Jean was looking out in the opposite direction, somewhat anxious for her
stepdaughter’s return. She was standing at the cottage-door with Baby
Margaret in her arms, straining her eyes along the vacant road, and full
of anxiety. She gave a suppressed scream when Isabel came noiselessly up
behind her, and, without saying a word, clutched at the child and took
it out of her arm.
‘God bless us, I thought it was a ghost!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Isabel, you’re
like death. It’s been more than you can bear.’
‘I am tired,’ said Isabel, holding her child close with a vehemence
which terrified the little creature; and as she looked at her
stepmother, the pallor gave way to a sudden, overpowering flush. Her
eyes fell before the good woman’s anxious, searching look. She turned
away, still holding her child strained to her heart. She could not trust
herself to meet Jean’s eyes, or even her baby’s. Could she ever venture
to look anyone in the face again?
‘It’s a long walk,’ said Jean, anxiously, following her in, ‘and you’ve
come the long way round by the braes; and it’s been too much for you.
Oh, Isabel, my bonnie woman! it’s brought everything back to your mind.’
‘It did not need the sight of Ailie to do that,’ said Isabel, scarcely
knowing what she said. ‘Do things ever go out of one’s mind?’
And she held her child closer than ever, and hid her face in Margaret’s
frock. It did not occur to her that she was betraying herself even by
the passionate strain of that embrace. Jean gazed at her alarmed, noting
every change in her face, the sudden flush and pallor, the
inward-looking eyes, the reluctance to meet her own affectionate,
anxious gaze.
‘Was she awfu’ changed?’ she asked.
‘Changed--whom?’ said Isabel, with a little start. She had scarcely
uttered the words when she recollected herself. Ailie had been driven
entirely out of her mind by the after event; the scene which had made so
deep an impression on her before she met Stapylton was half effaced from
her very recollection. It rose upon her dimly as she tried to remember.
‘Oh, yes, very much changed,’ she said, and stopped short, unable to
revive her own interest in a matter so faint and far away.
‘Do you think she’s happy?’ asked Jean.
Strange to think anyone could be so inquisitive! Why should she be
forced to pause and recall an experience so distant? ‘I don’t know,’
said Isabel; ‘how can anybody tell? People are happy sometimes when they
ought not to be happy, and miserable when they have no reason to be
miserable. Am I the judge?--or how can I tell?’
‘But dear me, Isabel, you were awfu’ anxious about her,’ cried Jean,
affronted; ‘and would give nobody any peace till ye had been to see her.
And now it seems ye dinna care.’
‘Oh, yes, I care; if you would let me rest and be quiet, and not ask me
anything now!’
Half offended, wondering, and disturbed, Jean looked at the speaker. It
was very clear that Ailie had but little to do with Isabel’s excitement.
This sudden irritation and impatience reminded her of the old times
before her stepdaughter had been subdued by the events of life, or had
learned to control herself. Mrs. Lothian had not been guilty of those
movements of temper and impetuous feeling which were so lively in
Isabel Diarmid. Was it that some other subtle change had come, setting
at nought the work of experience, and bringing back the original natural
condition of the girl’s restless, vivacious soul? Jean did not ask
herself so elaborate a question, but the substance of it was in her
mind. She said no more, but went softly about the room, putting in order
things which needed no arrangement, and watching secretly her
stepdaughter’s looks. Isabel took no notice of what she was doing. As
soon as she was left to herself she relieved Baby Margaret from the
close strain against her breast which had terrified the child, and began
to kiss her passionately and pour forth over her inarticulate murmurs of
tenderness. Such an outburst of compunctious caresses was as significant
as the other strange appearances in her. ‘As if she had done the
innocent bairn some harm,’ Jean said to herself. And what could it mean?
