If night follows brighter day in more sunny climes, the colder skies of Scotland enjoy at least the compensation of a lengthened gloaming. The crimson glory of sunset ebbs more slowly away, and a paler daylight lingers on and on, fading by imperceptible degrees, as the blue transparent vapours of the still and warm earth rise to meet the golden blue of heaven; it is hours before the two unite to wrap the world in the purple gloom of night.
On a slope of the upland moor which divides Glen Effick from the coast was the spot where the Free Church congregation of Kilrundle held its Sunday meetings in the open air. 'The Muir Foot' sloped evenly down into the glen, not far outside the village, and close to the high road, from which, nevertheless, it was entirely screened by a thicket of birch and hazel. On the inner edge of this was a small platform for the preacher, roofed and enclosed with canvas, and hence denominated the tent. When the services were in Gaelic and the preacher indulged in much action, the arrangement might have been suggested of Punch and Judy to a frivolous stranger, but the people were too full of solemn and earnest enthusiasm to see anything amiss. A stray colt on the hillside projected against the sky, would bring to the minds of some a vision of Claverhouse and his troopers in the olden time, for that was a theme often presented to their thoughts in tract and sermon. They had almost persuaded themselves the covenanting scenes were to be played over again in their own times, and were steadfastly resolved to 'quit themselves like men' in the day of trouble.
Before the tent there was a plat of turf, through the middle of which a burn babbled over the stones; beyond, the moor swept gently upwards, and here the worshippers were wont to sit, tier above tier, like the audience in a theatre, to listen to the preaching of the word. In that gloaming the place was not altogether deserted, the tap of a hammer driving nails reverberated through the stillness. Joseph Smiley the beadle and a joiner by trade, was at work making preparation for the services of the morrow. He had driven a few posts into the sward, and on these was nailing planks to form a rough bench or two, for the eldership and the élite of the congregation. There were also two or three wooden chairs, but these he hid away in the tent to keep them safe till the Sangster family should appear, and he had an opportunity to present them.
'It's nane o' yer orra bodies 'at's to hecht their tail on thae chairs, an' me feshin' them a' the gate fra' hame, I'se warrant! I'll mak an errand up til Auchlippie come Monday, an' gin I hae na twa half crowns in my pouch, or a pair o' the maister's breeks in my oxter at the hamecomin', my name's no Joseph Smiley!' With these comfortable reflections he put on his coat, gathered up his tools, and started for home in the gathering darkness.
'Joseph Smiley!'
The words came out of the darkness under a tree, as he passed through the thicket and gained the road. Joseph recognized the voice, though he could not see the speaker.
'The deil flee awa wi' her auld banes! If that's no Tibbie Tirpie! What brings the auld witch here wi' her blathers and fleetchin'! I hae lippened til her haudin' her tongue afore folk, but here she's grippet me my lane. But we maun speak the carlin fair'--so much under his breath, then aloud--
'Hoo's a' wi' ye, Mistress Tirpie? It's lang sin we hae forgathered the gither. But I'm aye speerin' after ye; I ken ye're weel!'
It's no my bodily health 'at's ailin', Joseph Smiley, but my heart's sair in me, an' ye ken what for.'
'I'm sure, Luckie, I kenna what ye're drivin' at; gin gude will o' mine wad gar ye thrive, ye'se thrive wi' the lave! an' as for sare heart I kenna what there can be to fash ye. But there's balm in Gilead, Mistress Tirpie, take ye yer burden there. I'm but a puir door-keeper in the house of the Lord,--tho' it's better that nor dwellin' in tents o' sin,--juist a puir silly earthen vessel, but I'se testifee sae far.
'Joseph Smiley! Ye twa-faced heepocrit. Hoo daar ye tak the word o' God atween yer leein' lips like that? Are ye no feared the grund will open an' swally ye up?'
Fient a fear! Luckie, gin the earth swallied a' body 'at spak unadveesedly wi' their lips, it wad hae a sair wamefu'! There's no mony wad be left stan'in' ower grund. An' I'm misdoubtin' but ye'd no be to the fore yersel', Tibbie. But lay by yer flitin'. Hoo's a' wi' young Tib?'
'An' it sets ye weel, Joseph Smiley, to be speerin' after my puir dautie, after a' 'at's come an' gane. An' ye hae na come naar her this three month come Saubith, for a' the wite ye hae wrocht her.'
'What's the wite, mither? Is she no weel?'
'No weel!--An' ye'll be for no letting on ye ken ocht about it!'
'What wad a ken, Mistress Tirpie? She was aye a fine bit lassie, blythe and bonny as ye'd see in a' the country side, but sin' she gaed awa, naebody kenned whaur, I hae na heard tell o' her ava.'
'Lay by! Joseph Smiley; I ken a' 'at's come an' gane atween ye; she's telled me a'.'
'The saft silly tawpie!' this aside, and under his breath.
'I ken a' about yer guilefu' tongue, an' a' yer pawkie gates. An' think ye I'll haud my whisht, an' see her bear the wite her lane? Ye ken ye swore to marry her.'
'Speak laich, mither; ye dinna ken wha's hearkenin'. They hae lang lugs 'at travel after dark.'
'Ye ken it's true! Joseph Smiley. Ye took yer Bible aith, an' ye beut to keep it. Wha's fraickin' tongue but yours has played a' the mischief? She gaed awa' at yer biddin', an' the bairn's left there, an' naebody kens wha's acht it. But the matter canna bide sae, an' ye'se beut to mak' a decent woman o' her noo. An' a gude wife she'll mak ye, an' a faithfu' whan a's done.'
