'We have been compelled, sir,' said Peter Malloch, and he fixed his eyes sternly on the tie of Roderick's cravat (he would have liked to frown into the face of the culprit, and to wither him up with the sternness of his regard, but the amused astonishment in his eyes was discomposing). 'Me, that's to say an' Mester Prittie there, or may be I suld say the Deacons' Court an' the Eldership, though they arena a' Israel that are of Israel. An' there was a Tummas even amang the Apostles,' (and here he glanced reproachfully at the Laird). 'Aweel, sir, to come to the tail o' 't at ance, we hae just been haudin' a bit meetin' wi' the Presbytery, as ane micht say, or wi' twa o' the ministers ony gate, to consider yer terrible on-gaein's, Mester Brown! An' I'm just fairly dumfoundered to see the brazen effrontery o' ye, man! To be sittin' there an' glowerin' frae ye, as though ye had dune nae wrang, when the hale glen's ringin' wi' the din o' yer iniquities, an' the enemies o' the truth's lachin' i' their sleeve, an' cryin' aha! as they pass on the ither side. An' we hae been app'inted, hiz four that is, though I'm feared we hae gotten an enemy amang us 'at's no takin' kindly t'ey wark' (another glance at the Laird), 'a Gallio 'at cares for non of thase things, to ca' on ye an' to dale faithfully wi' ye anent yer transgressions. We're wullin' to dale wi' ye in luve, my brither, my little brither, I micht say; for I can mind ye a bit hafflin callant no lang syne; an' we'll allow 'at youth's ill to haud e'y strecht gate, an' 'at flesh is waik; we'll allow a' that, an' dale wi' ye in a' kindness for yer saul's sake, but ye maun e'en mak a clean breast o' 't, an' speak out afore waur comes o' 't. It's a' kenned! Sae just up an' own til't, for we're busy folk, me and Ebenezer here, an' we hae nae mair time to waur on parryin' an' senseless havers. Ye beut to repent o' yer misdeeds, seeing they're a' fand out, and the very first step is to confess them. Sae out wi' 't a' like a gude laud, for ye can be nae mair a minister, an' the less fash an' din ye mak ower't noo, the less ill ye'll do to the kirk ye hae disgraced.'
'What do you mean? demanded Roderick, beginning to flush indignantly. 'State what it is you accuse me of! You appear to have found me guilty and condemned me already, without troubling yourselves to try me; but if you wish me to confess anything, you must at least state your accusation.'
'An' winna ye take my word for it, 'at a' is kenned 'at ye hae dune? An' wull ye gar folk gang ower yer shame word for word, afore the very face o' yer auld father there? Him 'at was sae gude a man, for a' he was a Moderate, lookin' doon on ye frae the wa'! I'm misdoubtin' but he couldna lie still e'y moulds this day, gin he kenned o' yer on-gaein's!'
'Mr. Sangster!' exclaimed Roderick, 'this is growing intolerable! I must request you to state the purpose of these persons' visit. What do they accuse me of? And on what grounds? They seem unable themselves to say intelligibly what is their errand.'
'I certainly will not soil my lips,' said the Laird, 'with anything so outrageous as well as absurd; and I am not surprised that even in the midst of this ridiculous scene, they should have sufficient sense left, and good feeling, to make it difficult for them to clothe their preposterous accusation in words. Forgive them, and overlook the whole escapade. It is the wisest and kindest thing to do.'
'Mr. Sangster!' remonstrated Mr. Geddie, 'I do think, and you must permit me to say, that your language is not judicious. Even although in your overflowing charity, which I admit is beautiful and refreshing to see, and will no doubt be fruitful of blessing to your own soul, you are still (though I confess it seems unaccountable to me) persuaded of the innocence of (alas, that I should have to use the words!) our erring brother, even you must admit that there prevails in this parish a fama clamosa of the most crying and distressing kind, affecting the moral character of the misguided young man whom the Presbytery has set over it for the present to minister to it in spiritual things. His teaching may be within the letter of the Standards. I am thankful to say I have heard nothing of false doctrine and soul-destroying error; but, alas! his example is not what it ought to be! His teaching may be orthodox, his head knowledge of the mysteries not to be impugned; but if the heart is wrong, if his walk and conversation are not convenient, if his conformity to common morality is not what it should be, we must rebuke and chasten him till he repents of his evil life,--we must cut off the withered branch, and cast it out of the vineyard. Oh! my brother!' he cried, 'repent and confess! Put an end to this clamour! Enable us to bring the matter before the Presbytery in such form that it may be able to deal with it promptly if sharply, and without delay. Why should this clamour of indignation go forth over all Scotland to put us to shame?'
'Say what it is you accuse me of, Mr. Geddie. I certainly shall confess if I am guilty.'
