_THE BABY_.
The moorland overhanging the scene of the 'exercises' was always
dotted over at their conclusion, with straggling companies of the
worshippers returning home. At each branching of paths they would
separate and change again to break up and separate further at fresh
junctions, till at length the whole assemblage had dissipated itself
over the extensive tract and disappeared.
The air freshened by a breeze was so warm and bright that it tempted
to linger in friendly gossip, especially those whose week spent in
some remote nook among the hills brought never a stranger to their
door or a scrap of news. Some of the villagers, too, chose the moor as
a roundabout way home, where they would meet more acquaintances than
on the hot and dusty road, and while obtaining the air and exercise,
avoid the sinfulness or disrepute of taking a walk upon the Sabbath
day. Those from a distance had brought refreshments, and were now
seated in the neighbourhood of some clear spring discussing their
simple meal of scones and cheese and hard boiled eggs.
Seated in such a group were old Angus Kilgour, crofter, and Stephen
Boague, shepherd, with their respective wives and families. Boague's
offspring were three tow headed children who played noisily with a
couple of dogs till their father interfered and bade them 'mind it was
the Sabbath-day,' and called the dogs away. The young Kilgours were
older, a big lad who carried a basket for his mother, a couple of
girls competing, it seemed, for the favourable notice of a youth
between them, a not unwilling captive to their charms, but still
uncertain to which he should surrender, and another daughter whose
tardy arrival was delaying the family repast.
'What hae ye in yon creel? Mistress,' cried Kilgour to his wife. 'We
can bide nae langer for Meizie, she'll be danderin' alang wi' some
laad nae doubt and niver thinkin' o' hiz. Here wi' yer creel, Johnnie!
an' gie's a bannack a' round. I'm rael hungry. An' syne we'll hae a
pipe, Stephen Boague, you an' me, an' here comes Peter Malloch, he's a
graund chield for a crack. Hech! Peter Malloch, sit down, ye'll eat a
bit, an' hae ye settled yet about pettin' up the new kirk?'
'A weel I'm thinkin' we'll hae't settled braw an' sure noo. We'se get
a piece off Widdie Forester's kale-yard be like, gin we can raise the
siller. We'll hae to mak an effort to do that, as Mester Dowlas says,
an' it'll be a kittle job, but pet a stiff shouther till a stey brae,
as the folk says. We maun ca' a meetin' I'm thinkin', an' hae him to
speak, he's a graund man to crack the bawbees out o' folk's pouches.'
'Ou ay!' ejaculated Stephen, 'He's a gude man, but unco worldly! He's
aye cryin' about the pennies an' the sustentation fund. Nae fear o'
_him_ gaun a warfare at his ain charges!'
'An' belike ye'd cry about the pennies yersel', Stephen Boague, gin
ye'd naething else to lippin til.'
'Weel, that was aye what I liket best about the auld Kirk! A' thing
was proveedet, "without money an' without price," an' that's Scripter.
Juist the sincere milk of the word an' naething to pay for't!'
'I'd think shame o' mysel', Stephen Boague,' broke in his wife, 'to
speak like that! An' ca' ye yon the word at's preached up by at
Kilrundle? A curran Erastian havers! Settin' up the law o' the land
ower the word o' God, an' the will o' the Coort o' Session abune the
General Assembly o' the Kirk! My certie! I'se no ca' yon the milk o'
the word. It's grown sooer wi' ill keepin'! A wersh savourless gospel,
for puir starved sauls, hungerin' for the truith an' gettin' naething
but a clash o' cauld parritch!'
A weel! gude wife, _ye_ maun hae yer say, but gin ye had to fin' the
pennies ye'd maybe no be sae glib! an' but twa e'y pouch to buy the
sneeshin'.'
'Haud yer tongue, Stephen! an' fill yer pipe,' said the hospitable
Angus, 'It's no expecket that the puir man's to pay the same as the
weel-aff folk, out o' their abundance.'
'An' wha's the man to say that Stephen Boague did na pay his way the
best? I'd like to ken. Na, na! It's juist anither patch on the auld
breeks, an' weel the gude wife kens whaur to clap it on! an' the
siller's saved. But a man beut to hae his grum'le.'
