‘I am saying nothing against Ailie,’ said Jean Campbell, ‘no a word. Our
Margaret upholds her as a God-fearing lass; but maybe she was going
beyond her tether when she came praying over our Margaret. No, it was of
nae avail. I never expected it for my part.’
‘It maun have been want of faith,’ said one of the eager spiritual
gossips who had flocked around Jean to hear the news. ‘Human nature is
so full o’ short-comings. We’ve a’ looked up to her for her godly life;
but the Lord will not put up with our idols. You’ve made an idol o’
Margaret Diarmid, asking her prayers; but now she’s weighed and found
wanting. It’s been lack of faith.’
‘I dinna see how that can be,’ said another. ‘She’s won us a’ blessings
morning and night. I’ve seen Heaven written plain in her face if ever it
was written in a face in this world. Na; it must have been that they
were lukewarm in their prayers.’
‘Hoots! they canna ay win,’ said a third neighbour; ‘if a’ the world was
to be full of miracles where would us living folk be?’
‘But it’ll be a sair discouragement to the spread of the truth,’ said
Mary White of the Mill, who had spoken first. ‘The enemy will cry out
sore, like as if it was a triumph. And it’s ill for them of feeble minds
to hear that Margaret Diarmid hasn’t faith to be saved, or Ailie
Macfarlane lost her power.’
‘I would like to see the one that has more faith than our Margaret,’
said Jean Campbell, wounded in her tenderest point. ‘As for Ailie she’s
a wonderful lass, but she’s upsetting with her prophet’s ways. If it had
been the Lord’s will, would He have bided for Ailie to ask Him? Would He
no have done it for our Margret that has kent Him longer and followed
Him better? I’m no pretending to ken mysel--but if ever there was a
saint of God it’s our Margret; and naebody need say onything else to
me.’
‘There’s naebody in our parish would try,’ cried Jenny Spence, who was a
connection. ‘As for Ailie Macfarlane she canna be said rightly to belong
to the parish. It’s weel kent she was brought up in the Rue, and a’ her
friends bide down by the Loch-end. I canna see ony reason for following
after her, and thinking licht of our ain.’
‘Did you never hear, ye silly women,’ said a voice over their heads,
‘that a prophet has nae honour in his ain country? Bring in the new
light, and cast out the wisdom that dwells among us: that’s ay been the
world’s opinion since lang before it was divided into parishes. As for
this poor lassie you make such a work about, she’s hysterical, and
that’s the explanation of her cure and her prophesying; no that the
creature means ill. She’s an innocent creature, so far as I can see _the
noo_; but how lang her innocence will last if this goes on----’
‘Nae doubt you’re a fine authority, Maister Galbraith,’ said Mary, with
a toss of her head; ‘you that believe in naething, neither spirit nor
deevil, like the auld Sadducees. It’s grand to come and get lessons from
you.’
‘I believe in more than you believe in, Mary, my woman,’ said the
schoolmaster, who had interrupted the talk; ‘but I’ll no go into
controversy. Jean Campbell, I’m wanting a word with you, if you’ll come
inbye as you’re passing, after a’ this important business is done; you
were ay good at settling the affairs of the parish--but if I were you I
would leave the other world in peace till you win there.’
‘It’s much he kens about the ither world,’ said Mary White as the
schoolmaster passed on. ‘Poor auld haverel, with his Latin and his
poetry, that never could get a kirk, even in the auld Moderate times.’
The gossip thus came to an abrupt termination, and Jean Campbell went on
her way without further pause to the schoolhouse door.
‘Weel, Jean, my woman,’ said the maister, ‘how’s a’ with ye? It’s a
bonnie day.’
‘After a’ the saft weather we’ve had,’ said Jean, making the
conventional answer which was expected of her. ‘And we’re a’ very weel
but Margret, who’s no long for this world, Maister Galbraith, though
it’s sair news to tell.’
‘No a word about that,’ said the maister, hastily, ‘and a’ the fools in
the country-side living and thriving! I will not speak of what I cannot
understand. It’s no about her I’m wanting you, but about bonnie Isabel.’
‘About Isabel?’ said Jean, wondering: and to herself she added, ‘Eh, if
the auld fuil’s head should be turned like the lave with that bit
lassie!’ a mental exclamation which was unexpectedly brought to light,
as it were, by one of the Dominie’s broad sudden smiles.
‘I might be her grandfather,’ he said; ‘and whiles I feel as if I was
grandfather to a’ these heedless things. You’ve had your ain ado, Jean,
my woman, with the Captain’s family. Before ever you married Duncan, you
mind what I said.’