'Alas! my brother! Will you still hide your head in a bush like the ostrich, and believe yourself concealed? Think you that the pursuer will overpass thus easily? I tell you nay! But if you will force us to discuss in detail your lamentable backslidings, tell us how the infant which you lately presented for baptism, and which, as I understand, you continue to nourish under this roof--tell us how it came into your hands.'
'The child was saved almost miraculously from a shipwreck, I believe. At least I saw the ship perish, and afterwards picked up the child on the sea-shore near the place, where it appeared to be the only living thing that had come to land. Being impatient to get home, and yet bound to render succour to the little one, I picked it up and brought it home with me, rather than carry it the four miles back to Inverlyon, where the bodies of the drowned were conveyed later in the morning, when the fishermen and coastguard had made their rounds. From the clothing of the child, as well as from reading in the newspapers that the ship was an East Indiaman, I believe that it is the child of some Indian officer who has perished in the wreck, and I have advertised in an Edinburgh newspaper regarding the child, but have received no communication or enquiry from any one whatever; but I cannot imagine how any fama can have arisen in the parish over such a matter, which can only be looked on, I should imagine, as an ordinary exercise of Christian charity.'
'Hech!' sighed Ebenezer, 'but he sticks til't weel! But, I'm sayin', sir, Wasna some o' yer ain folk i' the Indies? An' wasna there siller an' gear cam to ye frae there? I'm thinkin' I mind hearin' tell o' kists o' plenissin' an' bonny things 'at was brocht t'ey auld manse frae there awa.'
'Certainly. I had an uncle who died in India and left his property to my mother.'
'Aweel, then, the claes 'at ye say cam wi' the bairnie wad pruive naething, sin ye had plenty sic like e'y house. Ye micht just hae dressed up the puir thing in ony auld duds ye fand i' thae kists. But what o' the bairnie's mither, sir? Tell's about Tibbie Tirpie!'
'Tibbie Tirpie? What connection is there between her and the baby?'
'Mither an' bairn, I'm thinkin'; or sae the folk say.'
'They must be mad! or most abominable slanderers to trifle so with the good name of a decent young woman.'
'An' ye ken naething about it, minister?' demanded Peter; 'an' wull ye really be for haudin' to that when I have seen ye slidin' hame frae there mysel' after dark? Ye ken ye gaed there ae forenicht, it was Sawbith by the same token, an' ye gied them siller, ye ken that! to gar them keep a calm sough. I hae had that siller through my ain fingers, sae ye needna deny't!'
'Deny what? Deny that I gave charity to widow Tirpie? Why should I? She is poor and deserving, I believe, and I gave to her as I hope I should give to any other in like case, so long as I had it to give, and the recipient appeared to need it.'
'An' what was't ye gae her, sir? Was na't a note? It's braw crackin' about charity! an' a bawbee til a puir body, or aiblins a penny gin ye haena the change is a godly ac'; but folk dinna part wi' their pund notes that lichtly!'
'I regret to observe, Peter, that my ministrations have made so little impression on your memory. Let us hope my successor may be more blest. Have you forgotten the words of David? "Shall I offer to the Lord of that which cost me nothing?" Or of another, "Sell that which thou hast and give to the poor?" The gift of the bawbee would show little self-sacrifice in either you or me!'
'Speak for yersel', sir! I hae muckle fash gatherin' the bawbees 'at ye lichtly sae; an' I care na to waur mony o' them on a curran feckless gowks, 'at suld be garred get for themsel's; but I'm thinkin' it's the ither gate wi' you an' yer like--easy come easy gang. Arena we a' payin' intil the Sustentation Fund? An' ye hae naething to do but tak yer share, an' read yer books an' crack til's. My certie, but it's a braw tred the preachin'! But I'm just winderin' hoo ye can gar't gree wi' yer principles, 'at whan ye gie sae muckle, ye dinna support mair the tred o' them 'at's contreebutin' to support yersel'! We're no a' beggars i' Glen Effick, but gin a' body did as ye do, there's Mester Prittie an' mysel micht tak t'ey beggin' afore lang for a' the tred we'd do.'
'As to that, Peter, we live in a free country. You take your Gospel in any church you have a mind to, and no one has a right to gainsay your choice; and so, also, my sister buys her groceries where she thinks proper. As it happens, she continues, I believe, to buy them mostly in Inverlyon, where her mother bought them before her. And as to the people in the Glen having a claim to our custom, because they contribute to the Sustentation Fund, and I am paid out of it, I can only say that I distribute among them all I receive from that source, and more, though I make no merit of it. I have lived on my own means ever since I have been among you. My residence, however, is drawing to an end. My physician warns me, it will be at the risk of my life if I remain here during the winter. I have been unwilling to follow his advice, believing it my duty to remain and labour while strength lasted; but after this conversation and the state of feeling in the parish which it betrays, I see clearly that all hope of usefulness for me here is at an end, and so soon as I am sufficiently recovered, I shall go. The discovery that such suspicions are entertained against me, coming too so suddenly and unexpectedly, is deeply painful; but if I am to suffer, it is a consolation to know that it is for my good deeds, and not for evil. Saint Peter's words, which Mr. Geddie there can point out to you, are my assured consolation.'