'An' wasna yon a fine preachin' the day?' asked Peter Malloch, who
being a deacon, felt bound to lead the conversation into an improving
groove, especially for the good of the young, and Meizie had now
joined the circle followed by William the footman at Inchbracken,
absent on leave to visit his sick mother.
'A grand sermon!' said Mr. Kilgour, 'an' was na he bonny about the
Shulamite? Tho' I'm free, to say I kenna verra weel wha she was. But
I'm misdoubtin' but she was some thochtless young hempie 'at kenned
na' weel what she was after--An' hoo' he cried til her to return!'
'That was the wanderin' sauls o' sinfu' folk,' said Peter clearing his
voice for an extended exposition, but he got no farther, for William
here brought the pious abstract down to the concrete and personal by
breaking in.
'An' saw na ye hoo young Tibbie Tirpie, sittin' awa back wi' the
hindmost took to the greetin', an' down wi' her head, an' up wi' her
neepkin, like's a' the minister was sayin' was for her.'
'Hech laddie!' said Mrs. Kilgour, 'an' what for no? we hae a' wandered
frae the truith. The word was powerfu', an' wha kens but it may hae
reached her heart. An' micht it no hae reached yer ain as weel,
William?'
'An' that's true! Mistress Kilgour, an' nae doubt but it wull belive
whan the Lord sees fit. But it was yersel' was speakin' about the
Shulamite an' winderin' gin she micht na hae been some thochtless
hempie, juist mentioned ye ken for our edification--an' it kind o'
looket like's she had taen 't a' to heart. Wha kens?'
'Whish man! Think shame! Ye maunna be lichtlyin' a lass's repute for
naething. Naething but greetin' e'y kirk. An' that diz her credit. It
wad be weel, lad, gin yer ain flinty heart wad melt as easy.'
'Belike it wad, Mistress Boague, but I'm jalousin''--
Here Meizie interposed to save her young man from the threatening
onslaught of the matrons by a change of subject. 'Yon's a braw muckle
bairn o' Jean Cameron's, an' was na Sandie the proud man whan he held
it up to the minister?'
'A fine bairn! an' sae war the ither twa. An' didna the minister lay
the vows tichtly on the fathers. Gin they stick til a' they hae
promised this day, the weins will get a godly upbringin'. An' didna
our ain minister look solemn whan he held up yon bonny wee thing, to
be baptised. An' it neither grat nor skirled whan the water fall on
its bit face, 'ats no the size o' a saxpence.'
'I'm wae it didna skirl,' said Mrs. Kilgour. It's aye a gude sign. My
gude-mither wad aye be sayin' it was a sign the Deil was losin' its
hauld o' the bairn.'
'Ye've no warrant in Scriptur for that, Mistress,' said Peter. 'It's a
superstitious notion, an' I'm misdoubtin' but it's a rag o' the whoor
o' Babylon.'
'A weel! I kenna mysel, but mine skirled weel. I had to rin out wi'
Meisie there, or she'd hae deaved the hale kirk wi' her screighin'.
An' see til her noo! for a braw sonsey lass. The pruif o' the puddin's
the preein' o' 't. Babylon or no!'
'An' wha's the Minister's wein ca'd after?'
'On Miss Mary be sure! She carried her in.'
'An' wha's acht it? That's what I want to ken, an' that's what the
minister disna ken himsel',' said Mrs. Boague. 'I had a' about it frae
Luckie Howden, an' she's nane sae weel pleased that Eppie Ness has
gotten the tent o' 't, by her. An' her keppin' the minister's teapat
in her corner cupboard. They micht hae leuten her turn a penny on the
bairn. But ye see they're sleepin' down by at Eppie's, an' sae she's
gotten Miss Mary's lug, an' says what she likes intil't. But its juist
the way o' the warld. The puir maun aye to the wa'. But as I was
sayin' the minister gaed ower til Mary yon ae dark nicht, an' the
mornin after he brocht hame this bit bairnie in his arms. An' he
thinks the Lord gied it til him. He fand it lyin' on the sands at
Effick Mouth, a' happit up in the finest o' claes, an' he thinks it
maun be a leddy's bairn washed ashore by the sea, when some big ship
an' a' body intil't was lost in the storm. It's a queer tale, an it's
rael gude o' thae twa young folk to tak up wi' the puir wee stray, an
be at a' chairges.'