Isabel would not let no hand but her own touch her child during the
remainder of the day. She made no further comment upon her visit to
Ardnamore, but occupied herself wholly with little Margaret, talking to
her, caressing her, controlling her baby will--having even, for the
first time in her life, a little struggle and contest with the child,
who perhaps felt by instinct the state of excitement in which its mother
was. Jean looked on without interfering, with curious, grave scrutiny
and alarm. When the infant was naughty, and cried, and struggled, she
kept behind not to put herself in the way. But many speculations were in
her mind, and some of them not far from the truth.
Jean had taken fright, though she could not herself have told why. For
one thing, she was aware of Stapylton’s presence in the parish, and
thought of him as of a prowling enemy. But it was difficult for her to
associate Isabel’s strange abstractions, her passionate devotion to her
child, and all the signs of suppressed agitation about her, with the
reappearance of her former lover. Jean had passed the period at which
people realise vividly such conflicts of the heart. It seemed to her
more likely that Isabel’s calm had been disturbed by all the
recollections which the sight of Ailie must have brought to her, than
that Mr. Lothian’s widow could have been agitated or excited by the
appearance of any man under the sun. ‘Yon English lad’ had never been
good enough for ‘our Isabel’ in her stepmother’s eyes; and that she
could think of him now seemed well-nigh impossible. But yet something
was wrong; and as soon as Isabel had left the house, Jean sent her son
on an errand across the braes to the Dominie to beg his help and
counsel. Jamie was too late to find ‘the Maister.’ He had gone out on
one of the long walks with which, now summer had come, he endeavoured to
make up to himself for the want of his friend and companion. But,
notwithstanding the failure of this messenger, Mr. Galbraith heard the
news more distinctly than Jean could have informed him, or than she
herself knew. The smithy was still open when he returned home in the
twilight, and had as usual a little band collected in it of men,
observers upon humanity and critics of its wondrous ways. John
Macwhirter himself, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, was in front of
the group, doing nothing, for it was warm, and it was near even his time
for closing. He was rubbing his great hands together, looking
meditatively into the summer air; but the observation that fell from his
lips was not an original one. ‘Women are queer beings,’ was all that he
said.
‘I see nothing queer in it, for my part,’ said Peter Chalmers. ‘He was
well known to be after Isabel afore ever she married the minister; and
now he’s come back----’
‘Who are ye speaking of, I would like to know?’ the Dominie said, who
had entered listlessly, and whom these words had excited in spite of
himself.
‘There was nae offence meant,’ said Peter. ‘I ca’ her but as a’ the
country-side ca’ed her afore she married the minister. And it was nae
secret that ever I heard tell of. I’ve seen them thegither on the braes
and on the road. It was kept quiet, I’ve ay heard, out of consideration
for Margret; who couldna bide the lad. And syne when Margret died he was
sent for hame--and out o’ sight out o’ mind is the way of the world. But
now that she’s free, and he’s come back, ye canna crush nature. If they
come thegither again, as is to be expected, what’s that to you or me?’
‘Again, I ask, who are ye speaking of?’ said Mr. Galbraith with grim
emphasis.
‘Na, na, maister, there’s nae call to be angry,’ said John Macwhirter;
‘he’s a nasty cynical body, but this time it’s true. Naebody thought
mair of the auld minister than me--this one could never hold the candle
to him; but he wasna just the man for a young lass. And she’s but young
for a’ that’s come and gane; and her lad’s come back----’
‘How dare ye say such a word?’ cried the Dominie, enraged. ‘Eh, men,
you’re no worthy to be called men, if a lassie like that, made a widow
as she was, gets no reverence from ye! Poor bit gentle thing! her only
protector gone, and nothing but an infant between her and despair ye may
say. I wonder ye don’t think shame?’
‘That’s a’ true, a’ true,’ said the smith; ‘but I ay stick up for
justice. If Mrs. Lothian should be glad to see the lad she once likit,
is that ony sin? Naebody was blaming her. No, no, maister, ye mustna go
beyond nature. He was a good man and a clever man; but ye’re no so
simple as to think that a bonnie young lass should be bound a’ her life
because she was his wife for a year! Would that be reasonable? I’m no
taking one side or another, but as Peter says, “What’s the harm?"’