'Speak laich, woman! An' bide a wee. (The deil's in the wife! the way her tongue rins). Oh Mistress Tirpie! I'm bund till own it was ill my pairt to do as I did; but the best o' us wull gang astray whiles. King Dawvit himself, tho' I wadna be sae presumptious as even mysel' wi' the like o' him, gaed ance wrang amang the lasses, but he made it a' richt belive; an' sae aiblins wull I. But it taks time--we maun bide a wee.'
'An' what's to come o' Tibbie or than?'
'The deil may flee awa' wi' her for me! An' I wuss he wad,' muttered Joseph below his breath; but aloud his words were more prudent. 'She maun just juke an' let the jaw gae by, like the lave. An' after a', there's naethin' kenned till her discredit, we tuk braw gude care o' that; and there's a gude tent taen o' the bairn as ye cud tak' yersel', an' ye're its grannie. Bide a wee; it'll a' come richt. Ye see, Mistress Tirpie, I'm an office-bearer e'y kirk, an' there maun be nae clashes or clavers about me, or I'd lose my place. Gin thae lang-tongued gouks cud find but a haunel, it's nae Joseph Smiley was be lang the bederal o' Kilrundle, an' then whaur wad the siller come frae for me to keep a wife?'
'Hech! Joseph Smiley, but ye're a pawkie loon an' a slick-tongued! Ye'd fraik the tail aff auld Hornie himsel'. But I'm misdoubtin' ye. Ye'll be slippin' through our fingers yet, like an eel. But I'd be laith to lose ye yer place; an' gin ye'll swear again afore me an' cripple Cormack, an' own her for yer wife, I'se raise nae din. Least said suinest mendet. But Tibbie's real lonesome, an' aye at the greetin'. Ye maun come an' see her twa fore nichts ilka week, an' keep up her heart.'
'I'se tak my aith to yersel, Tibbie, wi' muckle pleasure, an' I'se some an' see Tib, but I'll say naething afore auld Cormack. I winder that a sensible woman like you wad fash wi' sic a doited auld gomeral, 'at can nae mair haud his tongue than he can flee. But I maun be steerin', or it's cauld parritch I'll sup this nicht. Sae here's wussin' ye weel, an' mind me kindly to Tibbie--bonny lass!--gude nicht.'
'Fushionless senseless gowk!' he muttered to himself as he turned homewards. 'An' she's gaun to wive her on me is she? We'll see, Luckie! Time wull tell! But it winna be by garrin' me own up afore auld Cormack!'
Tibbie likewise wended home. As she recalled her interview, she could not but admit to herself that excepting fair words she had taken little. At the same time she had broken ground, and her adversary had betrayed no small dread of a scandal. She, had, therefore she thought some slight hold on that slippery person, and took comfort in recollecting that a salmon ere now has been angled for and landed with a single horse hair. 'But we maun ca' canny,' she muttered to herself. 'He's a kittle chield to drive.' She began now to regret she had not used her little pull towards securing some present advantage. It is sweet to spoil the Egyptians. Besides, any tribute secured would be an admission of her power, and every such tribute and admission would add strength to the chain by which she hoped eventually to secure her victim. Wherefore, it was resolved and decided in Tibbie's council of one, that no time should be lost, but the very earliest opportunity taken to commence operations.
Sunday in summertime among the hills is not like other days of the week, and it is not like the Sundays given to less favoured scenes. It is free from the smothering sense of restraints experienced in cities, shut up as it were for the day, with their inhabitants paraded through the streets in solemn raiment returning home to depressing lunches and drowsy afternoons. It seems rather to foreshadow that bright eternal Sabbath we looked forward to in childhood, ere faith grew dim-sighted or criticism had been heard of,--that day when every act shall be spontaneously holy, and each sacred observance a delight. The glorious sunshine, the bright breezy sky streaked and dappled with shining white clouds, the crimson moors and the all-pervading scent of the heather, the hum of bees and the chirp of grasshoppers in the herbage, a silence that is musical with faint and distant sounds, burns babbling in the hollows, lambs bleating on the braes, all speak to the spirit of perfect peace and freedom and holy gladness.
The Sangster family preferred walking to church that morning. It was a long walk, but they set forth in good time and the phaeton would bring them home. It was with some misgiving lest she was yielding to the allurements of sense, that Mrs. Sangster consented to gratify this desire of the young people, but prudential considerations seemed to recommend the arrangement. Sophia could have no better opportunity for free and friendly talk with Mr. Wallowby, and Peter could walk with Mary Brown. Mary had two or three thousand pounds, and was a 'nice girl,' and should his lordship Peter, so incline, would not be an unsuitable connection. Peter's private idea was not unlike his mother's, indeed their views in secular matters were wonderfully alike, and each could count on the support of the other without the unpleasant feeling of conspiracy, which comes of putting schemes into words, when they are apt to confront one so strangely and stare one out of countenance. He was therefore the earliest in the hall and stood hatted and gloved, ready to step forward so soon as his intended companion should issue from her room.
'What brings that fool Wallowby, in such a hurry?' he thought to himself, as the latter appeared shortly after him, also equipped for the walk But the 'fool Wallowby' had his own plans. He too was minded to cross the moorland with 'that jolly Brown girl,' as he called her to himself, rather than with the other 'stick' who had so little to say for herself.
'I think we have got ready too soon,' said Peter; 'the ladies will not come down stairs for twenty minutes at least, they take so long to dress,' and he moved as if for the door.
'One expects to have to wait,' replied Wallowby, and he stood his ground.
Presently Mary appeared, descending the stairs. Wallowby secured her book as she reached the landing, and placed himself at her side; and Peter, not to be cut out, had to make a dash for her parasol on the stand, and so constitute himself a third in the party. They set forth, and when Mrs. Sangster got down stairs she beheld to her disgust Mary Brown disappearing in the shrubbery attended by both the squires.