'It's a verra queer tale,' said Peter Malloch.
'A verra queer tale, nae doubt,' repeated William. 'The gentles was
crackin' ower't ae fore nicht, ower their denner up by at Inchbracken,
an' a curious story they made out o't, but ye hae na juist the hing
o't as _they_ had it, Mistress Boague. Odd sak! my heart fairly lap i'
my mouth to hear them, an' I a' but cowpet the dish wi' the wine sass
on my Leddy's saitin gown. Gin it hadna been for the look Mester Smith
the butler gied me, I'd hae let it fa', that's sure, an' syne I micht
hae hanged mysel', for it's ne'er inside the dinin'-room door I'd hae
been leuten again. The General wad hae ordered me out himsel'. He'll
stand nae flousterin' frae the attendance I'se tell ye.'
'But ye hae na telled us what the gentles said yet, William. Belike ye
war that frichtet ye hae forgotten't a'.'
'I'se no forget it in a hurry. But I canna sae weel rehearse't, atween
what they said, an' what they garred a body think, tho' aiblins they
mayna hae puiten their tongue til't. For it's no a thing a body daur
say afore her leddyship. But Mistress Briggs, my leddy's woman kens a'
about it, an' it was her telled Miss Finlayson. She kens what's been
ado wi' Tibbie Tirpie this lang while back. An' she was comin' ower
frae Inverlyon e'y mail coach that dark nicht the minister gaed for
the bairn, an' wha suld the driver put in aside her but Tibbie Tirpie?
He said it was a sair nicht for a lassie to travel her lane across the
muir, sae he juist in wi' her an' stieket the door. An' deil a word
she spak to Mistress Briggs the hale road, juist pu'd the plaid ower
her face an' grat an' sabbet a' the time. Mistress Briggs, ye see, is
verra genteel an' parteeklar, an' was for complainin', about folk
bein' puiten in aside her, an' sae she telled Miss Finlayson whan she
cam hame, an' the day, ye see, it cam a' back on me, when I seen
Tibbie greetin' an' carryin' on e'y kirk. An' whan she gaed slinkin'
hame afore the weins were brocht into baptise, thinks I to mysel',
aiblins Miss Finlayson's no that far wrang!'
'I see na muckle in yer story, William,' said Angus, 'but I think the
gentles micht hae better to do, nor prankin' wi' the gude name o' a
puir lass 'at ne'er wranged them. An' ye're ill-aff for a job yersel'
to be carryin' their clashes about the country side.'
'But ye hae na heard me out yet. It was that same dark nicht the
minister gaed ower til Inverlyon. An' next mornin' he brings hame the
bairn. An' wha suld he meet on the brae-head, think ye, but Captain
Drysdale, (the auld captain). An' the captain speers "wha's acht the
bairn," an' the minister he durstna tell, an' he looket terrible
blate. An' the captain he leugh, an' the minister he grew mad, an' the
captain he says--says he, "keep up yer heart," or, "dinna be ower
down-cast, it's nae great matter, gin it be a bairn--it's a verra sma'
ane"--an' that's the captain's ain words.'
'Preserve us a'!' ejaculated Mrs. Boague, 'Diz the sin grow heavier
wi' the wecht o' the bairn? Fau'se doctrine I'se wager! But that comes
o' sittin' under a moderate minister! There's saul's bluid lyin' at
the door o' that prophet o' Baaul, up by at Kilrundle.'
'But wha wad hae thocht the like o' Roderick Brown?' said Angus, 'an'
I maun hae pruif or I can tak it in. I hae kenned him man an' laddie
sin afore he kenned himsel', an' I kenned auld Doctor Brown weel,--an'
a gude man he was--an' I canna thole to think he cud gang sae far
astray.'
