When Mary reached home she found her brother already in bed, where he lay tossing uneasily in search of the rest and slumber which he could not attain.
His cheeks were flushed with incipient fever, and the tangled hair hung about his face in matted locks. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved in inaudible mutterings, as he turned restlessly from one side to the other. He complained of an acute pain in his side which caught his breath, and a dull aching that smouldered like fire in his bones and joints, which he fancied he could count by their separate twingings.
The sight of his sister seemed to do him good, and when he felt the coolness of her hand on his brow, he closed his eyes and fell into a kind of slumber; but the sleep was not of very long duration, and it was restless and disturbed. The nightmares of the night before fell on him again; groaning and muttering he tossed to and fro, and presently awoke.
The surgeon arrived in due course, and shook his head gravely, while he enjoined the greatest care, as pleurisy or rheumatic fever, or both, appeared to be impending. Roderick lay and muttered, righting with the dismal visions that floated like mists about his brain, and struggling to keep hold of the reality.
In that, however, he found little solace, it seemed more dismal than aught a fevered fancy could conjure up to distress him. Visions of Cain driven forth from home and kindred, to wander over the face of the earth an outcast and a stranger; Abram sent forth to find him a new home in a strange and unknown country, turning his back on all that he had ever known or loved; Job with his children all slain in a single hour; those who had cast away a right hand or plucked out a right eye for the sake of the kingdom of righteousness; all the forlorn and desolate and bereaved he had ever heard or dreamed of, passed in melancholy procession before him, and hailed him as their fellow. He looked upon the stricken train, and questioning each as to the nature of his sorrow; it seemed to him that in their misery, they all had justice or hope or consolation. But his? It stood alone among them all, unmerited, unreasonable, without purpose and without pity. There was nothing he had held too dear to part with, nothing he had kept back, when he laid down all to follow his Church into the wilderness. Then why had this new grief come upon him? and what good end was to be served by enacting anew in his case the parable of the prophet Nathan, and robbing him of the one ewe lamb he cherished in his bosom? Since his boyhood, the whole pure love of his heart had been given to Sophia. Her image had filled a shrine in his inmost thoughts, and he had clothed it in all he knew of pure and holy, and held it for a symbol of unseen good. He had waited till in all reasonableness and truth he could win her for his wife, and she and her parents, in some unspoken measure at least, had consented to his resolve.
Now, all of a sudden he hears from the lips of her own mother, wrung from them, as it were unawares, under the dread pre-occupation of impending danger, that another man's suit is entertained or courted, and so utterly trivial are any pretensions of his held to be, that their very existence is overlooked, and himself made the confidant of the mother's views. Oh, how can he resign himself? How pluck away the image around which all his hopes and dreams, the very roots and tendrils of his being have entwined themselves for so many years? Pluck out an eye? It were to pluck out his very heart, and cast it from him--to cease to think--to cease to live. Yet if she were to become another man's wife he would have to do it. He groaned. The universe seemed falling in on him, his head swam, and he fell into a dose.
When he next awoke the emotional strain was somewhat relaxed. His thoughts would run in no other channel, but he began now to muse, and plan, and question. Was it indeed decided? Or was it as yet but a plan of the mother? Had Sophia consented? And even if she had, was it of her own free will, and with the concurrence of her affections? Or was it a mere compliance with the wishes of her parents, while she had no sufficient reason to admit a preference elsewhere? For the unmaidenliness, as he would have called it, of loving unsought, was not to be dreamed of in the case of Sophia.
'Ah!' he cried aloud, 'Who knows? I have never spoken, or----' the rest would not frame itself in words, but a vision arose before his mind's eye, or rather many visions, remembrances of all the sweetest and most endearing looks, or what he regarded as such, that she had ever given him; and as he thought, his poor chilled soul grew warmer and more at ease, and the throbbing in his head grew easier.
'The venture is worth making,' he said presently. And thereupon he rose from bed and sat down before his desk, which, as already mentioned, was in another part of the same room.
Mary was not present at the moment, so there was no one to offer opposition. He drew to him some paper and prepared to write. His mind had been seething with emotion, but as he took the pen in his hand, the thoughts grew hazy, and refused to shape themselves in words,---they refused to be written down. Fluttering and whirling before him like the disordered gleams in a moving prism, they would not be caught, and yet kept tantalizing him by settling upon his pen, till he tried to write them, when they would dissipate again in a new and perturbed whirl of tempestuous feeling. He clasped his hands upon his aching brow, but it ached worse than ever, and he sat stupified in blank despair.
Words came after a while, and by and by he began to write, but the writing when it was done had to be torn up, and the work begun again anew. Sheet after sheet was written and destroyed, and the scattered flakes gathered like snowdrifts about his chair. He wearied himself in abortive efforts, but at least he deadened the acuteness of his misery. The fantastic pains and throes of composition were an anodyne to the more real agonies of his mind. By dividing its action in the endeavour to express its workings, he reduced their intensity. As he grew weary, therefore, he began to grow calmer, and was able with some sort of coherence to say the thing he meant. It was no great achievement in the way of a love-letter, but under the circumstances a great achievement was impossible. He was too much under the direct influence of his emotion,--whatever of mental force he had was expended in the suffering, the jealousy, the hopelessness and the longing, and but a fraction could be abstracted to express his meaning.