‘I ask ye what’s the evidence! which is more to the purpose?’ said the
Dominie.
‘Weel, nae doubt it’s a slender foundation to build so much on,’ said
John. ‘She’s been at Ardnamore the day, and she met him on the road.
That’s all about it--nothing ye may say, but casting a seed into the
ground. Eelin, the lass at Ardnamore, saw them talking, and she came on
and tellt the wives; and the wives they’ve a’ made up their minds how
it’s to be--ye canna stop the tongues of a wheen women. And I canna say
it’s anything but natural if ye ask me mysel.’
‘It would be hard to tell in what you’re better than the women, making a
work about such childish clavers,’ said Mr. Galbraith with disdain.
‘Well we’re mair philosophical,’ said the smith; ‘they’re a’ at her like
hens at a grosset, and no a civil word in their heads. I’m an awfu’ man
for justice myself. A young lass is but a young lass if she was a widow
twenty times over, and nae doubt before he did such a foolish thing the
minister counted the cost, and kent weel that his young widow would wed
some other man. Lord bless us it’s human nature! She’s no
five-and-twenty yet. She’s no an auld wife to be content with her wean?
It’s nature, just nature! I’m neither blaming her nor him.’
‘I advise you to say no more about it, philosophical or no,’ said the
Dominie; ‘there are lads and lasses enough in the parish without
bringing in them that are out of your way. I say nothing for the
rest--but, John Macwhirter, there are inklings of understanding about
you, and I looked for better at your hand.’
‘I’ve said nae ill I ken of,’ said the smith, half sullen, half abashed.
‘A woman is but a woman if she was a queen. No but what I have a great
respect for Mrs. Lothian,’ he added, with some embarrassment. ‘Lord,
Peter, if ye say another word, as sure as death ye shall hae a taste of
the Loch, to put ye in mind wha ye are.’
‘I’m no conscious I ever forgot who I was,’ said Peter, with a laugh,
‘nor other folk. Respect be to a’ where respect is due; but as ye were
saying, John, lads and lasses are ay the same, be it in a cot or in a
palace. The Maister himsel canna contradict that.’
‘I’m saying nothing about your lads and lasses,’ said the Dominie,
severely; ‘but, lads, ye can have little feeling in your minds, and
ye’ve forgotten every lesson ye ever got from me, if ye cannot respect
the very name of a woman that never did one of ye harm--that has neither
father, nor brother, nor husband, to stand up for her--and that is no
more mistress who she shall meet on the common road, or who will speak
to her, than you or me. There’s no a man among you but should have been
a lone lassie’s defender and guard of honour had ye listened to me!’
With these words Mr. Galbraith started forth into the night, in all the
grandeur of indignation, leaving the club of rural gossips much
disconcerted. He had taught the most of them all they knew of
book-learning, and there were few who had not a certain awe of the
Maister who had corrected his youth. There was silence when he went out,
followed after an interval by a feeble attempt at a laugh. ‘The
Dominie’s mounted his high horse,’ somebody said in the darkness; but
there was no immediate echo of the sentiment. And what the Dominie had
commenced was accomplished triumphantly by Mrs. Macwhirter, the smith’s
wife, who came forward with her baby in her arms, to sound a note of
victory over the discomfiture of ‘the men.’
‘Eh, but ye’ve weel deserved it!’ she said, ‘clashing and clavering like
a wheen auld wives. That I should say sae! There’s no an auld wife in
the country-side that’s a man’s match for an ill tongue. A’ the nasty
stories that are ever told in this parish, and mony a parish mair, trace
them up, and ye’ll ay find they’ve come frae the smiddy, or the public,
wherever there’s men meeting. Eh, lads, I would think shame----’
‘Gang back to your weans!’ said the smith, peremptorily. ‘It’s late,
friends, and time we were a’ in our beds. I’ll wish ye good night, for
it’s time to shut up the place. Gang back, I say, woman, to your weans.’
And the meeting of the rural convocation was brought to a sudden close.