JOSEPH.
If night follows brighter day in more sunny climes, the colder skies
of Scotland enjoy at least the compensation of a lengthened gloaming.
The crimson glory of sunset ebbs more slowly away, and a paler
daylight lingers on and on, fading by imperceptible degrees, as the
blue transparent vapours of the still and warm earth rise to meet the
golden blue of heaven; it is hours before the two unite to wrap the
world in the purple gloom of night.
On a slope of the upland moor which divides Glen Effick from the coast
was the spot where the Free Church congregation of Kilrundle held its
Sunday meetings in the open air. 'The Muir Foot' sloped evenly down
into the glen, not far outside the village, and close to the high
road, from which, nevertheless, it was entirely screened by a thicket
of birch and hazel. On the inner edge of this was a small platform for
the preacher, roofed and enclosed with canvas, and hence denominated
the tent. When the services were in Gaelic and the preacher indulged
in much action, the arrangement might have been suggested of Punch and
Judy to a frivolous stranger, but the people were too full of solemn
and earnest enthusiasm to see anything amiss. A stray colt on the
hillside projected against the sky, would bring to the minds of some a
vision of Claverhouse and his troopers in the olden time, for that was
a theme often presented to their thoughts in tract and sermon. They
had almost persuaded themselves the covenanting scenes were to be
played over again in their own times, and were steadfastly resolved to
'quit themselves like men' in the day of trouble.
Before the tent there was a plat of turf, through the middle of which
a burn babbled over the stones; beyond, the moor swept gently upwards,
and here the worshippers were wont to sit, tier above tier, like the
audience in a theatre, to listen to the preaching of the word. In that
gloaming the place was not altogether deserted, the tap of a hammer
driving nails reverberated through the stillness. Joseph Smiley the
beadle and a joiner by trade, was at work making preparation for the
services of the morrow. He had driven a few posts into the sward, and
on these was nailing planks to form a rough bench or two, for the
eldership and the _élite_ of the congregation. There were also two or
three wooden chairs, but these he hid away in the tent to keep them
safe till the Sangster family should appear, and he had an opportunity
to present them.
'It's nane o' yer orra bodies 'at's to hecht their tail on thae
chairs, an' me feshin' them a' the gate fra' hame, I'se warrant! I'll
mak an errand up til Auchlippie come Monday, an' gin I hae na twa half
crowns in my pouch, or a pair o' the maister's breeks in my oxter at
the hamecomin', my name's no Joseph Smiley!' With these comfortable
reflections he put on his coat, gathered up his tools, and started for
home in the gathering darkness.
'Joseph Smiley!'
The words came out of the darkness under a tree, as he passed through
the thicket and gained the road. Joseph recognized the voice, though
he could not see the speaker.
'The deil flee awa wi' her auld banes! If that's no Tibbie Tirpie!
What brings the auld witch here wi' her blathers and fleetchin'! I hae
lippened til her haudin' her tongue afore folk, but here she's grippet
me my lane. But we maun speak the carlin fair'--so much under his
breath, then aloud--
'Hoo's a' wi' ye, Mistress Tirpie? It's lang sin we hae forgathered
the gither. But I'm aye speerin' after ye; I ken ye're weel!'
It's no my bodily health 'at's ailin', Joseph Smiley, but my heart's
sair in me, an' ye ken what for.'
'I'm sure, Luckie, I kenna what ye're drivin' at; gin gude will o'
mine wad gar ye thrive, ye'se thrive wi' the lave! an' as for sare
heart I kenna what there can be to fash ye. But there's balm in
Gilead, Mistress Tirpie, take ye yer burden there. I'm but a puir
door-keeper in the house of the Lord,--tho' it's better that nor
dwellin' in tents o' sin,--juist a puir silly earthen vessel, but I'se
testifee sae far.
'Joseph Smiley! Ye twa-faced heepocrit. Hoo daar ye tak the word o'
God atween yer leein' lips like that? Are ye no feared the grund will
open an' swally ye up?'
Fient a fear! Luckie, gin the earth swallied a' body 'at spak
unadveesedly wi' their lips, it wad hae a sair wamefu'! There's no
mony wad be left stan'in' ower grund. An' I'm misdoubtin' but ye'd no
be to the fore yersel', Tibbie. But lay by yer flitin'. Hoo's a' wi'
young Tib?'
'An' it sets ye weel, Joseph Smiley, to be speerin' after my puir
dautie, after a' 'at's come an' gane. An' ye hae na come naar her this
three month come Saubith, for a' the wite ye hae wrocht her.'
'What's the wite, mither? Is she no weel?'