An emotion when it can be expressed is in a manner relegated from the present to the past,--from experience to memory; and we may be sure that the poets were pretty well cured of their woes, before they made the world resound with their harrowing despairs and their plaintive wailings. Goethe tells us he got quit of much perilous stuff in writing Werther, but one can scarcely doubt that he was convalescent before he undertook the task. Art is always fiction, though fiction is so seldom art, and its nearest approach to actual veracity is when the artist brings forth the ashes of bygone emotion from the sepulchre of memory, and galvanizes them into a second life before his attentive world.
Such utterance as Roderick had been able to achieve had done him good. The beads of moisture stood on his brow, as he folded and addressed his letter; he directed that it should be given into Sophia's own hands, and then returning to his bed, he closed his eyes with a long sigh of relief, and fell into a peaceful sleep.
The letter was as follows:--
'My dear Sophia,
'For this once I must so address you, even if it be permitted me to do so never again. I am sick in bed, in consequence of yesterday's misadventure, so unable to come to you myself and speak, and it has come to my knowledge that an offer of marriage is already, or will shortly be made to you, therefore I write.
'I owe it to myself, that you should know before you have given an answer, that I too desire you to look on me as your suitor.
'I had meant to wait till after my ordination, but I cannot run the risk of letting another man speak while I remain silent.
'Oh, Sophia, I seem to have loved you ever since I saw you first--as far back as I can recollect--since we were both children; and the love has grown with the years till I believe I could not live if I saw you married to another. That other may be rich, while I am not; but think, Sophia,--he never saw you till the other day--and what can his love be to mine, that has been growing and deepening through so many years?
'Think of it, dearest. Have we not played together as children? sung together as boy and girl? Have we not taken sweet counsel together as christian man and woman? and shall we not walk through life as wife and husband?
'Think of it all, Sophia, and choose with the best wisdom you can command.
'My life will be a lonely journey, if it is not to be shared by you, for you have been to me the symbol of all that is good and holy; but if you find it is not I who can make you happy, at least my prayer shall ever be for a blessing on whatever choice you make.
'Yours utterly,'
'(Signed) RODERICK BROWN.'
It was the next day that Joseph Smiley set out to deliver the minister's letter. His instructions were to give it into the hands of Miss Sangster herself, if possible, or at least to make sure that it went direct to her, and to ask if there was any answer. This was a mission very much to Joseph's taste. Being a man of diplomatic genius, he loved to attain his purposes by a circuitous path, and to go round a corner rather than walk straight up to his object.
There was once a minister of the Free Church, of whom a brother divine declared in the bitterness of his soul,--for he had just been circumvented in a cherished scheme,--that he never tied his shoe without having some ulterior motive. If beadles may, without irreverence, be compared with ministers--the very small with the extremely great--Joseph's idiosyncracy was of a like kind. It was well known that Mrs. Sangster's was an all-pervading presence at Auchlippie; the very cat must drink her milk in the appointed time and place, or the mistress would know why; and all comers and goers and their business were bound to come within her ken. The house, the dairy, the poultry-yard, these were her domain, but fortunately they were also its limit. Queen irresponsible in these, her writ would not run in the adjoining stable and farm-yard. The master had settled that long ago. Good-natured and submissive in the house, he tolerated no petticoat influence beyond its limits; and the mistress, after one or two defeats in the attempt to extend her sway, had yielded long ago to the insuperable, and dwelt at peace in her own kingdom.
As Joseph neared Auchlippie, therefore, he crossed a field or two and made a circuit, so as to approach it from the rear, with the farm-yard to shelter him while he reconnoitred, and to retreat into in case he was seen. He likewise carried under his arm his bag of tools, so that if, later, the lady should come upon him, his errand might appear manifest enough. There was always shelving to be put up or taken down, doors that would not close, locks that would not open, and Joseph was the man to see to it all. The work was well enough, indeed Joseph preferred 'orra jobs,' as he called them, to steady work. The variety amused him, and the sight of new faces, besides gossip, drams, and sometimes a share of the kitchen dinner were among the recommendations; but the pay at Auchlippie was not altogether satisfactory. Mrs. Sangster preferred paying in kind to disbursing her silver. Joseph would return home at night with an armful of old clothes, serviceable enough, perhaps, but with the drawback attending them, that he could never tell when his accounts were to be considered square. The next time he did an 'orra job' at Auchlippie, he would be reminded of the load of things he had carried away last time, and given to understand that the present 'job' was to be looked upon as in part working out the previous haul.