'Ye maunna be thinkin', sir,' urged Ebenezer, somewhat overawed by the bold front and indignant tone assumed by Roderick, whom he had expected to see humbled in the dust, in tearful penitence, and for whose benefit he had actually prepared a little speech full of superior pity, to be delivered before taking leave, 'ye maunna be thinkin' 'at there's nae evidence against ye but the pund note 'at Peter there has traced. The first o't cam frae Inchbracken, I'm thinkin', frae the very castle o' the persecutors; for the puir lass gaes working up there whiles, I'm thinkin'. An', oh sir! but it was an ill-faured trick o' ye, 'at ye wad expose our shame an' our nakedness up yonder!--tellin't in Gath, as a body micht say, publishin' 't in Askelon! An' ye beut to confess afore ye gang, sir, an' mak reparation to the puir lass, an' syne ye an' her micht begin ower again, whaur ye wisna kenned, an' ye micht do weel yet, afore ye dee!'
'I must protest,' said Mr. Geddie, 'against removal out of the parish at present! though it is only right that your ministrations should cease. Brother Dowlas will have seen the Moderator of the Presbytery ere now, and I doubt not a pro re nata meeting is already called to investigate this terrible fama. The case will be taken up forthwith, and it would be a fleeing from discipline, which you are aware, my poor brother, is a most serious ecclesiastical offence, were you to remove yourself beyond the bounds. The law of the Church requires that you should be tried and put to open shame, that your soul may be saved. Accept the chastening in a fitting spirit. And oh! my brother! confess! confess! if peradventure the publicity and the discredit which it will bring upon the Church be averted!'
Roderick rose to his feet. 'Enough! Mr. Geddie,' he said. 'I can permit no more of this! I have told you how the innocent cause of this misunderstanding came into my hands, and I cannot consent to hear my statements treated as falsehood in my own study. I would say more, but I know well that when you come at last to perceive the truth of the case, there is no man living who will be more ashamed of his acceptance of a preposterous calumny.'
Mr. Geddie would have made still another heart-moving appeal to the sinner to confess, but the Laird had risen, so too had Peter and Ebenezer, and he found himself borne along to the door. With a last great cry he raised his hands aloft, and as he crossed the threshold he exclaimed--'Ephraim is joined to his idols! Let him alone!'
The Laird returned into the room with Roderick, and it was well that he did so. But for his sturdy arm the young man would have fallen; and, as it was, he dropped breathless and trembling into the nearest chair. Weakened by his illness, the agitation had nearly overcome him, and, but for the salutary presence of the Laird, might have found some hysterical mode of relief. As it was, the pain in his side had returned with renewed violence, he gasped for breath, and, with the Laird's assistance, had to throw himself on his bed.
He, who believed he had been striving after so lofty an ideal, who had been leading, and as he fondly hoped with some success, the majority of his flock towards the same high standard, to be thus cast down! What must his walk and conversation really have been, notwithstanding his approving conscience, that he should so lightly have been suspected of such abominable hypocrisy and vulgar debauchery? He groaned as he thought of it; his temples burned, and, despite the presence of a stranger, the tears at last oozed abundantly through the fingers which he had pressed against his eyes.
The Laird flourished his large silk handkerchief, bepatterned over in yellow and crimson like a small carpet. He coughed, he blew his nose like a trumpet, and then he crumpled up the handkerchief and mopped his eyelids in a very suspicious way. 'Hoots! Mr. Roderick!' he said, while he laid his enormous paw as tenderly on the young man's forehead as Mary might have done. 'Never mind, man! A set of born idiots! But you answered them well, lad, and nobody with any sense that knows you will care a snap o' the thumb for all their havers. Keep up your heart, man! There's nobody whose good opinion is worth the having will think a bit the worse of you. Just leave them alone, and if their whole case does na fall to pieces like a girdless tub, my name's no James Sangster! A set o' senseless pridefu' bodies! that dinna ken which end o' them's uppermost for pure conceit!'
Mary came in presently, and behind her was Captain Kenneth. He had ridden over to enquire for his old friend Roderick (that was how he worded it), and arrived just after the 'deputation' had been admitted to the study. Mary received him, and led him for the present 'ben the house,' where Eppie, and the baby, and herself were holding a little conclave of their own. The conference in the adjoining room naturally furnished a subject of conversation. Mary was indignant and bitter, but not very precise; and Kenneth imagined that Roderick had become unhinged in his theology, and was being set up as a mark to sling at by all the orthodox in the parish, and expressed himself more freely than reverently on polemical hair-splitting, even girding somewhat at the Headship, the pet doctrine of the Free Church, but here Eppie's patience broke down.