'It hings thegither tho',' said Peter Malloch, 'an' I'm sair
misdoubtin' but things are na a' thegither as they suld be. An' that
minds me, as I was gaun til Inverlyon no lang syne, we lichted frae
the coach gaun doon the brae, an' wha suld be comin' up but Mester
Brown. It maun hae been that verra day, for he had a bundle in's arms,
an' says my neighbour to me, laughin'-like, it micht be a bairn, that
i' the minister's arms. An' as for him he wadna forgather, like he may
hae been blate, but juist gaed by wi' hardly the time o' day to throw
til a dug. An' me the Convener o' the Deacons' Coort! I ance thocht
him a gude young man, but he's verra pridefu'. An' he winna be guidet
by them 'ats aulder an' mair experienced nor himsel'. An' pride ye ken
comes afore destruction, an' a hauchty speerit afore a fa'. So says
scripter. Pride's deadly sin, ye ken, an' wan sin brings on anither.
I'm sair misdoubtin' but there may be some fundation. But it's
terrible to think on. A minister o' the Free Protestin' Kirk o'
Scotland, and _our_ minister--hiz 'at's corned out o' Egyp', leavin'
kirk and steeple an' a' ahint us, intil the leeteral wilderness, wi'
naething but a bit umbrelly belike to keep aff the ren an' the snaw.
Hiz wha's praise is in all the churches, as Mester Dowlas tells us,
for our persecuitions--to think _our_ minister suld gae wrang! My
certie, we's cast out the unclean thing frae amang us, to perish like
anither Aachan without the camp!'
'An' him sae young! an' sae gude to the puir folk!' said Mrs. Kilgour.
'I'se no believe the like o' him or ony ither minister, till it's
pruived on him.'
'Ministers are but men, woman,' sighed Mrs. Boague, 'an' the flesh is
weak. I'm misdoubtin' but it's an ower true tale.'
The subject of this discussion concluded his Gaelic sermon in due
course, all unconscious of the havoc that was being made of his
reputation. Ere he left the tent he was addressed by the assiduous
Joseph, who described to him the case of Widow Tirpie, reduced to sad
straits and threatened with destitution as the consequence of the long
and severe illness of her daughter. Like others whose charity takes
the form of urging their neighbours to give, Joseph used his very best
skill to rouse his master's sympathy, and grew both picturesque and
pathetic in describing these paragons of honest independence and
virtuous poverty;--the empty meal girnel, the daughter weakened by
sickness, perhaps sinking into a decline and unable to work, and the
mother depriving herself of such necessary food as still remained to
nourish her child, and stave off a little longer the inevitable day
when they must come on the parish. The eloquence was so far useless,
in that Roderick would in any case have done what he could for any one
in want, but he was surprised as well as rejoiced to have discerned at
last so fervid a charity in one he had hitherto regarded as cold and
worldly. He made no doubt that Joseph's deeds had been guided by the
same warm sympathy as his words, and while promising to see the widow
that evening or the next day, he made him a present to reimburse him
for any imprudent outlay into which his feelings might have led him.
Joseph accepted it, and when, later in the evening he added it to the
'pose' which awaited his next journey to Inverlyon and the Savings
Bank, he chuckled over the good young man's simplicity and his own
shrewdness.
When Roderick arrived at home he found Mary at liberty at last. Peter
Sangster and Mr. Wallowby had both accompanied her from church with
Eppie Ness and the baby, and had even lingered on for some time,
despite the manifest displeasure of Mrs. Sangster, as she drove away
with Sophia and Mr. Dowlas; but the young men had set themselves to
watch each other, and see each that the other made no advance in
Mary's favour to his own detriment. Neither would withdraw and leave
the other in possession of the field--rivalry having made both fancy
themselves more interested than either would have been but for the
competition.
Peter believed he had a prior claim owing to his previous
acquaintance, which he had meant to strengthen during his present
visit to the North, though perhaps on a more condescending footing
than he saw he need now attempt. He had thought to maintain an
intimacy without committing himself, and eventually, in the uncertain
future, if it suited, to come forward with his proposal, and be
accepted of course. Like a timid bather standing breast-high in the
water, he found himself pushed from his shelf of standing ground into
deep water, where he must strike out at once or go under. He was
aggrieved that his guest should so deliberately and immediately set
himself to cut him out, and he thought, too, that his sister was being
slighted most ungraciously.