'Bother that lassie!' she muttered, but whether it was her own daughter or the other will never be known. At that moment Sophia, in perfect tranquility, was still giving her orders in the kitchen for the family dinner.
Mr. Sangster kept his room. He often did so of a Sunday, for the time had not yet arrived when a godly divine should stigmatize taking medicine on Sunday as a form of Sabbath breaking.
Eventually Sophia was ready to start, and at the same moment the two ministers appeared. Mrs. Sangster was of course taken possession of by the elder, and there was nothing for it but to let the ineligible escort Sophia. There was consolation then in remembering how slow and safe she was. No fear of her being hurried into an entangling admission during one moorland walk, but 'Oh! if Providence had only seen fit to grant her a bright lively girl like Mary Brown!'
No misgiving oppressed the soul of Roderick. The Sabbath in any case was to him a day of holy calm, whose devout associations he had cultivated by long habit into a sacred joy. To-day these were exhausted by the surroundings. The sunshine on the hills seemed to bring him into the very presence of a loving creator, and the companion by his side was one whose image in his thoughts had long stood for the embodiment of the good and beautiful. It was no vulgar love-making that he poured forth as they walked along, but the enthusiastic utterances of a devout young heart brimming over with piety and content.
And she? She looked up in his face and softly smiled. No need for words, the light in her eye spoke more eloquently than poets had ever sung. Poor youth! That light had shone as brightly and the smile had been as sweet--less vague and more intelligent--when a little while before she stood at the kitchen table and bade the cook put ten eggs instead of twelve in the custard for dinner.
Yet she really liked Roderick Brown. He was so good and so kind. She had known him all her life, and she knew that he admired her. He did not exactly say so, in fact she did not expect that, it would have been too frivolous; but his voice grew softer when he spoke to her, his eyes glowed, and his pale face would sometimes flush. She did not understand much of what he said, but she knew she was not clever, and was content it should be so. It was 'nice' to hear him talk about heaven in his earnest eloquent way; it sounded all so real, and she felt always more sure of going there when she was with him--he was so good.
Over the moor, down a brae, across a burn and up another slope. Moorland again, past a peat hag with the new cut turf drying in the sun. Straggling groups dotted the outlook, the dwellers in many a distant shieling, all converging towards the common goal--the preaching tent. Old men and women, mothers with their children, shepherds with their dogs, lads and lasses, the latter carrying their heavy shoes and stockings in their hands, till they should come to the last burn before reaching the kirk, there, after a preliminary footbath, to put them on and appear before the congregation decently clad.
Joseph Smiley, ever on the alert, produced his chairs as the Lady of Auchlippie and her suite entered the assembly and took her place in the front with a condescending smile, and Mr. Dowlas disappeared from view behind the curtains of the tent.
Roderick not being as yet an ordained minister, was not authorized to celebrate the sacraments of the church, which necessitated the occasional intervention of some one who was, as on the present occasion, when Mr. Dowlas was to perform the rite of baptism, as might be guessed from frequent thin small wails which issued intermittingly from the neighbouring covert. Immediately in front of the tent were the elders and deacons seated on the uncomfortable benches which Joseph had constructed, and near them the older and more devout of the people sat on their folded plaids, on stools or bunches of bracken. These were the more earnest church members, denominated the 'far ben christians' by their neighbours. Behind, reclining at their ease on the elastic heather, where it sloped upward from the grassy level, were the general company, who felt diffident about including themselves with the 'professors,'--men, women, children and collie dogs, basking in the sun and fanned by breezes sweet with the heather and the wild thyme.
Mr. Wallowby had all the prejudices of a middle-class Englishman. Whatever differed from the use and wont of his native county and country was wrong, and a good many things in the North had therefore met with his disapproval; but of all the matters on which sane men could differ, the most preposterous appeared to him to be church affairs, in a country where the established religion was not entitled to be called a church at all, but only, by a supercilious adoption of the native speech, a 'Kirk,' as something altogether different; though, to be sure, all bodies of Christians not affiliated to his church were in the same position, excepting the Latin and Greek communions, which being older than his, are wont to treat it with precisely the same contemptuous disrespect. The present conventicle promised at least more interest than a schismatic service in a kirk, and Mr. Wallowby had come in a mood of bland condescension to enjoy the humours of the scene, and amuse his superior mind with Sawney at his devotions. But when he seated himself in the silent assemblage, the spirit of the scene seemed to fall on him, and he found himself strongly impressed.
The minister shortly appeared in gown and bands, and although silence overspread the crowd before, it seemed to deepen as the worshippers straightened themselves in their seats, and fixed their gaze intently on his face. Around, the swelling hills showed not a sign of life or habitation; yet in this sequestered hollow a thousand souls perhaps, were gathered together for prayer. The minister gave out a psalm, and the whole congregation presently burst forth in song. At first the voice of the precentor quavered uncertain and thin in the wide expanse of the open air, then one by one a few others tremulously joined in, till at length the ear of the people caught the familiar cadence of 'Bangor,' and the multitudinous voice rose in a mighty swell, filling up that recess in the hillside, brimming over and reverberating among the rocks around. Here and there around him he would perceive the momentary jar of a bad voice or a false ear, but these were overborne in the vast flood of sound, in which every one joined with a seeming intensity of feeling that counterbalanced mere technical imperfections, and fulfilling the purpose of all art, that of conveying emotion from soul to soul, the song of those uncultured voices impressed him as he had never been by choir and organ under the fretted roof of church or minster.