'It's naething o' the kind, sir!' she cried; 'Mister Brown's as sound as a bell on a' p'ints o' doctrine, an' nane has ever ventured to say the contrar. It's a daftlike story o' ill livin' 'at they're wantin' to pruive on him, an' they canna do 't, an' sae they hae come here til himsel', to gar him confess an' save mair fash. I hae heard my granny tellin' the gate they gaed to wark wi' the wutches lang syne, hoo they garred them confess whether they wad or no, an' I'm thinkin' gin they daured, they'd be for tryin' sic like on him. Drobbin' him wi' prins, an' what no. But it's a terrible daftlike haver, an I'm thinkin', sir, ye'll hae heard tell o't afore noo.'
Captain Drysdale had not heard of it, but Eppie very speedily made him acquainted with the whole story, while Mary and the baby were out looking at his horse tethered to a post hard by.
Kenneth's entrance brought composure alike to Roderick and the Laird, both from necessitating more self-control, and also from the satisfaction of seeing that not quite all the world had turned their backs on him. Roderick could not speak above a whisper, but the Laird gave a very full account of the late visitation.
'There is one point, Captain Drysdale,' he added after a lengthy narrative, 'on which you may be able to throw light. One of the points they made against him was that this story of his exploits had originally come from Inchbracken.'
'I cannot imagine how that could be. Ah!' he added after a pause, 'it must be one of my uncle's heavy jokes! I do remember, now I think of it, his telling us how he had met Roderick carrying home a baby, and the clumsy joke he made over it. You know my uncle is a very good fellow, but he can scarcely be called a wit, though he would vastly like to be thought one, and when by any chance he has struck out some little smartness he will repeat it till every one for ten miles round has heard it. I remember it perfectly now, and Tibbie Tirpie's name got into the conversation about that same time somehow, and so the servants combined the two. Oh, Rod! He will be so awfully sorry. But this poor little baby who has been the innocent cause of all the annoyance. Such a pretty little thing it is too! How did you come by it?'
Roderick was lying on the bed, calmer now, and soothed by the friendly sympathy of his two friends, but his voice was weak and the pain in his side made speaking irksome. He looked to Mary, and she repeated to Kenneth the story of the shipwreck and the finding of the baby.
'And what was the name of the ship?' asked Kenneth; 'was that ever discovered? To know it would be the first step towards finding out who the child belongs to, and after all the annoyance it has brought, you would no doubt be glad to restore it to its lawful guardians.'
'Indeed, then, we shall be very sorry to part with it. It is the dearest little thing in the world. I should cry my eyes out if it were taken from us, I do believe. The sweet little pet! And it is so wonderfully pretty. No doubt of its gentle birth, poor little waif! To think it has not a relation in the world!'
'And the name of the ship was?'
'We saw the ship's name in the Witness the following week. 'The Maid of Cashmere,' was it not, Roddie?'
Roderick nodded.
'That,' said Kenneth, 'was the name of the ship in which my poor friend Jack Steele lost his wife. He is Major in the Dourgapore Light Cavalry, and they are not two years married yet. They were both to have come home in her, but a week before sailing his leave was cancelled, owing to a threatened rising in the Mahratta country. His wife was ordered home by the doctors, who said her only chance of life was the sea voyage, so she sailed alone with a child only a week or two old, I believe, and the nurse. Poor things! both were lost. After making the voyage round the Cape in safety, to be lost upon the Scotch coast, within a few hours of home! Was it not sad? The Mahratta alarm died out as fast as it arose; and six weeks after Mrs. Steele had sailed, Jack was able to set out himself. He knew nothing of the disaster till he reached his father's house in Edinburgh, and you may suppose what a shock it was to him. He arrived at home just three weeks after his wife's funeral. His, you see, had been a quick passage, while the ship his wife sailed in was considerably overdue before the wreck occurred. Poor fellow! when he asked for his wife and child, and why they had not come to meet him, you may suppose how terrible it was; they had nothing to show him but his wife's grave, and the shock nearly killed him. He was in bed for three weeks after it, and is only able to creep about now. The old judge took to his bed after his daughter-in-law's funeral, so you may suppose the dismal house it was. Jack is an only child, and the old man had set his heart on having a grandchild, and he was cut up in a way you would not think possible, if you had ever seen the hard grim way he has of dealing out justice to offenders. It appears that the child was not born till a fortnight before Mrs. Steele sailed, and that the letter announcing that Jack and his wife were going home was posted before its birth; and so the old people did not know they had a grandchild till Jack's letters, written after his wife had sailed, reached them. They did not know of its existence, in fact, till after they were assured of its death, but the poor old lady cries and laments, I am told, over this--I must call it an imaginary bereavement (for she had never seen or even heard of the little thing till after its death) as bitterly as if it were a child of her own she had lost. The body of this child, too, has never been found; and they say it has been a great aggravation of poor Jack's grief, to think what may have become of it. How old would you suppose your baby to be, Mary? Would it not be strange if it turned out to be Jack's little daughter?'