For these reasons Joseph was not disposed to obtrude his services. He now went quietly into the stable yard, and fell into chat with the lad who was rubbing up the gig in which his master would shortly start for a neighbouring market. He kept his eyes well open, and it was not long before he descried a petticoat in the distance. It was certainly not Sophia. A second look showed it to be Jean Macaulay, the kitchen-maid, returning from the garden with a basketful of green stuff, and Jean, he bethought him, was a very particular friend of his own, and he might do a trifle of business for himself as well as fulfil his commission.
He vaulted lightly over a gate, and with three or four skips intercepted Jean, just where the blind wall of the dairy intercepted all view from the house.
Here with his gayest smile he caught with both his hands----not Jeanie, it was only her disengaged hand held out at arm's length; for she had seen him in time, and laughed merrily in his face, while she held her own well beyond his reach.
Joseph had missed his chance of a salute, and had to content himself with a salutation.
'Haud awa! ye caperin' antic!' she cried, 'an' behave yersel' afore folk. Yonder's Jock Spiers e'y yaird! Lay, by! An' what brings you about the town at this time o' day, my mannie?'
'What wad it be, Jean, but yer ain sonsie face? I'm aye thinkin' o' ye, whan I canna see ye! I canna lie quiet i' my lane bed, lassie, for the thocht o' ye! Sae here I am.'
'Awa, ye leein' haveril! Do you tak me for a fule, to think ye're to blaw the stour i' my e'en that gate? Lay by, now! (Joseph had become demonstrative again), or I'll gie ye a gouff i' the lug'll gar't stound the next half-hour! An' I canna be claverin' here a' day. Awa wi' ye!' and she caught up her basket.
'What ails ye, lass? Winna ye bide a wee? It's no often a body gets ye yer lane for a crack. Bide a wee!'
'I canna bide, man, ey noo! Gin the mistress comes ben an' dizna find the pat on the fire; I'se get my kale through the reek, I'se warrant ye!'
'Here, than, Jean! Here's a letter frae the minister to Miss Sophia. An' ye maun gie't to naebody but her ain-sel'. I'se be hingin' round here-awa, an' ye maun fesh back the answer belive. Winna ye, noo, lass?'
'We'll see,' said Jean moving off; 'she was bakin' pies whan I gaed out, gin she hae na gaen butt the house, I'se gie her't. Ye'll be here whan I come out? For I'll no can bide lang.' And folding the letter in her apron she hastened into the house.
Sophia was still in the kitchen, giving the last ornamental touches to her pies, when the letter was brought her.
'From Glen Effick, eh? A note from Mary Brown I suppose. And an answer is wanted? very well.' She slipped it into her pocket, and retired to her room to read it at her leisure.
No one could have been more surprised than was Sophia at the contents of that letter, and the earnestness and solemnity with which they were expressed. She had never received a love-letter in her life, and had some indistinct idea from what her mother had occasionally said, that the subject was scarcely a proper one in real life. It was something that was to be read about in books, especially in poetry books and tales, but of these she had not read many. Her mother considered them relaxing to the mind, except when they were of a theological cast, and refrained from such frivolities as love scenes; the biographies of serious people, in fact, had been the staple of her reading.
She had been accustomed to look forward to a time when she would be married, but the aspect in which the change of state had chiefly presented itself to her mind had been the being mistress of a house of her own. From the time Mr. Wallowby had been expected to visit them, her mother had spoken to her of the possibility of his wishing to marry her, and of the wealthy and distinguished position she would in that case be called on to fill. She had thought of it as something that would be very nice if it took place, though also rather formidable, and wondered if it would feel very strange and uncomfortable at first; but it had never presented itself to her as a thing which she was to make any effort to gain, or that it was a matter in regard to which she would be called on to exercise any independent choice. Her parents had arranged everything for her hitherto, and knew what was best and most proper. They had sent her to school, and decided what she was to study there, and she had studied it accordingly. In the proper time they would arrange for her being married, and it would be for her to fill as she best could the position they might decide on as best for her.
And yet Sophia was not a person without character or full average'intelligence, as no doubt some day would be made manifest enough, when at length her individuality should waken up and assert itself. It was only that she had lived in retirement, and been 'very carefully brought up,' that is to say, in an especially narrow and artificial groove, that she was slow and quiescent herself, and had an unusually energetic and masterful mother.
As regarded Roderick, she liked him very much for a friend, better than her own brother Peter, because he was kinder and more attentive to her, and better than his sister Mary, the only other person she had known equally long, because she was 'only a girl;' but that Roderick should feel for her anything so different from this tepid friendship, was something beyond her comprehension. She read the letter again, a third time, and even a fourth, utterly bewildered by its earnestness, and finally unable to make anything of it all, she carried it to her mother.
Mrs. Sangster opened her eyes in surprise. Had a letter reached an inmate of her castle without her knowledge? Had her daughter received one without its passing under her censorship? What were things coming to? She took the letter and put on her glasses.