Mr. Dowlas preached from the Canticles, applying the apostrophe to the Shulamite to such as had wandered from the truth. The audience listened with silent and deep attention, but without any of the ejaculation and amens with which Mr. Wallowby's dissenting fellow-countrymen relieve and stimulate their fervour. Some aged grandmother would occasionally shake her head in concurrence with the minister's words, but that was all.
At the beginning of the sermon a slight rustling attracted Joseph Smiley's attention. He looked up and beheld Tibbie Tirpie taking her seat on the outskirts of the crowd. She was accompanied by a young woman who leant on her arm and appeared delicate and pale till she caught sight of Joseph, when her cheeks became suffused with crimson, and she bent down her head. A look of annoyance came into his sharp, squirrel-like eyes, but he passed his hand across his mouth, which appeared to act like the wet sponge over a much be-written slate, and left it blank and sober as before.
There were four babies to be baptized at the conclusion of the sermon, and during the singing of a hymn, Joseph, as master of the ceremonies, proceeded to the clump of hazel bushes and thence ushered three well pleased mothers, each with her latest born held proudly in her arms. As struts the brood hen before her chippering train, calling the universe to witness the last new life added to the mighty sum by her praiseworthy exertions, so sailed these worthy women behind the beadle, and took their places with rustle and importance in front of the congregation. The husband of each came diffidently behind, and stood in front of his proprietress, tall, awkward, and a little shame-faced before all the people, the length of leg and arm appearing sadly in its owner's way, and the hands especially difficult to dispose of. Behind the matrons came Mary Brown, carrying the little waif rescued by her brother from the sea, Roderick himself bringing up the rear. Their appearance created a sensation, and a hum of enquiry ran through the congregation, for many were as yet ignorant of the addition to the minister's family. Mary gave her own name to the little one, and Roderick presented it for baptism as the several sires presented theirs, vowing to bring it up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.
Mr. Dowlas concluded the service, and while the younger and the English-speaking part of the congregation rose to depart, the older members drew more closely together before the tent, and Roderick at once commenced the afternoon service in Gaelic for their behoof. Many of them having come long distances, it was best that the two services should follow each other without interval, that they might start the earlier on their return home. In reverent haste the retiring worshippers withdrew from the ground, that they might not disturb the Gaelic congregation, and in ten minutes every one of them was out of sight. Joseph's duties were now over till the breaking up of the meeting, and as he did not understand Gaelic he withdrew to a mossy bank hard by, where birch trees warded off the afternoon sun, and stretched himself at length to enjoy a little repose. He had drawn from the crown of his tall black hat a bannock and a hunch of skim-milk cheese wrapped in a turkey red cotton handkerchief which he spread out on his knees, and proceeded to refresh himself. While he was still so engaged there approached him from the thicket in his rear Tibbie Tirpie.
'I wuss ye gude day! Joseph Smiley.'
Joseph snorted with impatience, and the squirrel-like gleam came into his eyes, but he merely answered--
'Gude day to ye! Tibbie,' sweeping together the scattered fragments of his repast, and causing them all to disappear in one comprehensive gulp. Then he wiped his mouth with the red cloth, replaced it in the hat, and resumed his wonted look of solemn composure.
'A weel, Tibbie! an' it's a graund discourse we hae heard this day; an' I houp it'll do ye gude. He's a godly man, Mester Dowlas, an' he's gaen hame wi' Mistress Sangster til a verra gude denner I mak nae doubt. But you an' me has haen a feast of fat things o' his providence. Marrow an' fatness truly, tho' it's juist a when bannocks we may hae to stay the flesh withal an' aiblins just a drappie o' something to wash a' down. Will ye taste, hinnie?' Thereupon he arose and retreated some steps to where the tree stems would conceal him from any wandering eye among the congregation, and drew forth from his bosom a flat bottle, which he applied to his lips, throwing back his head the while. After a prolonged gulp he paused for breath, and passed the bottle to his friend with one hand, while with the back of the other he wiped his lips.
'Pruive all things! Eppie. Try the speerits, an' I'm thinkin' ye'll find them not that bad.'
Eppie tasted and sipped, and tasted again, very well pleased, nodded, and returned the bottle, which was forthwith emptied where the bulk of its contents had already been poured.
'Hech! but my eyes are enlichtened like Jonathan's, an' noo let's crack about the preachin'.'
'Joseph! I hae bed a wee, as ye said. What is't a' comin' til?'
'Bed sin yest're'en! No muckle bidin' there I ween! But let's lay worldly business by, this holy Sawbith day, an' think o' wir sauls!--our puir perishin' sauls!' `An' what'll come o' your saul? Joseph Smiley, an' you sinnin' wi' the high haund an' wrangin' my puir lass Tibbie. Saw na ye hoo she was e'en ower blate to forgather wi' the neighbours, an' gaed creepin' hame afore the kirk wad skell?'
'The mair fule she! There's naething kenned again her. What maks her blate?'
'It's no for you to speer! Them 'at pet the cat e'y kirn, can best fesh't out. Ye ken what's wrang, an' ye beut to mak it richt!'
'Hech! Tibbie, ye're troubled an' carefu' about mony things. But wan thing is needfu', as the Scriptur says, an' this is the Sawbith day, an' I'se speak o' naething else but that same. Think o' yer saul! Tibbie, yer sinfu' saul!'
'Speak o' yer ain sins, ye rascal! an' let mine be. Yer saul's black wi' them, an' it's time ye was mendin'.'
'Na, na, Tibbie! that wad be works! an' they're filthy rags. I'm a' for grace!'
'For grace? ye villain! Grace Grimmond belike, gin' a' folk says be true. An' what's to come o' Tibbie? But ye'se never wad wi' Grace onybody, sae lang as Tibbie's to the fore! Tak my word for't.'