'We saw in the Witness that Lord Briarhill and Mrs. Steele had gone to Inverlyon and claimed their daughter-in-law and took the body back with them to Edinburgh; and we advertised in the Witness that we had picked up an infant apparently washed ashore from the wreck, but no one took any notice, and we have not had a single enquiry.'
'It might still be quite possible, nevertheless, that your little foundling is the Steeles' lost baby. The old judge was bearing the loss of his daughter-in-law, I understand, with very proper resignation. He had never seen her, so that there was no room for personal grief or deep feeling, beyond what the melancholy manner of her death must necessarily call forth, and sympathy for his son. But the next mail brought letters which mentioned the birth of the child, and its having accompanied its mother on the homeward voyage, and then they say the poor old man was completely overcome--took to his bed--and the old lady sat beside him and cried by the hour. As for Jack, he was like one out of his mind when they told him, and he has been very ill since. His oldest friends dare scarcely intrude on him yet; he is so badly cut up. By and bye he will want a change, and I have asked him to come to Inchbracken for a few weeks.'
'And do you think then that he ought to be told about our little waif! I quite dread to tell any one about it now lest he should claim it, and I cannot bear to think of losing our pretty plaything.'
'Surely he ought to be told, if there is the smallest possibility of its being his own child; and if you like, Roderick, I will relieve you of that duty. In your present health you will probably not be sorry to avoid unnecessary letter-writing.'
Roderick nodded.
'I fear, Captain Drysdale,' interrupted the Laird, 'that is to say if a stranger can judge correctly in the matter, you will find it rather a difficult piece of news to break to this Major Steele. Do you think the probability of the child being his is sufficiently strong to justify you in subjecting him to the dreadful disappointment that would follow, if it proves not to be his after all? It appears to me scarcely warrantable to raise hopes which, if unfounded, will cause a disappointment more cruel than was the original loss. If I might suggest, I would urge very great caution.'
'I see what you mean, Mr. Sangster, but how are we to avoid it? Nobody in this country has ever seen the child or could identify it but himself, and surely it is due both to him and the child that he should be informed of its history, if there be even the slightest possibility of his being its father.'
'Undoubtedly, but did you not say just now that you expected him to visit you at Inchbracken very shortly? Might it not be well to wait till then before saying anything to him whatever? It could then be mentioned to him carefully and gradually. Any clothing of the child that he might perhaps recognize, or even the child itself might be shown him, and then its story could be told. That would spare him the misery of suspense, and the possibility of disappointment; whereas if you write, the man will order post horses at once, and set out to investigate your story. Think of his impatience and suspense as he sits in the post chaise, thinking and thinking about it till he grows giddy. It will be twenty-four or perhaps thirty-six hours from the time he gets your letter till he can reach Glen Effick. He may fret himself into a fever in that time. You say he has been ill already, and he will be sure of a relapse if the child turns out not to be his.'
'I believe you are right, Mr. Sangster. I will merely write and urge him to come as early as possible. The season for shooting and visitors is about over, and he may be as quiet as he likes.'
'And are you really going to leave us, Mr. Roderick? asked the Laird. 'I remarked your saying so to Mr. Geddie, and was really tickled at his unwillingness to let you go away, even while he would not let you stay in the Church. That man would have made a fine grand inquisitor if he had been born in a Catholic country.'
Roderick smiled, and answered in a low voice--'He is a good man, and very zealous. But it is quite true. If he had lived two centuries ago he would have wanted to burn every one who saw things differently from himself, and he would have thought he did God service in burning them. He thinks if he is right every body who differs from him must be wrong. He does not comprehend toleration, and he has no common sense. As my father would have said--"he wants a wife!" if only to teach him that there is a world of daily providence and common things, as well as the world of doctrines and theologies he lives in. But he is a worthy creature!' 'Yes!' he continued, still almost in a whisper. 'We shall go south--Ventnor or Torquay--for the winter. I shall write to enquire at once; but I am not fleeing from discipline, Mr. Sangster! I shall appoint an agent to protect my interests before the Presbytery.'
'Then,' said Mary, 'might we not stop over in Edinburgh, and show Major Steele the baby?'
'I did not propose to take it with us. Supposing Major Steele is unable to recognise it, it would have to come back here and raise more talk; and I fear we should not know what to do with it during our travels if we carried it south, so I think we shall have to leave it here with Eppie for the winter.'
The tears stood in Mary's eyes. 'Oh, Roderick,' she said, 'I shall be so sorry to part with it.'
'Could you not remain too, Mary?' whispered Kenneth.
Mary coloured and shook her head, but a smile peeped from her eyes in a passing glance, which effectually dissipated the threatening shower. 'I shall look out poor baby's chain, and the things she was picked up in, and give them to you to show Major Steele. So mind you come for them before we go.'
