time fruitlessly in the morning, he remained at work after the other men had left. It was nearly dark, therefore, when at last he laid aside his tools and moved homewards very much beyond his usual hour.
He had been depressed and disgusted with himself all day. How could he, a man of sense as he had always supposed, and one accustomed to play upon the weaknesses of his fellows--how had it ever come to pass that he, so clear-sighted as he thought, should have come to grief in this utterly discreditable fashion? To himself it was incomprehensible, though to the perspicuous reader plain enough. Joseph had been trying to do two things at once--to capture both Jean and her Mistress, meaning to use whichever might happen to answer best in the end; and he had missed both, as any man of his intelligence should have known would come of it. But then small successes make a man conceited, and conceit makes a man blind (Pray to be defended from small successes, my reader!) It is the single eye which hits the mark.
As Joseph walked along the main street, a subtle fragrance seemed to hover in the air, thin, bright, appetizing, but indefined.
'Hech!' he said to himself, 'somebody has a gude supper the nicht! I wuss I was there.'
As he neared the approach to his own dwelling the odour began to grow specific.
'That's bacon, an' gye an' like my ain!'
The 'close' reached, the whole air seemed greasily aromatic. 'Can Peggy be eatin' my bacon hersel'? I ne'er catched her yet at ony sic tricks; but still water's rael deep. I'se drap on her an' her no thinkin', an' hae my share o' 't, an' gin I dinna eat an' drink tea an' sugar and bread to the vailey o' a' she's stealt, I'm no Joseph Smiley!'
Joseph hurried homeward so quickly, and so full of thief-catching thoughts, that he failed to observe the gleam of the candle from his casement. Joseph always lighted his candle himself. It was therefore as if some one had struck him when he threw the door open, and the cheerful light of the fire and two candles fell on his sight. Tibbie seeing a spare candlestick and a number of candles, thought that if the candle on the table was necessary along with the fire-light for a solitary man, it would need at least one more candle to lighten his family fittingly. Wherefore she stuck a candle in the spare candlestick, and when the daylight outside had altogether faded away, she lit the two candles and heaped fresh fuel on the hearth.
Joseph stood in the doorway contemplating the scene. Had he been drinking? The candle was double. But no! He had washed down his dinner with a draft of buttermilk, and that was never known to go to anybody's head.
The air was heavy with the richness of frizzling bacon. The chairs were gathered like a palisade around the hearth, and hung all over with baby linen. Joseph's next idea was that he had mistaken the house, turned up the wrong close or entry. No! There was Peggy at her back door, ostensibly sweeping something out, but, as Joseph knew full well, in reality watching to see what he would do or say. Was she partner in some plot against him? Then he would leave her no excuse or opportunity to intervene and join forces with the enemy. He entered with as resolute a stride as he could assume, and banged the door behind him.
'Hm!' he coughed with a mighty effort, endeavouring to rally his sinking heart, where black foreboding sat heavily and blocked the lagging current of his blood, while cobwebs of misgiving seemed gathering in his throat, till the nearly stifled voice could hardly come.
'Whisht man! whisht!' hissed Tibbie in her loudest whisper, from the hearth where she sat, and throwing up a warning hand. 'Ye'll waaken yer wife! Hsh! She's beddet! an' she's sleepin'.
'Tibbie Tirpie!' The exclamation hovered feebly about Joseph's lips, like the thin grey smoke that hangs over a hill of burnt whins, when food for fire has been exhausted, and nothing remains but black and hopeless desolation. The bag of tools slipped from his nerveless fingers with a clatter.
'Ca' canny! Joseph! or ye'll waaken yer bairn! Yer supper's juist ready, sae set ye down.'
"An' wha bade ye come here, an' mak my
supper, gudewife?" Page 271.
'An' wha bade ye come here? an' mak my supper, gudewife?'
'Hoot, toot, Joseph! Say naething! It's nae fash ava! Think ye yer gude-mither wadna do faar mair nor that for ye? Juist bide or ye see!'
Here the baby, aroused by the talking, opened its eyes, and the grand-mother began to shake and addle him after the usual manner of nurses.
'Bonny man! An' did his daddie waaken him?'