'Ye tak me up wrang, neighbour, it's the kingdom o' heaven I'm after, whaur they neither marry nor are given in marriage. An' I houp ye'll win there yet! It's no o' women, puir silly earthen vessels I'm speakin' or wull speak this holy day.'
'But ye'll hae to speak o' them! Ay, an' speak plenn--or I'se doon t'ey minister an' hae ye up afore the Kirk-Session the maament the kirk skells. I'm for nae mair o' yer parryin' I'se tell ye--ye thocht ye had puir Tibbie a' by her lane, yon fore nicht, doon i' the loanin', whan ye ca'd God to witness ye took her for yer lawfu' wife, an' juist wanted it keepit quiet till the bawbees was gathered for the plennissin'. But ye didna keek ahint the dike, an' ye kenna wha was hearkenin'!'
Joseph's countenance fell, his eyes opened wider, and strove to read in the other's face whether the witness suggested was a reality or a mere ruse to overawe him. He took the red handkerchief from his hat, and mopped his brow as a partial screen for his features, and finding evasion no longer possible, concluded to mitigate his opponent's excitement, and manœuvre for time.
'Ye needna thrape that gate, Mistress Tirpie, gin Tibbie wad hae me; I kenna the lass in a' Glen Effick I'd sooner wad wi', but what ye said ey noo about the bawbees an' the plennissin' hauds true yet. I canna tak the lassie hame an' no a bed for her to lie down on, an' what for wad ye be raisin' a din an' a clash? It's a filthy fowl 'at files its ain nest. An' it's yer ain dochter the folk wad lichtly, gin ye didna haud yer tongue.
'But ye can bide wi' me, Joseph, till yer gear's gathered; I'se be blythe to hae ye.'
Na, na, Luckie! Ilka pat till its ain cleek! we maun hae our ain fire-side.'
'An' it's little fireside me an' Tibbie's like tae hae gin ye haud back muckle langer! I hae na claes eneugh to keep her warm, an' she hasna strength to tak' wark, an' hoo can she get her strength on sowans an' kirn-milk? An' that's a' I hae to gie her. Ye maun keep yer wife, Joseph, e'en gin ye dinna bide wi' her.'
'An' hoo's a man to gather the bawbees, gin he's payin' them awa faster nor they come?'
'Ye ken that, Joseph; an' I'm thinkin' it's a denty pose ye hae hidden awa in some auld hugger, an' hae na the heart to spend. We a' ken ye for a hard thrifty body 'at winna spend yer ain, gin ye can finger ither folk's.'
Ye're hard on me, Luckie, but I'se do what I can. I hae nae siller in my pouch the day but a bawbee for the plate, seein' it's Sawbith, but I'll tell ye what I wull do, speak to the minister. An' he's the gude man wi' the free haund and the saft heid. Gin ye getna a' ye need out o' him, yer tongue winna wag sae souple, as I hae fand it can this hour back.'
And here, to avoid rejoinder he ran down the slope and took his place demurely on a stool by the tent to await the conclusion of the exercises.
The moorland overhanging the scene of the 'exercises' was always dotted over at their conclusion, with straggling companies of the worshippers returning home. At each branching of paths they would separate and change again to break up and separate further at fresh junctions, till at length the whole assemblage had dissipated itself over the extensive tract and disappeared.
The air freshened by a breeze was so warm and bright that it tempted to linger in friendly gossip, especially those whose week spent in some remote nook among the hills brought never a stranger to their door or a scrap of news. Some of the villagers, too, chose the moor as a roundabout way home, where they would meet more acquaintances than on the hot and dusty road, and while obtaining the air and exercise, avoid the sinfulness or disrepute of taking a walk upon the Sabbath day. Those from a distance had brought refreshments, and were now seated in the neighbourhood of some clear spring discussing their simple meal of scones and cheese and hard boiled eggs.
Seated in such a group were old Angus Kilgour, crofter, and Stephen Boague, shepherd, with their respective wives and families. Boague's offspring were three tow headed children who played noisily with a couple of dogs till their father interfered and bade them 'mind it was the Sabbath-day,' and called the dogs away. The young Kilgours were older, a big lad who carried a basket for his mother, a couple of girls competing, it seemed, for the favourable notice of a youth between them, a not unwilling captive to their charms, but still uncertain to which he should surrender, and another daughter whose tardy arrival was delaying the family repast.
'What hae ye in yon creel? Mistress,' cried Kilgour to his wife. 'We can bide nae langer for Meizie, she'll be danderin' alang wi' some laad nae doubt and niver thinkin' o' hiz. Here wi' yer creel, Johnnie! an' gie's a bannack a' round. I'm rael hungry. An' syne we'll hae a pipe, Stephen Boague, you an' me, an' here comes Peter Malloch, he's a graund chield for a crack. Hech! Peter Malloch, sit down, ye'll eat a bit, an' hae ye settled yet about pettin' up the new kirk?'
'A weel I'm thinkin' we'll hae't settled braw an' sure noo. We'se get a piece off Widdie Forester's kale-yard be like, gin we can raise the siller. We'll hae to mak an effort to do that, as Mester Dowlas says, an' it'll be a kittle job, but pet a stiff shouther till a stey brae, as the folk says. We maun ca' a meetin' I'm thinkin', an' hae him to speak, he's a graund man to crack the bawbees out o' folk's pouches.'
'Ou ay!' ejaculated Stephen, 'He's a gude man, but unco worldly! He's aye cryin' about the pennies an' the sustentation fund. Nae fear o' him gaun a warfare at his ain charges!'
'An' belike ye'd cry about the pennies yersel', Stephen Boague, gin ye'd naething else to lippin til.'
'Weel, that was aye what I liket best about the auld Kirk! A' thing was proveedet, "without money an' without price," an' that's Scripter. Juist the sincere milk of the word an' naething to pay for't!'