Elspeth Macaulay sat in her doorway and basked in the autumn sun repining, and browning herself like the hazel nuts in the adjoining thicket, which, like herself, were hard of shell, though sweet and sound of heart when you could reach it,--and wrapped in thin wrinkled leathery husks, not far different from the withered parchment which served her aged bones for a fleshly covering. She was very old, but her eye had not grown dim, and her bodily force had not abated. She lived all alone in her shieling perched high on a steep brae looking down the glen, but she felt quite able to do for herself, and carried her eggs and butter to market as blythely as the youngest. The hearth within was clean swept, and the turf on it burned brightly; while the oaten cakes toasting before it diffused a nutty fragrance through the house. As Elspeth sat knitting her stocking and looking down the glen extended beneath her, she spied a white mutch on the highroad wending towards her. Presently it reached the 'slap' in the stone and divot dyke, where the footpath leading to her own residence debouched on the road. The wearer of the mutch passed through the slap and proceeded to thread the upward path.
'Preserve us a'!' she muttered to herself, 'wha's this? It's no mony comes in as they gae by to see Elspeth noo a days! I'se fesh out the kebbock, it looks hearty. An' there's few comes to pree't noo. Na! na! They're a' yardet maist, my cronies, by noo. An' them 'at's t'ey fore yet's ower dottle to travel that far! I'm no wantin' the young gomerals either, 'at stuffs their head i' bannets, an' thinks to be mista'en for their betters! But here's a decent auld wife 'at's no abune wearin' a mutch like her mither 'at gaed afore her.'
The huge cheese was produced from the awmry, the toasting cakes turned before the fire, and Elspeth was back in her place before the guest had mounted the brae.
'An' is that yersel', Tibbie Tirpie?' she presently exclaimed as the wearer of the mutch, slowly mounting, began to raise her head over the edge where the hill slid down out of sight. 'Hoo's wi' ye, woman? I'm blythe to get a sicht o' ye.'
'An hoo's yoursel', Elspeth! Hech sirs! But that's a stey brae for auld folk! It's braw when ye're up, but it's a sair job to clim't.'
The two old women partook of the cheer provided; after that they took snuff together, and then they settled themselves in the sunshine for their 'crack.' Elspeth's walking powers were not what they had been, and she had not been present at the ceremonies of the day before, so there was much for Tibbie to tell. Both of them would have been classed, I fear, as 'of the world,' by the more devout. Kirks and preachings were not by any means to them the most important matters in life, still they were the news of the day, and, as such, interesting.
'An' what said our ain young minister himsel', Tibbie?' inquired Elspeth at last, after all the fine things said by the others had been duly discussed.
'Hoot, woman! He wasna there ava. Did ye no ken he was lyin'? an' rael ill. I winder Jean didna tell ye that! For it was Mistress Sangster, the folk's tellin', 'at cam near giein' him his death. Ye see they gaed stravaigin' ower the hills, an' what suld come ower my leddy but she maun coup in a burn! Up comes the minister to pu' her out, and a sair job he'd hae fand it at the best, for she's a muckle hefty wife; but the daft auld rinketer, whan ance she'd gotten a grip o' him, she gied a screech an' a fling, an' pu'ed him in ower aside her, an' baith gat a sair drookin', an' a wamefu' o' cauld water. Aweel! Stephen Boague's wife, she dried the claes o' my leddy, an' she's nae waur; but the puir minister beut to gang hame as he was--a' drouket--an' he's gotten a sair host 'at's like to be the death o' him.'
'Puir chield! The cauld water he drank was ower strong for him. I ne'er thocht muckle o' that for a drink mysel'. It wants whusky peuten til't, to gar't lie licht on the staumick. But if a' folk says be true, it's het water he's gotten amang noo! honest man. Think ye he'll thole that better nor the cauld?' with a sidelong glance which was not observed.
'I ken there's daft-like clashes rinnin' round, but I ne'er mind them. There's folk 'at maun aye be blatherin' some gate. But he's a gude man, I'll say! an' a worthy son o' the gude auld minister 'at gaed afore him.'
'An' ye think it's lees the folk's tellin' about him?' with a quizzical smile. Elspeth had heard all the rumours, and after a lengthened experience of her fellow-creatures, she was disposed to credit all she heard against any of them, without thinking much the worse of them for merely being found out, which she supposed to be the only difference between them and their accusers; but it was a tempting amusement to prod Tibbie on the subject of these reports, and to hover about the edge of what must not be said to a friend or a guest.
'I'll believe naething on Mester Brown till there's pruif for't! He's a gude lad, an' a free-handet as I hae cause to ken.'
'Ay! What is't ye ken, Tibbie?'
'Aweel! he has gien me siller like the fine gentleman he is! An' me no seekin't frae him either.'
'An' hoo was that, Tibbie?'
'He heard tell I was a lanesome widdie an' no weel aff, an' he cam to speer after me. An' he out wi' his siller an' gied it til me, an' me no seekin't, mind! An' no the gate ye wad fling a bawbee til a beggar, or a bane til a dug; but just like's he was a man, an' me a woman made o' flesh an' bluid like himsel'.'