'He's gotten yer ain glint o' the e'e, Joseph! Ye pawkie rascal! I'se tell ye he's the gleg ane like his faither afore him.'
'Lay by, gudewife! an' get ye hame! you an' a' belangin' to ye! Ye hae carried on eneugh for ae nicht, an' I'se hae nae din here!'
Tibbie made no reply. She merely regarded the speaker with a shrug of amusement, mingled with a dash of humorous pity, while she lifted the frying-pan from the coals and deposited the bacon done to a nicety on the dish. She then began to place the second rasher which she had cut in the pan; but this was more than Joseph could endure.
'Let alane o' my baacon, ye auld jad!' he cried, 'an' get ye gane! you an' a' yer tribe.'
Then followed a silence of some duration, for Tibbie did not seem to think the last observation worthy of notice. At length, however, she spoke again.
'Are ye for nae baacon the nicht, than, Joseph? I'm thinkin' I cud eat maist a' 'at's fried mysel'. An' I wadna say but Tibbie micht be for tryin' juist a bittie, whan she waakens out o' her first sleep.'
'Tibbie! say ye?' gasped Joseph, looking around. His eyes fell on the disordered bed, and there they fastened, widening and rolling as though they beheld a ghost.
'Gudesakes! Pity me! gin there's no' a wummin' i' my very bed! To the de'il wi' the weemin', say I! gin ye gang na to them, they'se come efter ye! Sae there's nae haudin' awa frae them!'
'Deed no! Joseph! an' that's sae. Whan it's a likely bit chappie, like yersel'. They're no that plenty, ye see. But keep up yer heart, laad! Atween yer wife an' yer gude-mither, ye'll be clear o' the lave. Ye needna misdoubt o' that.'
'But set ye doon an' eat yer supper, or it grows cauld,' she continued, at the same time selecting a piece of the bacon from the dish and putting it in her mouth with manifest relish.
'Lay by! ye auld wutch. An' awa wi' ye!' cried Joseph, roused into vigour by the raid on his provisions. 'I'se pet ye out gin ye winna gang!'
'No ye winna! Joseph. Ye hae mair sense nor raise a din whan it's yersel' wad get the dirdom o't.'
'Gang quiet then, an' gang smart!''
'An' wad ye? Honest noo! wad ye raelly pet 's a' out e'y the dark this nicht? There's yer ain wee bairn no sax month auld. An' him juist in his wee sark, an' a' his coats hingin' afore the fire! Wad ye noo?
'Deed then, Luckie, an' I wad!' cried Joseph, gathering courage at the tone of remonstrance he thought he detected in the old woman's voice. 'An' it's no afore my fire but intil't, the duds o' yer dochter's brat sall gang, ay! an' her ain as weel! gin ye tak na them out o' here. The shameless limmer! to lay hersel' down in a decent man's bed, an' never "wi' yer leave?"' He even got so far as to begin tossing the child's clothing together in a heap, when the old woman, snatching a brand from the hearth, struck him across the hand with the red hot end, making him desist with a scream of pain. He glared at her for an instant as if about to rush on her, then wavered and turned round as if about to call for help.
'Noo! set ye doon, Joseph Smiley! an hear sense. Gin ye gang yaupin' an' skirlin' out there, ye'se raise a din wull do far mair scaith to yersel', nor it can til hiz. An' gin ye aince raise 't, ye'll ne'er can lay't again! sae keep ye a calm sough, an' let me hae my say.'