'From? Roderick Brown! as I'm a christian woman! And what? I do declare--a love-letter! Oh----!!' Many indignant thoughts swept wildly through her soul, many words hurried to her lips. 'The serpent!' But at the sound of her own voice, she paused. Her daughter knew nothing, no one had ever dared to sully her pure ear with such a tale; and should her mother's be the hand to rend the veil of innocency, and let in the sad knowledge that there is evil in the world? She could not. And yet she must say something, if only to cover her discomposure.
'And has it come to this, that a daughter of mine has actually received a love-letter! You! Sophia Sangster! what kind of conduct do you practise, that a libert---- a----young man feels encouraged to write you a love letter, and make you a proposal? Where has been your maidenliness? Your common sense of propriety? When I was a young woman, no man breathing would have presumed to write about love to me!'
'Mamma! I have done nothing. The letter is as great a surprise to me as it can be to you!'
'But you ought to have done something. If you had behaved with becoming propriety and decorum, he never would have had the courage to write. But you never had proper spirit! Go to your room, Miss!'
Sophia withdrew in open-eyed amazement. She was not prone to tears, and under long habitude had become somewhat callous to strong language. Her mother's ebulition merely added an accession to the bewilderment Roderick's letter was already occasioning her. Other girls in the parish had been married, and it seemed to her, that, somehow, their bridegrooms must have spoken or written to express their wishes, else how came they to be known? and none of these had been more frequent visitors at the homes of their future brides, than had Roderick been at her father's. The imputation of unmaidenliness, then, had been only one of her mother's tantrums, things she had been used to all her life, and knew to contain more noise than mischief. She must not return an answer to the letter--that seemed all the outburst meant, and it was rather a relief to her to think so, for, to tell the truth, she would not have known what to say. Roderick's grave and sacramental way of putting the matter, seemed to make any light and ordinary answer akin to blasphemy, and how otherwise was one to answer, where feelings were barely up to the level of commonplace? So she sat herself down with her hands in her lap, and thought afresh over her remarkable letter.
Mrs. Sangster walked up and down her room, 'frying,' as her cook would have said, with indignation, at this abandoned young man, who, steeped in iniquity, had yet dared to raise his eyes to her dovecot. She would have liked to hound him through every court of the Church, and to let loose every cur in the parish at his heels; but after what Mr. Sangster had said about actions for libels, and the Court of Session, there was no use thinking of that. She stamped her foot in her impatience, and anon wiped her eyes, as she thought of the pathetic helplessness of her gentle and interesting sex. No notice should be taken of the letter; that was as much as she could venture on. But how had it come? That was worth knowing.
Repairing to the kitchen, she learned that the minister's man who brought it was still hanging about the premises. Then thinking to pump him more conveniently, she bethought her of a new shelf for the store-room, and sent for Joseph to give him the order. He appeared, but with no great show of alacrity, and it was not till he had heard orders given for his subsequent refreshment, and had actually fingered the lady's coin, that he began to show something like interest.
'And what's the news in Glen Effick, Joseph?'
'No muckle, mem. Tarn Jamieson's coo's gotten a cauf. I'm thinkin' that's about a'.'
'And your master the minister? No news about him?'
'Weel mem, he's lyin' sin' yester mornin', whan he cam hame frae Gortonside. But I'm thinkin' ye ken better about that nor me. Folk says ye an' him got a terrible dookin' e'y burn, up by on Findochart. An' gin it hadna been for him ye'd ne'er hae gotten out ava, mem. An' noo it's a' ower, the folk says he's like to dee o't.'
'Indeed, we had a most trying time, Joseph, and have much cause for thankfulness, in having escaped as we did, and I hope Mr. Brown's illness will not prove serious. But, tell me, are there no reports or rumours about him circulating in the village?'
'I kenna what ye're drivin' at, mem, I'm sure.'
'There is, then, nothing stirring down the Glen at all?'
'I ken o' naething, mem.'
'Widow Tirpie's girl has come home again I hear, and looks poorly.' Joseph started slightly, and glanced suspiciously under his eyelids, but he answered impassively enough.
'I heard sae, mem, but I haena seen her mysel.'
'And is nobody's name associated in the village with that?' Joseph, in his discomposure, missed his hammer stroke, and gave himself a severe rap on the thumb, which with a gulp he transferred to his mouth.
'I'm no sure 'at I guess what ye're drivin' at, mem.'
'And about her child?' continued Mrs. Sangster, still intent on learning something.
'I ne'er heard tell that she had ane,' said Joseph, waxing more and more uneasy.
'Do the people ever remark a likeness between her and the baby Miss Brown has adopted, for instance?'
Joseph turned round and looked Mrs. Sangster in the face; he felt relieved he was safe, but he was also astonished.
'I hae na heard ony body speakin' that gate; an' gin I micht mak sae free, mem, do you see ony yersel?'
'You are a canny man, Joseph, but I think the more of you for it. It would not do for you to be disclosing your master's secrets, but you must remember you are the servant of the church as well, and that she has the highest claim on your fidelity, and I don't mind saying to you that I see a very remarkable resemblance, notwithstanding that the eyes are of a different colour, and the hair fair instead of dark. That's what makes it so remarkable! The features are all different, there is nothing that can be set aside as a mere accidental coincidence, and yet the likeness is so manifest to me! Do you really mean that nobody in the village has noticed it?'