'Ay? But wha's yon wi' Jean, coming danderin' alang at this time o' day. I maun gie that lassie a bit o' my mind about a' this galavantin'. We'll be haein' the folk's tongues waggin' after her next,' with a mischievous glance at Tibbie; but the latter's eyes were fixed on Jean's companion.
'She's a gude bairn, Jean,' Elspeth went on, 'an' rael mindfu' o' her granny. There's ane o' my kye like to gang frae her milk, an' I can do naething wi' her, but Jean's a grand milker, an' she comes ower ilka day an' milks the puir beast hersel'. I'm thinkin', yon chield's comin' up here wi' her, an' if it's no that auld sneckdrawer Joseph Smiley! I'm thinkin' we'll be for haein' a waddin' here afore lang; but gin I was Jean, it's no a shilpet auld tike like yon wad be the lad, an' mair to wale amang. But it's Jean's waddin' ye see an' no mine, sae she beut to wale her ain ground; an' gin she brews gude yale, she'll drink the better. But sit ye still!'
Tibbie was rising to go. 'It's time I was hame,' she said. 'But I'll gie a look till yer coo afore I gang. Ye ken I'm skilly on kye! or sae the Inchbracken folk thinks. Bide still an' hae yer crack wi' Jean. I'se find my road t'ey byre mysel'!'
Tibbie's wrath was aflame against Joseph. She dared not trust herself in his presence, with Elspeth and Jean for audience or chorus in the scene that might follow, so she stole off to the byre before the young people could reach the brow of the hill. Their eyes having been engrossed with each other, they had not observed her while they were still at a distance, and Joseph was not aware how near she was, or his heart would have failed him.
Tibbie placed herself conveniently to overhear the conversation, and as usual with eavesdroppers, heard little that could gratify her feelings.
'Behave yersel', Joseph Smiley,' were the first words that reached her ear, spoken with energy, 'or I'se gar yer lugs dirl! Ye muckle calf! I'se hae nane o' yer slaverin' an' kissin', sae stand aff! Wha gae ye the last ane til, I winder?'
'I gae the last til yer ain bonny sel' last nicht, Jean. Think ye I'd let ony body--'
'Ye leein' rascal! Tak ye that!' followed by a resounding crack, as though a palm and a cheek had come in violent contact.
'Od, woman! That's sair!'
'I'se gie ye a harder skelp nor that next time, sae mind yer tongue!'
There were sounds of scuffling after this, but eventually they were calmed by Elspeth's.
'Whisht, bairns! Behave yersels! Ye kenna wha micht be hearkenin'. An' what's yer news, Joseph? Hae ye nae cracks to divert a lane auld body, forby daffin' wi' Jean? Is there naething steerin' e'y glen ava?'
'There's plenty steerin', granny! Muckle din, but aiblins little 'oo, as the dei'l said whan he scrapit the soo.'
'Mind what ye're sayin', Joseph Smiley! She's no' your granny, she's mines; an' what's mair, gin ye dinna talc yersel' up, she'll ne'er be yours ava! Sae dinna let yer tongue wag ower soople!'
'Be quiet, Jean, ye fechtin' hempie, an' let the man speak! I'm juist wearyin' to hear the news. An' what's a' the din for, Joseph?'
'It's just about the minister an' his bairn, an' his carryin's on amang the lasses.'
'Ay? An' is't a' true, think ye?'
'Wha kens? The lad's but young yet, an' the lass is no that ill faured. The Kirk Session's taen't up, an' the Presbytery, an' there'll be sair wark afore a''s dune.'
'An' what'll be dune wi' them, think ye, Joseph?'
'Oo! The minister '11 be peuten oot, nae doubt o' that, gin a' 'at's said be true. An' the puir quine, she beut to be sotten e'y cuttie stule, an' be rebuket afore the hale congregation. Hech! but it's weel for Angus Tirpie he's no t'ey fore this day to see his dochter come to sic shame. An' I'm wae for the lass hersel'. There's naebody wud hae thocht it o' her; but she's a randie auld tinkler yon mither o' her's, an' it's sma' winder 'at them she had the guidin' o' suld come to harm.'
Tibbie clenched her teeth, and seized a heather besom leaning near her. She could scarcely contain herself, and would gladly have broken the slanderer's head; but the women, his companions, would be sure to side with him either by words or blows, seeing it was but another woman's character that was in question! And then the after-talk in the glen! Naturally she heard less than other people, but still she had a candid friend or two, as who has not? and the averted looks of the neighbours when she appeared gave full confirmation of all the candid friends had to say. She dared not furnish new food for talk. Turning round, she hurried away, choosing a path which sheltered her from the view of Elspeth and the rest, and vowing bitter vengeance on Joseph Smiley's treacherous head.