'I'd think shame o' mysel', Stephen Boague,' broke in his wife, 'to speak like that! An' ca' ye yon the word at's preached up by at Kilrundle? A curran Erastian havers! Settin' up the law o' the land ower the word o' God, an' the will o' the Coort o' Session abune the General Assembly o' the Kirk! My certie! I'se no ca' yon the milk o' the word. It's grown sooer wi' ill keepin'! A wersh savourless gospel, for puir starved sauls, hungerin' for the truith an' gettin' naething but a clash o' cauld parritch!'
A weel! gude wife, ye maun hae yer say, but gin ye had to fin' the pennies ye'd maybe no be sae glib! an' but twa e'y pouch to buy the sneeshin'.'
'Haud yer tongue, Stephen! an' fill yer pipe,' said the hospitable Angus, 'It's no expecket that the puir man's to pay the same as the weel-aff folk, out o' their abundance.'
'An' wha's the man to say that Stephen Boague did na pay his way the best? I'd like to ken. Na, na! It's juist anither patch on the auld breeks, an' weel the gude wife kens whaur to clap it on! an' the siller's saved. But a man beut to hae his grum'le.'
'An' wasna yon a fine preachin' the day?' asked Peter Malloch, who being a deacon, felt bound to lead the conversation into an improving groove, especially for the good of the young, and Meizie had now joined the circle followed by William the footman at Inchbracken, absent on leave to visit his sick mother.
'A grand sermon!' said Mr. Kilgour, 'an' was na he bonny about the Shulamite? Tho' I'm free, to say I kenna verra weel wha she was. But I'm misdoubtin' but she was some thochtless young hempie 'at kenned na' weel what she was after--An' hoo' he cried til her to return!'
'That was the wanderin' sauls o' sinfu' folk,' said Peter clearing his voice for an extended exposition, but he got no farther, for William here brought the pious abstract down to the concrete and personal by breaking in.
'An' saw na ye hoo young Tibbie Tirpie, sittin' awa back wi' the hindmost took to the greetin', an' down wi' her head, an' up wi' her neepkin, like's a' the minister was sayin' was for her.'
'Hech laddie!' said Mrs. Kilgour, 'an' what for no? we hae a' wandered frae the truith. The word was powerfu', an' wha kens but it may hae reached her heart. An' micht it no hae reached yer ain as weel, William?'
'An' that's true! Mistress Kilgour, an' nae doubt but it wull belive whan the Lord sees fit. But it was yersel' was speakin' about the Shulamite an' winderin' gin she micht na hae been some thochtless hempie, juist mentioned ye ken for our edification--an' it kind o' looket like's she had taen 't a' to heart. Wha kens?'
'Whish man! Think shame! Ye maunna be lichtlyin' a lass's repute for naething. Naething but greetin' e'y kirk. An' that diz her credit. It wad be weel, lad, gin yer ain flinty heart wad melt as easy.'
'Belike it wad, Mistress Boague, but I'm jalousin''--
Here Meizie interposed to save her young man from the threatening onslaught of the matrons by a change of subject. 'Yon's a braw muckle bairn o' Jean Cameron's, an' was na Sandie the proud man whan he held it up to the minister?'
'A fine bairn! an' sae war the ither twa. An' didna the minister lay the vows tichtly on the fathers. Gin they stick til a' they hae promised this day, the weins will get a godly upbringin'. An' didna our ain minister look solemn whan he held up yon bonny wee thing, to be baptised. An' it neither grat nor skirled whan the water fall on its bit face, 'ats no the size o' a saxpence.'
'I'm wae it didna skirl,' said Mrs. Kilgour. It's aye a gude sign. My gude-mither wad aye be sayin' it was a sign the Deil was losin' its hauld o' the bairn.'
'Ye've no warrant in Scriptur for that, Mistress,' said Peter. 'It's a superstitious notion, an' I'm misdoubtin' but it's a rag o' the whoor o' Babylon.'
'A weel! I kenna mysel, but mine skirled weel. I had to rin out wi' Meisie there, or she'd hae deaved the hale kirk wi' her screighin'. An' see til her noo! for a braw sonsey lass. The pruif o' the puddin's the preein' o' 't. Babylon or no!'
'An' wha's the Minister's wein ca'd after?'
'On Miss Mary be sure! She carried her in.'
'An' wha's acht it? That's what I want to ken, an' that's what the minister disna ken himsel',' said Mrs. Boague. 'I had a' about it frae Luckie Howden, an' she's nane sae weel pleased that Eppie Ness has gotten the tent o' 't, by her. An' her keppin' the minister's teapat in her corner cupboard. They micht hae leuten her turn a penny on the bairn. But ye see they're sleepin' down by at Eppie's, an' sae she's gotten Miss Mary's lug, an' says what she likes intil't. But its juist the way o' the warld. The puir maun aye to the wa'. But as I was sayin' the minister gaed ower til Mary yon ae dark nicht, an' the mornin after he brocht hame this bit bairnie in his arms. An' he thinks the Lord gied it til him. He fand it lyin' on the sands at Effick Mouth, a' happit up in the finest o' claes, an' he thinks it maun be a leddy's bairn washed ashore by the sea, when some big ship an' a' body intil't was lost in the storm. It's a queer tale, an it's rael gude o' thae twa young folk to tak up wi' the puir wee stray, an be at a' chairges.'
'It's a verra queer tale,' said Peter Malloch.