'Deed, mem, an' I hae na juist heard quite sae muckle as that. But ye see we're plenn folk down by, an' maun look til our betters for guidance, whiles?'
'Very true. But what are they saying about it all?'
'I hae telled ye a' I ken, mem, an' that's naething.'
'And what do you think yourself, then, of all these rumours and suspicions that are flying about? Can it really be possible that Mr. Brown is the father of that infant, do you think?'
'God forbid, mem, that our young minister suld hae sae far fa'en frae grace! I wad houp for the best! But it's an auld an' true sayin', that there's aye water whaur the stirk's drooned, an we ken oursels there's nae reek but whaur there's burnin'.'
But come now, Joseph, is not Mr. Brown constantly going to see those women after dark? And does he not give them a great deal of money?'
'He's been there, mem, I ken, but he gangs to a' body; it's his wark. An' he's gien them siller, but he's aye doin' that as weel, whan he thinks folk want it. I see na weel 'at that need tell against him. Hooever, as ye say yersel', the suspeecion wad na licht, athout some grund. It's a bad job.'
It was late in the afternoon when Joseph started homewards. He had spent a cheerful day, and was in the best of spirits. The servants at Auchlippie had been most hospitable, and his friend Jean assiduous in replenishing his cog from the kitchen beer-barrel; she had been gay and saucy in the extreme, and her dexterity with tongue and fist, whenever he went beyond the permitted limit, had excited his sincere respect and admiration.
'A clever cummer 'at can haud her ain wi' the next ane! An' hech, but she's gleg!' was Joseph's admiring soliloquy, as he tramped down the road.
'She's gotten a pose e'y bank, an' her granny's a bien auld body, wi' naebody else to leave her gear til,' he continued, 'wha kens?' but here the soliloquy died into deeper reflection, and he tramped along in meditative silence. How comfortable and respected he might be, established in the granny's croft, as master, with Jean to minister to him and keep things brisk, with an occasional passage of wordy warfare. But the shadow of Tibbie rose in his mind and blocked the path. She would forbid the banns and involve his schemes in utter confusion, unless she could be quieted.
He thought over his conversation with Mrs. Sangster. Oh! If Tibbie had only been there to hear it too! Some idea might have struck her, that would have induced her to loosen her hold on him, and try for higher game. We can but judge others by ourselves, and he knew that with himself an arithmetical consideration was the weightiest that could be presented, and that a pretext by which pounds might be extorted unjustly, would seem more attractive than an honest claim which could only be realized in shillings and pence. If she would only slacken her hold on him for a very little while, he thought he could manage that she should never renew it again.
So reflecting, he reached home. It was Saturday evening, and there were the usual preparations to make on the braeside for the services of the morrow, and thither he now repaired.
The evening's shadows were gathering round the tent, and creeping up the brae--sad and transparent like ghosts of the good resolutions begotten there last Sunday, and since then smothered and trampled to death in the hurry and busy turmoil of the world's life; or so they might have appeared had any pious and pensive soul been there to witness them, but there were none such. Only Tibbie Tirpie rose from the tent or pulpit steps, to confront Joseph as he approached key in hand.
'Tibbie? Hoo's a' wi' ye, woman? A sicht o' ye's gude for sair e'eri.' It's lang sin' we hae forgathered.'
'Juist sin' last Sawbith! An' ye hae na dune as ye said ye wad, yet--sae the langer time the mair shame to ye.'
'Ye canna weel say that noo, Tibbie! come! I said I wad speak t'ey minister for ye, an' there's naebody e'y clachan but kens he gied ye siller. Was na that keepin' tryst?'
'What kind o' a gowk do ye tak me for, Joseph Smiley? Think ye ye'r to slip through my fingers that gate? Ye ken brawly it's no the minister's siller I'm seekin', it's yours, an yersel' alang wi't. An' that I'se hae, an gin ye winna richt my lassie by fair means, I'se gang to Mester Sangster an' the minister an' shame ye, an that'll be the last o' yer bederalship, an' the end o' ye a' thegither round Glen Effick. Think ye I'll let ye aff o' the scathe, when my puir Tib has to thole the scorn?'
'Whisht woman! yer tongue's rinnin' awa wi' ye. Gin yell juist ca' canny, an' do biddin', ye'se do far mair for Tibbie nor I cud. Ye see, Luckie, I'm juist as ane micht say, naething but a puir earthen vessel, no gude for muckle, wi' nae gear, an' sma' wut to gather't wi'. What wad ye say noo til a gentleman for Tib? It's what the lassie ocht to hae gotten wi' her bonnie face, an' gin what a' the folk says was true, belike she'd get ane.'
