_THE DELIVERY OF A LETTER_.
It was the next day that Joseph Smiley set out to deliver the
minister's letter. His instructions were to give it into the hands of
Miss Sangster herself, if possible, or at least to make sure that it
went direct to her, and to ask if there was any answer. This was a
mission very much to Joseph's taste. Being a man of diplomatic genius,
he loved to attain his purposes by a circuitous path, and to go round
a corner rather than walk straight up to his object.
There was once a minister of the Free Church, of whom a brother divine
declared in the bitterness of his soul,--for he had just been
circumvented in a cherished scheme,--that he never tied his shoe
without having some ulterior motive. If beadles may, without
irreverence, be compared with ministers--the very small with the
extremely great--Joseph's idiosyncracy was of a like kind. It was well
known that Mrs. Sangster's was an all-pervading presence at
Auchlippie; the very cat must drink her milk in the appointed time and
place, or the mistress would know why; and all comers and goers and
their business were bound to come within her ken. The house, the
dairy, the poultry-yard, these were her domain, but fortunately they
were also its limit. Queen irresponsible in these, her writ would not
run in the adjoining stable and farm-yard. The master had settled that
long ago. Good-natured and submissive in the house, he tolerated no
petticoat influence beyond its limits; and the mistress, after one or
two defeats in the attempt to extend her sway, had yielded long ago to
the insuperable, and dwelt at peace in her own kingdom.
As Joseph neared Auchlippie, therefore, he crossed a field or two and
made a circuit, so as to approach it from the rear, with the farm-yard
to shelter him while he reconnoitred, and to retreat into in case he
was seen. He likewise carried under his arm his bag of tools, so that
if, later, the lady should come upon him, his errand might appear
manifest enough. There was always shelving to be put up or taken down,
doors that would not close, locks that would not open, and Joseph was
the man to see to it all. The work was well enough, indeed Joseph
preferred 'orra jobs,' as he called them, to steady work. The
variety amused him, and the sight of new faces, besides gossip,
drams, and sometimes a share of the kitchen dinner were among the
recommendations; but the pay at Auchlippie was not altogether
satisfactory. Mrs. Sangster preferred paying in kind to disbursing her
silver. Joseph would return home at night with an armful of old
clothes, serviceable enough, perhaps, but with the drawback attending
them, that he could never tell when his accounts were to be considered
square. The next time he did an 'orra job' at Auchlippie, he would be
reminded of the load of things he had carried away last time, and
given to understand that the present 'job' was to be looked upon as in
part working out the previous haul.
For these reasons Joseph was not disposed to obtrude his services. He
now went quietly into the stable yard, and fell into chat with the lad
who was rubbing up the gig in which his master would shortly start for
a neighbouring market. He kept his eyes well open, and it was not long
before he descried a petticoat in the distance. It was certainly not
Sophia. A second look showed it to be Jean Macaulay, the kitchen-maid,
returning from the garden with a basketful of green stuff, and Jean,
he bethought him, was a very particular friend of his own, and he
might do a trifle of business for himself as well as fulfil his
commission.
He vaulted lightly over a gate, and with three or four skips
intercepted Jean, just where the blind wall of the dairy intercepted
all view from the house.
Here with his gayest smile he caught with both his hands----not
Jeanie, it was only her disengaged hand held out at arm's length; for
she had seen him in time, and laughed merrily in his face, while she
held her own well beyond his reach.
Joseph had missed his chance of a salute, and had to content himself
with a salutation.
'Haud awa! ye caperin' antic!' she cried, 'an' behave yersel' afore
folk. Yonder's Jock Spiers e'y yaird! Lay, by! An' what brings _you_
about the town at this time o' day, my mannie?'
'What wad it be, Jean, but yer ain sonsie face? I'm aye thinkin' o'
ye, whan I canna see ye! I canna lie quiet i' my lane bed, lassie, for
the thocht o' ye! Sae here I am.'
'Awa, ye leein' haveril! Do you tak me for a fule, to think ye're to
blaw the stour i' my e'en that gate? Lay by, now! (Joseph had become
demonstrative again), or I'll gie ye a gouff i' the lug'll gar't
stound the next half-hour! An' I canna be claverin' here a' day. Awa
wi' ye!' and she caught up her basket.
'What ails ye, lass? Winna ye bide a wee? It's no often a body gets ye
yer lane for a crack. Bide a wee!'
'I canna bide, man, ey noo! Gin the mistress comes ben an' dizna find
the pat on the fire; I'se get my kale through the reek, I'se warrant
ye!'
'Here, than, Jean! Here's a letter frae the minister to Miss Sophia.
An' ye maun gie't to naebody but her ain-sel'. I'se be hingin' round
here-awa, an' ye maun fesh back the answer belive. Winna ye, noo,
lass?'
'We'll see,' said Jean moving off; 'she was bakin' pies whan I gaed
out, gin she hae na gaen butt the house, I'se gie her't. Ye'll be here
whan I come out? For I'll no can bide lang.' And folding the letter in
her apron she hastened into the house.
Sophia was still in the kitchen, giving the last ornamental touches to
her pies, when the letter was brought her.
'From Glen Effick, eh? A note from Mary Brown I suppose. And an answer
is wanted? very well.' She slipped it into her pocket, and retired to
her room to read it at her leisure.