It wasna muckle,' she continued, ''at I kenned o' you an' Tibbie's on-gaein's, whan I spak to ye first, an' I spak ye fair, an' ye ken what cam o' 't--juist naething ava, sae noo I hae fand out a'thing, an' I hae ta'en advice, an' ye beut to yield, or I can gar ye. I'll pruive yer contrac' an' promise o' mairriage by auld Forsyth 'at I ance named to ye afore, an' hoo ye garred puir Tibbie swear no' to let on, sae lang as Jess Clapperton be'd a single woman, for fear she suld hae ye up afore the shirra for breach o' promise, an' get a' yer siller frae ye for daamage. Weel she's waddet noo, sae the steek's aff Tibbie's mouth, an' sae she's gane an' brocht hame yer bairn, an' ye beut to tak them hame til ye, or I'se gar ye! ye dirty tinkler's tyke! Ye wad hae gotten them to set the puir lass on the cuttie stule, alang o' the minister's bairn, an' ye kennin' the very contrar yer ain sel'! But, my certie! gin scaith or scorn e'er fa's on her, it's ye sall stand aside her, an' tak yer share! An' Jean Macaulay wad be the first to fling the rotten eggs at ye--ye leein' brock! Didna I hear ye evenin' my dochter t'ey cuttie stule afore Jean, wi' my ain lugs, an' garrin' auld Elspeth lauch? Od! but I'd hae liket to pu' the ill scrapit tongue out o' yer leein' head! An' what's mair, I'se do't yet, gin ye tak na tent. But there's nae gude, ye an' me to gang fechtin'. We ken ane anither by noo--yer character's gane, and yer name o' godliness in Glen Effick, an' ye'se be peuten out o' the beadleship, gin ye mak a fash--an' the shirra wad gar ye tak her after a'. Sae juist ye tak thocht in time, an' say naething ava! Ye hae na sped sae waur as mony anither birkie laad, 'at wad before tryin' on his gemms. For Tibbie's a decent lass an' a bonny, tho' it's me 'at says't, (an' ne'er a word wad there hae been o' her, gin it hadna been for that auld rinketer Briggs, my leddy's wumman up by), an' she liket ye rael weel ance, an' she may again, gin ye're juist ordnar gude til her.'
Joseph sat and listened with a lengthening visage, and his finger in his mouth. He felt very foolish. A scandal would ruin him in Glen Effick, and after the scene of the morning he had nothing to hope from the good opinion of his whilom patroness Mrs. Sangster, or his late sweetheart Jean Macaulay. He would become the common talk, and no girl worth anything would have a word to say to him. He felt like some gay butterfly caught by the heel in a cobweb of gossamer. Why flutter his pretty wings any more? They would only get broken for nothing. He would never fly again! The admiring flowers would spread their rosy bosoms all in vain, and breathe their fragrant sighs. Poor, poor Lothario! His day was done. He was caught at last. And there like a dreadful spider sat Tibbie, his (to be) mother-in-law, regarding him with red-rimmed eyes, and opening her mouth to devour--well, if not him, at least his bacon. As he looked, she selected another tempting slice (it was cooling now), and her jaws closed on it with a snap, followed by a snort of relish.
'Aweel, Tibbie! Ye can gang hame for the nicht, you an' yer dochter. I wad like to think ower't, an' sleep on't.'
'Fient a stap her or me sall gang out ower yer door, Joseph Smiley, afore Sawbith! We micht na get in sae chancey next time. O' Sawbith she'll gang linket wi' ye t'ey Kirk, an' I'se walk ahint ye, carryin' yer bairn. Sae ye maun speak t'ey minister the morn, an' speir him to baptise't. An' sae ye'll can explain a' thing t'ey minister yersel', afore they hae time to raise clashes. Ye can juist tell the tale about Jess Clapperton, 'at ye made a fule o' puir Tib wi'. I wad na say but it micht do for the minister very weel, an' ye ken hoo to put legs an' arms til't as weel as the next ane. Ye was ne'er at a loss for a lee in yer life, Josey, my man, I'm thinkin'! Losh keep me! I'm thinkin' I've begood to like ye a'ready! It'll be yer ain fau't gin I be na the gude mither to ye, forby the gude-mither. Set ye doon noo, an' tak yer supper. I'm fear'd it's cauld for ye, an' ye'll hae to drink yer tea wantin' the milk. Wee Josey drank that a while syne. It's a' e'y family! An' syne, I'm fear'd ye'll hae to sleep e'y fluir for the nicht; for me an' the bairn's gaun in aside Tibbie.'
Joseph groaned in spirit, and ate his supper in silent despair. Not one kick of resistance was left in his miserable soul, and he submitted to his fate as meekly as Sindbad, after some experience of the old man of the sea, found it best to do.
Tibbie devoted her attention to the entertainment of the young heir, who seemed to enjoy his return to the paternal hall, and rode on her knee crowing in the highest spirits, to the enlivening strains of--
'Wooed sn' married an' a','
which his grandam lilted to him, with just a suspicion of malice in her humorous triumph.