'I kenna what ye're drivin' at, my man, but gin ye're gaun to send me on a fule's errand, an' sae gar me let ye aff, ye're sair mistaen; an' gin ye come na in whiles as ye gang by an' gie the lass her dues o' coortin', fair out afore folk, I'se gang down til auld MacSiccar, an' he'll hae ye up afore the Shirra, or I'm mistaen, an' syne yell ken whether a law plea or a waddin' taks maist siller, an' aiblins ye'll hae to wive wi' her a' the same.'
'But hoo wid ye like the minister e'y stead o' the bederal? wadna that be something worth while? The folk thinks that's the richts o't a' e'y noo. An' gin ye'll juist haud them on their ain gate, an' keep yer ain jaws steekit--wha kens? A minister wad wed wi' the Deil's ain--dochter afore he'd hae himsel' or the Kirk misca'd. The folk says yon's Tibbie's bairn he taks tent on, doon by, an' what for need ye fash to deny't? gin the wein cam out o' the sea he'll can bring nae pruif, an' the folk hae taen't i' their heids to think the ither thing, sae gin ye wad juist threip the same gate aiblins ye'd get yer way o't.'
'The Lord forgie ye, Joseph Smiley, for a blackhearted, twa-faced vagabond! Ye ken weel what a gude maister the minister's been to you, an' ye wad turn round an' gar me lee awa his gude name! But tak ye tent! There was ance anither, gaed to betray a gude master, for the sake o' what he'd mak out o't, an' he gaed an' hanged himsel' afore a' was done--Wha kens? The hemp may be baith sawn an' pued 'at's to mak yer ain grawvit! An' noo I gie ye fair warnin', gin ye come-na by afore Wednesday, I'se gang til auld MacSiccar; sae nae mair o' yer parryin'.' And with a portentous shake of the head she departed.
Joseph was little discomposed; he could hardly expect so startling a proposal to be received otherwise than with indignation, and yet, as by an off chance, it might bear fruit after all. The evil seed just scattered wanted time to germinate, some corner of her mind might yet prove to be a congenial soil, and it might spring up yet in a crop of lies to serve his turn.
Returning home he came upon Ebenezer Prittie, merchant and postmaster, and one of the elders of the church. Ebenezer was a quiet plain man and zealous,--all his life he had heard of the Covenanters, their heroism and their sufferings, and had been taught to think of them as the summit and flower of his country's glory. He felt it to be a privilege to be admitted to their sacred brotherhood, through being a member and office-bearer of the Free Church, and his only misgiving was on account of the exceeding ease of the process, and its cheapness--an entering as it were on the privileges attached to the martyr's crown, at half price. Fighting wild beasts at Ephesus, wielding the sword of the Lord and of Gideon at Drumclog, escaping through the hill mists of the morning from the pursuing troopers of Claverhouse,--to be made heir to, and sharer in, all those deeds of heroism by paying the modern equivalent of so much self-sacrifice, contributing a penny a week to the Sustentation Fund, and sundry moderate payments to the schemes of the church, was cheap indeed. The ministers said so, of course they knew, and why was he to object because the burden was light? He could but support his church all the more warmly if its yoke was easy, and he would do his very best for its advancement.
Rumours about strange conduct on the part of the minister had begun to sift and whisper through the village. With whom they had originated no one could say; known circumstances were appealed to in corroboration, and every one shook his head; but there was no one who stood forward as accuser, and each seemed afraid of the sound of his own voice, in uttering the first word against their hitherto blameless pastor.
Ebenezer having shut up the Post Office had walked along the road to breathe the evening air before retiring for the night. He mused over the rumour as he went, and when Joseph, returning from the 'tent' appeared before him, it was but natural that the subject in his thoughts should come first to his lips.
'What's a' this clashin' about? Joseph Smiley. Ye beut to ken.'
'What clashes, Mester Prittie? Folk wull be aye claverin' ye ken. An' them 'at kens least has aye maist to say about it. For mysel' it taks a' my sma' wuts to mind my ain business.'
'Nae doubt, Joseph, we a' ken ye for a dacent man, an' a quiet; but a body canna keep a calm sough a' thegither in sic like on-gaein's as we're hearing tell o' noo. An' a body has aye their lugs, whether or no.'
'I hae heard tell o' naething, Mester Prittie; but than, ye see, I'm but an orra body rinnin' efter my ain bit trokes, a' round the countryside; an' ye're sittin' yonder e'y middle o' a' thing--the Queen's mails brocht in twice ilka day, an' a' body 'at's onybody rinnin' to ye for their letters. Ye're sure to ken a thing 'at gangs on.'
We a' ken ye for a dacent, carefu' spoken chield, weel eneugh, Joseph, sae ye needna be aye mindin' folk o't. An' losh! What gars ye be sae terrible mim? There's a time to keep yer jaws steekit, we a' ken that, but there's a time to let on as weel! Sae out wi't a' man!'