‘I’m no complaining,’ said Jean, with intense and lofty pride.
‘No,’ said the maister, ‘you’re no the one to complain. You’re too
spirity for that, and too proud. And Margaret for one knows what you’ve
done; but as for me, that have ay taken an interest in them, I’m wanting
you to do more than ever, and I know you’ll no be asked in vain.’
‘You had ay a skilfu’ tongue, maister.’ said Jean: ‘you were ay one to
while the bird off the tree, when you liket to try. What is’t that’s
coming noo?’
Upon which the maister laughed softly, for it was a point upon which he
was susceptible to flattery.
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ he said; ‘you’ll give me your best attention,
Jean. You and me are not the folk to meddle with love and lovers in
their wooings and nonsense; but there are times when the like of us must
interfere. Bonnie Isabel is but a bairn. I know she is Margaret’s twin,
but there’s a wonderful difference between them for all that; and yon
English lad at the Manse will beguile the lass if we do not take the
better heed, you and me.’
‘Beguile our Isabel!’ said Jean, scornfully. ‘You ken heaps of things,
maister, but no the heart of the like of her. If it was a lass out of
the village, I wouldna say: but our Isabel’s a lady born.’
‘I stand corrected,’ said the maister; ‘you’re a woman of sense, Jean
Campbell, and know better than me. I cannot express myself like you, but
this was what I meant--that if we did not take heed, you and me, bonnie
Isabel would be led further than she means to go; and the world, that is
always an ill-thinking world, would make out a case of appearances
against her. I’ve seen her with yon lad upon the hill----’
‘And what’s about that?’ said Jean; ‘is a lass never to speak to a lad
but afore witnesses? And what’s the use of being young if you come to
that? The lads have maist of the good things in this world; if a bonnie
lass is no to have the upper hand o’ them and gie their heartstrings a
bit wring when she has the power to do it. Na, na, maister, if you want
her to let the lad be----’
‘She’s ta’en a good grip of some other heartstrings I know,’ said the
maister, ‘more’s the pity. You’ve no bowels, you women. If it was but
his heart that was in question, I do not say I would make much moan; but
it is her credit, which is more to the purpose. Do not fire up at me; he
was near running off with her the other night. You ask me how I know? Is
not every secret word of your mouth or thought of your heart proclaimed
on the housetops? If she were to go a step with him, it would be a sore
heart for Margaret, and long would Isabel rue the day.’
‘I’ll not believe it,’ said Jean. ‘She’s prouder than the Marchioness,
if you come to that. Her give way to a lad! I wouldna believe it if it
was sworn to by a’ the Loch. She has mair spirit than that.’
‘Love’s blind,’ said the maister, with a melting tone in his harsh old
voice; ‘it thinks no evil. He swears to her he means her well, and I
would not say he did not mean well; but the day she’s that lad’s wife
will be an ill day for Isabel, and all the more if she runs off with
him. Whisht! and hear me out. They have quarrelled to-day, but to-morrow
they will be ‘greed again--and she has no mother. I trust her, Jean
Campbell, to you.’
‘I dinna believe it, no a word,’ said Jean, rising from her chair: but I
ay do my best. No but Isabel is a sair handful, with her pride and her
hasty ways. It’s the flower of a’ that the Lord winna spare. Eh,
maister, it’s mair than I can understand.’
‘No a word of that,’ said the Dominie, ‘or you and me will criticise our
Maker, and that mustna be. He must have some reason. Thae birds’ eggs
are your Jamie’s, Jean. He’s a strange callant, awfu’ slow at his
lessons, and awfu’ gleg on the hill.’
‘The hill will do him little good, maister,’ said Jean, discontented,
‘if you would but make him mind his book! It would be a terrible cross
to me if he didna get on with his education, and him the Captain’s son.’
‘He’ll never mind his book,’ said the Dominie, promptly, ‘no more than
his father before him. Make him a sodger if you please, like Duncan. If
ye insist on schools and college, he’ll never be wiser than a stickit
minister, like me.’
‘Eh, but it’s ower muckle learning with you!’ cried Jean, bewildered by
the smile with which the maister described his condition. She had so
described him herself, not without a touch of contempt. But at the
present moment her mortification about her boy was swallowed up in
reverential terror for the man who thus appreciated his own misfortunes.
‘It’s because my Jamie’s ower useful with the birds’ eggs, and the trash
o’ flowers they are ay gathering,’ Jean said to herself, as she went
home; ‘but I’ll send him where he’ll be well kept to his book, if the
maister speaks like that to his mother again.’