Home she hurried with panting speed. Her perturbed mind deprived of other utterance, vented itself in tumultuous motion, and by the time she reached her cottage she was comparatively calm. She unlocked her door, entered, revived her fire, and sat down to meditate on revenge: but not for long. As Mr. Geddie and his companions were coming out from their interview with Roderick, Tibbie was passing homewards. Ebenezer, discontented with the result of their mission, and foreboding diminished honour at his own fireside from her who acted Little Conscience there, and had kept him to his duty through years of wedded life, with the whipcracks of her stinging tongue,--Ebenezer saw her, and proposed that they should follow her home, and 'deal' with her as they had meant to do when they visited her earlier in the day. Mr. Geddie consented, 'and I take it as a token for good,' he added, 'that we have seen her returning home at the very time we had given up hope of being able to find her.'
It was not long, therefore, before Tibbie's meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the inquisitors. They saluted her but briefly, and seated themselves on such chairs and stools as appeared, without waiting for much invitation, and disregarding Tibbie's enquiry of 'What's yer wull?' Mr. Geddie opened his book, lifted up his voice and held forth. It was a discourse on the vanity of concealment in the matter of sin, and an exhortation to confession as some measure of atonement, and the first step to repentance. Having concluded, he fixed his eyes on her and sat waiting to see what effect his words would have on her moral nature. Apparently they had none.
'Do you know, my woman, what brings us here today?'
'The very thing I hae been wantin' ye to tell me.'
'Where is your daughter?'
'What's yer wyll wi' my dochter?'
'Behave yersel', Tibbie Tirpie!' said Peter. 'Ye're no blate to speak that gate til a gentleman far less a minister.'
'I see little signs o' the gentleman! Stappin' richt in ower o' my house, an' never wi' yer leave, gude wife,' an' just settin' himsel' down, an' syne t'ey preaching'! Wad ye daar noo, my birkie, to stap that gate intil my Leddy Drysdale's parlour? I'm no thinkin' 't! Do ye think a puir body maun aye be like a cadger's tike, 'at ilka gowk can gie the ither kick til? An' then ne'er venture to bite? Gin I had mair siller, ye wad tak mair tent! An' as for my dochter, just mind what ye're after! gin ye daar say an ill word o' her I'se hae ye up afore the Shirra, an' I'se hae there twa freends o' yours for witnesses against ye. I hae some notion o' the ill tales they hae been tellin' through the glen, an' I'se gar them swear afore the Shirra against ye for the very tales they hae telled ye themsel's, sae tak ye tent! Them 'at lie doon wi' dugs, rise up wi' fleas! An' it's little worth company ye hae been keepin', for a' their holy sough an' their lang faces. They'll rin round spyin' an' keekin' intil ilka kale-pat but their ain. (It's no in Mig Prittie's kale-pat 'at Ebenezer there daar stick his neb, I'm thinkin'). An' syne they rin round wi' a curran clashes, swallin' ilka gowk's head wi' their clavers. But gin they dinna gie ower prankin' wi' my gude name an', my dochter's, I'se gie them something they're no lookin' for, an' they'll wuss they had steiket their jaws afore they meddled wi' Tibbie Tirpie!'
Wull ye no' whisht, an' hear til the man o' God? ye rantin' auld tinkler!' cried Peter. 'Ye hae a tongue 'at wad clip clouts!'
An' ye hae a conscience like a mill-door, for a' yer whingin',' retorted Tibbie, grown louder at the interruption. It wad set yer man o' God better nor bautherin' a puir auld wife, gin he wad dale wi' you. Wi' yer saul, I mean, for he'll better leave the shop alane. Echtpence the pund for saand frae the burn-side, is ower dear to pay, an' I hae coosten the last sugar at echtpence I gat frae ye t'ey hens! It's no fit meat for christian folk!'
'Ye jad! But whaur gat ye the siller to be buyin' sugar? That's just what we're comin' til!'
'I cam by't honest, an' that's mair nor ye can say for yer pose e'y savin's bank.'
'It was the waages o' sin, Tibbie, yon siller! an' that ye ken.'
'I tak you twa men to witness, what Peter Malloch has said! an' I'se hae the law o' him! An' there's plenty witness e'y glen forby, whan the time comes!'
'Alas! alas! poor woman!' cried Mr. Geddie, 'you are sinning with the high hand and brazening out your iniquity. Confession would better become you, and repentance, and public penitence before the church, for the public scandal you have brought on it.'
'Ay! an' the cuttie stule for them baith,' ejaculated Peter as he made for the door, for Tibbie was reaching up for her porridge-stick on the shelf, and an onslaught seemed imminent. The other two followed without the ceremony of leave-taking, further 'dealing' with the enraged old woman, being manifestly out of the question. Slowly and disappointedly they wended back to the village, while Tibbie stood out in the road before her cottage shaking her fist and scolding at the top of her voice. Doubtless she had reason; but the wind caught up her words as they flew, and they never reached the ears of her retreating enemies.