'Ye maun out wi't yersel, Mester Prittie! For De'il tak me, (but the Lord forgie me for swearin'! tho' efter a' it's but the De'il's name I'm makin' a bauchil o',) gin I ken what ye're efter, wi' yer winkin's an' yer hirselin's o' the shouther. Juist say what's yer wull, Mester Prittie, an' gin a puir chield can pleesure ye I'se do't. Aye premeesin' ye ken, 'at it's the thing a gude christian an' an honest man may lawfully perform.'
'Ou ay! A' lawfu' eneugh, Joseph! What tak ye me for, laddie? gin the Queen can lippen to me about her mails, it's surely a' safe for Joseph Smiley wi' his bits o' trokes and clashes. But come in by!' Ebenezer had turned round on accosting Joseph, and had been retracing his steps ever since. They were now in front of the Post Office, and Ebenezer unlocking the door invited Joseph to enter, that they might finish their conversation without fear of interruption.'
'An' noo, Joseph, what's a' about the minister? an' what hae ye to say ower't?'
'What about the minister?--forby 'at he has the cauld? Mistress Sangster fell in a burn, an' he beut to pu' her out; an' she bein' a muckle denty wife, an' rael hefty, he coupet in himsel an' got sair droukit, an' noo he's lyin' wi' the cauld. I see sma' grundlfor clashes there.'
Hoot! ye're no sae simple as ye wad let on! An' it diz na look weel o' ye, Joseph, bein' sae terrible keen to gar folk think ye ken naething. Ye'll hae them jalousin' ye had a finger intil't yersel, my man. Wha's acht yon bairn o' the minister's?'
'I ken naething mair about it nor ither folk! Ye ken as weel as me what he said about it himsel'.'
'An' do ye ken 'at folk says it's Tibbie Tirpie's bairn, an' that he's its faither?'
I hae heard tell 'at folk was sayin' that; but we a' ken there's folk e'y warld wad say onything, an' the dafter it was, the mair they'd haud til't. Do ye believe it yersel', Mester Prittie?'
Weel! that's juist what I dinna ken! Whiles, whan I think o' a' the minister has dune an' come through, I canna believe it ava'; but than, what a' body says maun hae something intil 't, an' they hae sae mony sma' things to lay thegither, a body canna weel help misdoubtin' but there may be something intil 't. An' ye ken, efter a', the flesh is but wake!'
'Hech sirse, ay! rael wake,' sighed Joseph, with a most melancholy swing of the head. 'Rael wake! we hae Scriptur for that. The apostle himself fand the evil praisent with him, whan he maist wanted to do gude, an' he was gude by ordnar. It's little winder gin the lave gangs wrang whiles. It's juist a dispensation, as ane micht say, or a kind o' warnin' to folk no to be ower sure an' sotten up i' their ain gudeness. Weel I wat we're wake craiters!'
'But what think ye o't, Joseph? Ye're a man o' sense, an' I'd like til hear yer opeenion.'
'A weel, Mr. Prittie, I'm juist like yersel', I dinna weel ken what to think. I've fand him a gude maister, an' he's a fine preacher, an' a' the Hieland folk says he has the Gaelic juist graund, an' he's rael gude to a' body 'at's needin'; but as ye say yersel', the flesh is wake.'
'An' ye see,' said Ebenezer, 'it's sing'lar whan ye pet that an' that thegither, the way it a' fits in. Peter Malloch telled me 'at auld Tibbie Tirpie brocht in a pound note o' the Peterhead Bank the verra day efter he seed the minister slinkin' oot o' her door efter dark, an' we a' ken naebody passes thae notes here ava, but him. I'm fear'd, Joseph, there's something intil 't. An' hoo cud it come intil a' body's head at ae time, gin there wasna some foundation?'
'Lordsake, ay, Mester Prittie! There's aye water whaur the stirk's drooned, we a' ken that, an' there's nae reek athout burnin'. But is na't a' terrible? Sic a fine young minister! an' sic doon-come t'ey Kirk! Ickeybod! Ickeybod! wae's me!'
'Na, na. There maun be nae Ickeybod! An' nae wite te'y Kirk. Ilka sinner maun bear his ain laid, an' Auchan maun be peuten furth frae the congregation o' the Lord. We maun hae't a' up afore the session! an' Joseph, ye'll hae til appear, an' testifee til a' ye ken. We beut to hae this Babylonish gaarment cousten out e'y camp!'
'Preserve us a'! Mester Prittie, it's you 'at beut to testifee; ye ken a' about it, I ken naething.'
'Wha said Ickeybod ey noo? Was that me? An' what meaned ye by't, gin ye winna staund to yer word?'
'An' wad ye hae me say Ickeybod to the Kirk Session? An' what wad I say syne? I cud say what ye telled me, Mester Prittie, 'at ye thocht the lassie Tirpie was the mither o' the minister's bairn, but I ken naething mysel'.'
'An' what for wad ye pu' me intil't a'?'
'It was ye telled me, Mester Prittie; noo wha telled you?'
'Faigs an' that's mair nor I ken mysel'. We maun hae a quiet meetin' o' the session, an' gang ower't a' first, an' aiblins we'll ken what to do syne; for there's nae man of Belil sall sit e'y tabernacle gin I can pu' him doon.'