'A verra queer tale, nae doubt,' repeated William. 'The gentles was crackin' ower't ae fore nicht, ower their denner up by at Inchbracken, an' a curious story they made out o't, but ye hae na juist the hing o't as they had it, Mistress Boague. Odd sak! my heart fairly lap i' my mouth to hear them, an' I a' but cowpet the dish wi' the wine sass on my Leddy's saitin gown. Gin it hadna been for the look Mester Smith the butler gied me, I'd hae let it fa', that's sure, an' syne I micht hae hanged mysel', for it's ne'er inside the dinin'-room door I'd hae been leuten again. The General wad hae ordered me out himsel'. He'll stand nae flousterin' frae the attendance I'se tell ye.'
'But ye hae na telled us what the gentles said yet, William. Belike ye war that frichtet ye hae forgotten't a'.'
'I'se no forget it in a hurry. But I canna sae weel rehearse't, atween what they said, an' what they garred a body think, tho' aiblins they mayna hae puiten their tongue til't. For it's no a thing a body daur say afore her leddyship. But Mistress Briggs, my leddy's woman kens a' about it, an' it was her telled Miss Finlayson. She kens what's been ado wi' Tibbie Tirpie this lang while back. An' she was comin' ower frae Inverlyon e'y mail coach that dark nicht the minister gaed for the bairn, an' wha suld the driver put in aside her but Tibbie Tirpie? He said it was a sair nicht for a lassie to travel her lane across the muir, sae he juist in wi' her an' stieket the door. An' deil a word she spak to Mistress Briggs the hale road, juist pu'd the plaid ower her face an' grat an' sabbet a' the time. Mistress Briggs, ye see, is verra genteel an' parteeklar, an' was for complainin', about folk bein' puiten in aside her, an' sae she telled Miss Finlayson whan she cam hame, an' the day, ye see, it cam a' back on me, when I seen Tibbie greetin' an' carryin' on e'y kirk. An' whan she gaed slinkin' hame afore the weins were brocht into baptise, thinks I to mysel', aiblins Miss Finlayson's no that far wrang!'
'I see na muckle in yer story, William,' said Angus, 'but I think the gentles micht hae better to do, nor prankin' wi' the gude name o' a puir lass 'at ne'er wranged them. An' ye're ill-aff for a job yersel' to be carryin' their clashes about the country side.'
'But ye hae na heard me out yet. It was that same dark nicht the minister gaed ower til Inverlyon. An' next mornin' he brings hame the bairn. An' wha suld he meet on the brae-head, think ye, but Captain Drysdale, (the auld captain). An' the captain speers "wha's acht the bairn," an' the minister he durstna tell, an' he looket terrible blate. An' the captain he leugh, an' the minister he grew mad, an' the captain he says--says he, "keep up yer heart," or, "dinna be ower down-cast, it's nae great matter, gin it be a bairn--it's a verra sma' ane"--an' that's the captain's ain words.'
'Preserve us a'!' ejaculated Mrs. Boague, 'Diz the sin grow heavier wi' the wecht o' the bairn? Fau'se doctrine I'se wager! But that comes o' sittin' under a moderate minister! There's saul's bluid lyin' at the door o' that prophet o' Baaul, up by at Kilrundle.'
'But wha wad hae thocht the like o' Roderick Brown?' said Angus, 'an' I maun hae pruif or I can tak it in. I hae kenned him man an' laddie sin afore he kenned himsel', an' I kenned auld Doctor Brown weel,--an' a gude man he was--an' I canna thole to think he cud gang sae far astray.'
'It hings thegither tho',' said Peter Malloch, 'an' I'm sair misdoubtin' but things are na a' thegither as they suld be. An' that minds me, as I was gaun til Inverlyon no lang syne, we lichted frae the coach gaun doon the brae, an' wha suld be comin' up but Mester Brown. It maun hae been that verra day, for he had a bundle in's arms, an' says my neighbour to me, laughin'-like, it micht be a bairn, that i' the minister's arms. An' as for him he wadna forgather, like he may hae been blate, but juist gaed by wi' hardly the time o' day to throw til a dug. An' me the Convener o' the Deacons' Coort! I ance thocht him a gude young man, but he's verra pridefu'. An' he winna be guidet by them 'ats aulder an' mair experienced nor himsel'. An' pride ye ken comes afore destruction, an' a hauchty speerit afore a fa'. So says scripter. Pride's deadly sin, ye ken, an' wan sin brings on anither. I'm sair misdoubtin' but there may be some fundation. But it's terrible to think on. A minister o' the Free Protestin' Kirk o' Scotland, and our minister--hiz 'at's corned out o' Egyp', leavin' kirk and steeple an' a' ahint us, intil the leeteral wilderness, wi' naething but a bit umbrelly belike to keep aff the ren an' the snaw. Hiz wha's praise is in all the churches, as Mester Dowlas tells us, for our persecuitions--to think our minister suld gae wrang! My certie, we's cast out the unclean thing frae amang us, to perish like anither Aachan without the camp!'
'An' him sae young! an' sae gude to the puir folk!' said Mrs. Kilgour. 'I'se no believe the like o' him or ony ither minister, till it's pruived on him.'
'Ministers are but men, woman,' sighed Mrs. Boague, 'an' the flesh is weak. I'm misdoubtin' but it's an ower true tale.'