As for Mr. Wallowby, he thought nothing about it. He was rich and
good-looking, or at least his whiskers were cut according to the most
approved pattern of the time, and he was accustomed to have ladies
make themselves agreeable to him. He speedily decided that Sophia was
rather heavy, and he imagined from the first moment he saw her, that
Mary would be more amusing, and therefore strove to improve the
acquaintance. It is probable that would have been all but for Peter's
airs of proprietorship in the girl and his too obvious endeavours to
make him (Wallowby) interest himself in the young lady of the house as
her due. This was more than man or lady-killer could stand, and the
result was keen rivalry and strained diplomatic relations, which did
not promise increased cordiality for the morrow, when they were to
shoot in each other's company.
As for Mary, being indifferent to both, she probably preferred taking
them together. Each kept the other on his mettle, which prevented
dulness, and she could not but be amused with the cross looks she
detected now and then passing between them. Still one may have too
much of anything, and she was not sorry when a clatter of plates and
dishes in Eppie's part of the house was accepted by the visitors as a
warning to depart.
Roderick came in very shortly after. Mary met him with slippers and
dressing-gown, and drew forward his father's old leather chair from
its corner, to receive his weary frame, and recruit his strength for
the Bible-class and other activities still to be gone through. She
then brought the baby, and seated herself with it in a low chair near
him.
'Did you ever see such lovely eyes, Roderick?'
Of course Roderick never had.
'Or such a dainty little mouth?'
Again such a mouth was never seen before, nor such intelligence, nor
such a dear divine little image ever before. It was the first
revelation of babyhood that had appeared in their lives, and they
worshipped and wondered and reverently served, as every good soul
must, before the mystery of a dawning spirit.
'It is strange,' said Roderick, after a while, 'that no enquiry should
have come from any one about this little Mary of ours. I shall
certainly not be sorry if no one comes to claim her. She is more than
welcome to all that I can give her; but those she belongs to can have
no idea what a precious little darling she is, or they would have
reclaimed her ere now. My letter was printed conspicuously enough in
the _Witness_, but it has led to nothing, not one enquiry. You will
have noticed in the paper that Lord Briarhill and Mrs. Steele went to
Inverlyon and identified a daughter-in-law, the wife of their son,
Major Steele in India, in one of the bodies washed ashore from the
wreck of the 'Maid of Cashmere,' which must be the ship I saw perish
that fearful night. To tell you the truth I have been expecting a
letter from his Lordship ever since, claiming the baby; for the
drowned lady I saw, and who I make no doubt was baby's mother, was
just what one might suppose Major Steele's wife to be like. When you
write to our uncle you might mention the circumstance, and also ask
him if there is any other step I should take to find relations for the
little one. I am sure I had better not write him myself, till he cools
down upon the church question, and that will take years, I fear. So
pray write, dear, during the week.'
News was not diffused so freely five and thirty years ago as it is
now. The mails, excepting between Edinburgh and Glasgow, were still
carried by mail coaches, but people having never known anything
better, were quite satisfied, nay proud of the free intercommunication
between different parts of the kingdom, and newspapers were issued
only once or twice a week. Further, Roderick's newspaper was one
addressed to an ecclesiastical rather than a commercial or sea-faring
public, and therefore his communication about the child was less
likely to be noticed than it would have been in some other journal.
However, in this instance a different mode of advertising would have
mattered little. Lord Briarhill was not aware that a child accompanied
his daughter-in-law, and it was not till many weeks later, that he
learned from a letter received by a mail long overdue that a baby had
been born a fortnight before she sailed, and had been carried with
her. By that time the circumstance of a child having been picked up
alive, had quite escaped his lordship's memory, if indeed he had ever
been informed of it. Mrs. Major Steele, too, belonged to a family in
the Indian Civil Service, she had been born in India herself, and
there her father and near relatives resided, so that, excepting the
old judge, there was no one in Scotland interested in the matter.
Mary's letter was not written, owing to an invitation from Mrs.
Sangster to spend the week at Auchlippie, and help to entertain the
visitors. The conversation was forgotten by brother and sister alike,
and affairs drifted on in their own way.