'No weel!--An' ye'll be for no letting on ye ken ocht about it!'
'What wad a ken, Mistress Tirpie? She was aye a fine bit lassie,
blythe and bonny as ye'd see in a' the country side, but sin' she gaed
awa, naebody kenned whaur, I hae na heard tell o' her ava.'
'Lay by! Joseph Smiley; I ken a' 'at's come an' gane atween ye; she's
telled me a'.'
'The saft silly tawpie!' this aside, and under his breath.
'I ken a' about yer guilefu' tongue, an' a' yer pawkie gates. An'
think ye I'll haud my whisht, an' see her bear the wite her lane? Ye
ken ye swore to marry her.'
'Speak laich, mither; ye dinna ken wha's hearkenin'. They hae lang
lugs 'at travel after dark.'
'Ye ken it's true! Joseph Smiley. Ye took yer Bible aith, an' ye beut
to keep it. Wha's fraickin' tongue but yours has played a' the
mischief? She gaed awa' at yer biddin', an' the bairn's left there,
an' naebody kens wha's acht it. But the matter canna bide sae, an'
ye'se beut to mak' a decent woman o' her noo. An' a gude wife she'll
mak ye, an' a faithfu' whan a's done.'
'Speak laich, woman! An' bide a wee. (The deil's in the wife! the way
her tongue rins). Oh Mistress Tirpie! I'm bund till own it was ill my
pairt to do as I did; but the best o' us wull gang astray whiles. King
Dawvit himself, tho' I wadna be sae presumptious as even mysel' wi'
the like o' him, gaed ance wrang amang the lasses, but he made it a'
richt belive; an' sae aiblins wull I. But it taks time--we maun bide a
wee.'
'An' what's to come o' Tibbie or than?'
'The deil may flee awa' wi' her for me! An' I wuss he wad,' muttered
Joseph below his breath; but aloud his words were more prudent. 'She
maun just juke an' let the jaw gae by, like the lave. An' after a',
there's naethin' kenned till her discredit, we tuk braw gude care o'
that; and there's a gude tent taen o' the bairn as ye cud tak'
yersel', an' ye're its grannie. Bide a wee; it'll a' come richt. Ye
see, Mistress Tirpie, I'm an office-bearer e'y kirk, an' there maun be
nae clashes or clavers about me, or I'd lose my place. Gin thae
lang-tongued gouks cud find but a haunel, it's nae Joseph Smiley was
be lang the bederal o' Kilrundle, an' then whaur wad the siller come
frae for me to keep a wife?'
'Hech! Joseph Smiley, but ye're a pawkie loon an' a slick-tongued!
Ye'd fraik the tail aff auld Hornie himsel'. But I'm misdoubtin' ye.
Ye'll be slippin' through our fingers yet, like an eel. But I'd be
laith to lose ye yer place; an' gin ye'll swear again afore me an'
cripple Cormack, an' own her for yer wife, I'se raise nae din. Least
said suinest mendet. But Tibbie's real lonesome, an' aye at the
greetin'. Ye maun come an' see her twa fore nichts ilka week, an' keep
up her heart.'
'I'se tak my aith to yersel, Tibbie, wi' muckle pleasure, an' I'se
some an' see Tib, but I'll say naething afore auld Cormack. I winder
that a sensible woman like you wad fash wi' sic a doited auld gomeral,
'at can nae mair haud his tongue than he can flee. But I maun be
steerin', or it's cauld parritch I'll sup this nicht. Sae here's
wussin' ye weel, an' mind me kindly to Tibbie--bonny lass!--gude
nicht.'
'Fushionless senseless gowk!' he muttered to himself as he turned
homewards. 'An' she's gaun to wive her on me is she? We'll see,
Luckie! Time wull tell! But it winna be by garrin' me own up afore
auld Cormack!'
Tibbie likewise wended home. As she recalled her interview, she could
not but admit to herself that excepting fair words she had taken
little. At the same time she had broken ground, and her adversary had
betrayed no small dread of a scandal. She, had, therefore she thought
some slight hold on that slippery person, and took comfort in
recollecting that a salmon ere now has been angled for and landed with
a single horse hair. 'But we maun ca' canny,' she muttered to herself.
'He's a kittle chield to drive.' She began now to regret she had not
used her little pull towards securing some present advantage. It is
sweet to spoil the Egyptians. Besides, any tribute secured would be an
admission of her power, and every such tribute and admission would add
strength to the chain by which she hoped eventually to secure her
victim. Wherefore, it was resolved and decided in Tibbie's council of
one, that no time should be lost, but the very earliest opportunity
taken to commence operations.