The subject of this discussion concluded his Gaelic sermon in due course, all unconscious of the havoc that was being made of his reputation. Ere he left the tent he was addressed by the assiduous Joseph, who described to him the case of Widow Tirpie, reduced to sad straits and threatened with destitution as the consequence of the long and severe illness of her daughter. Like others whose charity takes the form of urging their neighbours to give, Joseph used his very best skill to rouse his master's sympathy, and grew both picturesque and pathetic in describing these paragons of honest independence and virtuous poverty;--the empty meal girnel, the daughter weakened by sickness, perhaps sinking into a decline and unable to work, and the mother depriving herself of such necessary food as still remained to nourish her child, and stave off a little longer the inevitable day when they must come on the parish. The eloquence was so far useless, in that Roderick would in any case have done what he could for any one in want, but he was surprised as well as rejoiced to have discerned at last so fervid a charity in one he had hitherto regarded as cold and worldly. He made no doubt that Joseph's deeds had been guided by the same warm sympathy as his words, and while promising to see the widow that evening or the next day, he made him a present to reimburse him for any imprudent outlay into which his feelings might have led him. Joseph accepted it, and when, later in the evening he added it to the 'pose' which awaited his next journey to Inverlyon and the Savings Bank, he chuckled over the good young man's simplicity and his own shrewdness.
When Roderick arrived at home he found Mary at liberty at last. Peter Sangster and Mr. Wallowby had both accompanied her from church with Eppie Ness and the baby, and had even lingered on for some time, despite the manifest displeasure of Mrs. Sangster, as she drove away with Sophia and Mr. Dowlas; but the young men had set themselves to watch each other, and see each that the other made no advance in Mary's favour to his own detriment. Neither would withdraw and leave the other in possession of the field--rivalry having made both fancy themselves more interested than either would have been but for the competition.
Peter believed he had a prior claim owing to his previous acquaintance, which he had meant to strengthen during his present visit to the North, though perhaps on a more condescending footing than he saw he need now attempt. He had thought to maintain an intimacy without committing himself, and eventually, in the uncertain future, if it suited, to come forward with his proposal, and be accepted of course. Like a timid bather standing breast-high in the water, he found himself pushed from his shelf of standing ground into deep water, where he must strike out at once or go under. He was aggrieved that his guest should so deliberately and immediately set himself to cut him out, and he thought, too, that his sister was being slighted most ungraciously.
As for Mr. Wallowby, he thought nothing about it. He was rich and good-looking, or at least his whiskers were cut according to the most approved pattern of the time, and he was accustomed to have ladies make themselves agreeable to him. He speedily decided that Sophia was rather heavy, and he imagined from the first moment he saw her, that Mary would be more amusing, and therefore strove to improve the acquaintance. It is probable that would have been all but for Peter's airs of proprietorship in the girl and his too obvious endeavours to make him (Wallowby) interest himself in the young lady of the house as her due. This was more than man or lady-killer could stand, and the result was keen rivalry and strained diplomatic relations, which did not promise increased cordiality for the morrow, when they were to shoot in each other's company.
As for Mary, being indifferent to both, she probably preferred taking them together. Each kept the other on his mettle, which prevented dulness, and she could not but be amused with the cross looks she detected now and then passing between them. Still one may have too much of anything, and she was not sorry when a clatter of plates and dishes in Eppie's part of the house was accepted by the visitors as a warning to depart.
Roderick came in very shortly after. Mary met him with slippers and dressing-gown, and drew forward his father's old leather chair from its corner, to receive his weary frame, and recruit his strength for the Bible-class and other activities still to be gone through. She then brought the baby, and seated herself with it in a low chair near him.
'Did you ever see such lovely eyes, Roderick?'
Of course Roderick never had.
'Or such a dainty little mouth?'
Again such a mouth was never seen before, nor such intelligence, nor such a dear divine little image ever before. It was the first revelation of babyhood that had appeared in their lives, and they worshipped and wondered and reverently served, as every good soul must, before the mystery of a dawning spirit.
'It is strange,' said Roderick, after a while, 'that no enquiry should have come from any one about this little Mary of ours. I shall certainly not be sorry if no one comes to claim her. She is more than welcome to all that I can give her; but those she belongs to can have no idea what a precious little darling she is, or they would have reclaimed her ere now. My letter was printed conspicuously enough in the Witness, but it has led to nothing, not one enquiry. You will have noticed in the paper that Lord Briarhill and Mrs. Steele went to Inverlyon and identified a daughter-in-law, the wife of their son, Major Steele in India, in one of the bodies washed ashore from the wreck of the 'Maid of Cashmere,' which must be the ship I saw perish that fearful night. To tell you the truth I have been expecting a letter from his Lordship ever since, claiming the baby; for the drowned lady I saw, and who I make no doubt was baby's mother, was just what one might suppose Major Steele's wife to be like. When you write to our uncle you might mention the circumstance, and also ask him if there is any other step I should take to find relations for the little one. I am sure I had better not write him myself, till he cools down upon the church question, and that will take years, I fear. So pray write, dear, during the week.'
News was not diffused so freely five and thirty years ago as it is now. The mails, excepting between Edinburgh and Glasgow, were still carried by mail coaches, but people having never known anything better, were quite satisfied, nay proud of the free intercommunication between different parts of the kingdom, and newspapers were issued only once or twice a week. Further, Roderick's newspaper was one addressed to an ecclesiastical rather than a commercial or sea-faring public, and therefore his communication about the child was less likely to be noticed than it would have been in some other journal. However, in this instance a different mode of advertising would have mattered little. Lord Briarhill was not aware that a child accompanied his daughter-in-law, and it was not till many weeks later, that he learned from a letter received by a mail long overdue that a baby had been born a fortnight before she sailed, and had been carried with her. By that time the circumstance of a child having been picked up alive, had quite escaped his lordship's memory, if indeed he had ever been informed of it. Mrs. Major Steele, too, belonged to a family in the Indian Civil Service, she had been born in India herself, and there her father and near relatives resided, so that, excepting the old judge, there was no one in Scotland interested in the matter.
Mary's letter was not written, owing to an invitation from Mrs. Sangster to spend the week at Auchlippie, and help to entertain the visitors. The conversation was forgotten by brother and sister alike, and affairs drifted on in their own way.