'An ye, hae raison, Mester Prittie! Pu' doon their high places, an' burn their groves wi' fire. It's a' Scriptur an' sound doctrine. But I'm sayin', sir, hae ye been round to speer for the minister the day? An' hoo are ye gaun to manage for the morn's Kirk?'
'Weel I wat, an' ye hae me there, Joseph. Ye see I juist cudna bring mysel' to gang an' be speerin' for a man whan the folk says he's livin' in open sin. There's nae tellin' what micht come til the skirts o' my ain garment! as ye were sayin' e'y noo, the folk's that set on their reports an' their rumours, there's nae kennin' whaur the next flee may licht; an'--Lord! they micht hae a body's sel' kirned up wi't a'! An' then! think o' me to be taen by the folk for an ill liver. Spoken o' for keepin' company wi' the evil men an' seducers 'at wax worse an' worse, as the word says. An' gin I gaed hame syne, the wife wad be for pu'in the wig aff my cantle, an' layin' the spurtle about my bare lugs; for she's no for prankin' wi' that gate, my mistress! A gude wummin I'll allow, a' the same, but juist terrible on a' ill doin, an' licht on-gaein's. But we maun hae a thocht to the services o' the Sanctuary the morn, an' no hae the folk comin' to the ministry o' the word, an' nae banquet ready for their hungry sauls. We'd hae them stravaigin' the braesides the lieve lang Sawbith day, like puir menseless sheep that hae na gotten a shepherd. Sae, gin ye'll come wi' me, for fear o' pryin eyen, we'se gang round an' see hoo we'll arrange.'
'As they sallied forth they encountered Peter Malloch taking his evening stroll. For once Ebenezer was well pleased at the meeting, and resolved that Peter too should accompany them, and be another witness to the conservation undefiled of his skirts--a purely poetical figure by the way, for he wore a sort of jacket, his wife and tailoress being economical of cloth. The article of dress was, in fact, that which his betters of an earlier generation were wont to denominate a spencer.
It required no pressing to secure Peter's company. He scented promotion in being thus associated with one of the eldership, in church business, and it seemed a first step upwards from the Deacons' Court to the sacred college of the Kirk-session. Under other circumstances this honour would have been carefully withheld, for Peter's popularity among the church officers was not great. To use Ebenezer's own words on another occasion, 'He's a gude man, an' a leeberal, but oh! he's a meddlin' body.' Ebenezer's skirts, however, were uppermost in his thoughts then, and their invisible folds sufficed to cover many an objection from his view.
Reaching the minister's door, they found Miss Brown in the act of dismissing the surgeon. Her brother had at last fallen asleep with the assistance of an opiate, and he was not on any pretext whatever, so said the Doctor, to be disturbed. Miss Brown led them into Eppie Ness's apartment, where that good soul was sitting with the baby in her arms.
Ebenezer regarded the poor child fixedly, and gasped in his indignation. How could he think, or arrange for the ministrations of the sanctuary in the very presence of that child of confusion? His brow darkened, and no one can guess what eloquent utterance he might not have given forth, if Mary Brown with her pleasant smile, had not pointed to a chair for him to sit down, and asked what arrangements he proposed to make for the church supply on the morrow.
As when, on the aching head of a fevered invalid buzzing with a thousand delirious fancies, a cool soft hand is laid, banishing uneasy nightmares, and bringing back the patient to waking common sense, even so the innocent friendliness of Mary's glance dissipated the whole swarm of crazy suspicions for the moment, and brought Ebenezer's thoughts back to their wonted wholesome tenor; and though the little thing crowed in its nurse's arms more than once, he forgot about its being perhaps an imp, or at any rate something unholy, and would even have admitted in words that it was a 'bonny bairn,' but that Peter Malloch sat at his elbow.
The minister had been looking to see some of his elders all the afternoon, and in the end had jotted down on paper his desire that Mr. Sangster, Mr. Prittie, and another of the elders should each give a prayer, and that Ebenezer should read to the people a chapter of the Saints' Rest, as a substitute for the usual sermon, and call a meeting of the Session and Deacons' Court for Monday evening. There was no business therefore to transact, Joseph was despatched to Auchlippie with the message for Mr. Sangster, and the others withdrew.
Ebenezer felt relieved when he was once more in the open air and there was no further possibility of an interview with the minister, for he had thought it would be but right, and accordingly had screwed up his courage to say a word in season if the opportunity should occur. At the same time he was full of dread as to how it would be taken; indeed he could conceive of no possible way in which it could be taken that would not be unpleasant, and therefore he felt positively rejoiced when the danger was past. Nothing disagreeable had happened, and yet he could stand up boldly before his conscience, as one who had not shirked a duty however painful; and when, in the privacy of his home, he went over the events of the day, he was indeed a proud man under the praises which that incarnate conscience, the wife of his bosom, bestowed upon her steadfast and faithful Ebenezer.