No one could have been more surprised than was Sophia at the contents
of that letter, and the earnestness and solemnity with which they were
expressed. She had never received a love-letter in her life, and had
some indistinct idea from what her mother had occasionally said, that
the subject was scarcely a proper one in real life. It was something
that was to be read about in books, especially in poetry books and
tales, but of these she had not read many. Her mother considered them
relaxing to the mind, except when they were of a theological cast, and
refrained from such frivolities as love scenes; the biographies of
serious people, in fact, had been the staple of her reading.
She had been accustomed to look forward to a time when she would be
married, but the aspect in which the change of state had chiefly
presented itself to her mind had been the being mistress of a house of
her own. From the time Mr. Wallowby had been expected to visit them,
her mother had spoken to her of the possibility of his wishing to
marry her, and of the wealthy and distinguished position she would in
that case be called on to fill. She had thought of it as something
that would be very nice if it took place, though also rather
formidable, and wondered if it would feel very strange and
uncomfortable at first; but it had never presented itself to her as a
thing which she was to make any effort to gain, or that it was a
matter in regard to which she would be called on to exercise any
independent choice. Her parents had arranged everything for her
hitherto, and knew what was best and most proper. They had sent her to
school, and decided what she was to study there, and she had studied
it accordingly. In the proper time they would arrange for her being
married, and it would be for her to fill as she best could the
position they might decide on as best for her.
And yet Sophia was not a person without character or full
average'intelligence, as no doubt some day would be made manifest
enough, when at length her individuality should waken up and assert
itself. It was only that she had lived in retirement, and been 'very
carefully brought up,' that is to say, in an especially narrow and
artificial groove, that she was slow and quiescent herself, and had an
unusually energetic and masterful mother.
As regarded Roderick, she liked him very much for a friend, better
than her own brother Peter, because he was kinder and more attentive
to her, and better than his sister Mary, the only other person she had
known equally long, because she was 'only a girl;' but that Roderick
should feel for her anything so different from this tepid friendship,
was something beyond her comprehension. She read the letter again, a
third time, and even a fourth, utterly bewildered by its earnestness,
and finally unable to make anything of it all, she carried it to her
mother.
Mrs. Sangster opened her eyes in surprise. Had a letter reached an
inmate of her castle without her knowledge? Had her daughter received
one without its passing under her censorship? What were things coming
to? She took the letter and put on her glasses.
'From? Roderick Brown! as I'm a christian woman! And what? I do
declare--a love-letter! Oh----!!' Many indignant thoughts swept wildly
through her soul, many words hurried to her lips. 'The serpent!' But
at the sound of her own voice, she paused. Her daughter knew nothing,
no one had ever dared to sully her pure ear with such a tale; and
should her mother's be the hand to rend the veil of innocency, and let
in the sad knowledge that there is evil in the world? She could not.
And yet she must say something, if only to cover her discomposure.
'And has it come to this, that a daughter of mine has actually
received a love-letter! You! Sophia Sangster! what kind of conduct do
you practise, that a libert---- a----young man feels encouraged to write
you a love letter, and make you a proposal? Where has been your
maidenliness? Your common sense of propriety? When I was a young
woman, no man breathing would have presumed to write about love to
me!'
'Mamma! I have done nothing. The letter is as great a surprise to me
as it can be to you!'
'But you _ought_ to have done something. If you had behaved with
becoming propriety and decorum, he never would have had the courage to
write. But you never had proper spirit! Go to your room, Miss!'
Sophia withdrew in open-eyed amazement. She was not prone to tears,
and under long habitude had become somewhat callous to strong
language. Her mother's ebulition merely added an accession to the
bewilderment Roderick's letter was already occasioning her. Other
girls in the parish had been married, and it seemed to her, that,
somehow, their bridegrooms must have spoken or written to express
their wishes, else how came they to be known? and none of these had
been more frequent visitors at the homes of their future brides, than
had Roderick been at her father's. The imputation of unmaidenliness,
then, had been only one of her mother's tantrums, things she had been
used to all her life, and knew to contain more noise than mischief.
She must not return an answer to the letter--that seemed all the
outburst meant, and it was rather a relief to her to think so, for, to
tell the truth, she would not have known what to say. Roderick's grave
and sacramental way of putting the matter, seemed to make any light
and ordinary answer akin to blasphemy, and how otherwise was one to
answer, where feelings were barely up to the level of commonplace? So
she sat herself down with her hands in her lap, and thought afresh
over her remarkable letter.
Mrs. Sangster walked up and down her room, 'frying,' as her cook would
have said, with indignation, at this abandoned young man, who, steeped
in iniquity, had yet dared to raise his eyes to her dovecot. She would
have liked to hound him through every court of the Church, and to let
loose every cur in the parish at his heels; but after what Mr.
Sangster had said about actions for libels, and the Court of Session,
there was no use thinking of that. She stamped her foot in her
impatience, and anon wiped her eyes, as she thought of the pathetic
helplessness of her gentle and interesting sex. No notice should be
taken of the letter; that was as much as she could venture on. But how
had it come? That was worth knowing.
Repairing to the kitchen, she learned that the minister's man who
brought it was still hanging about the premises. Then thinking to pump
him more conveniently, she bethought her of a new shelf for the
store-room, and sent for Joseph to give him the order. He appeared,
but with no great show of alacrity, and it was not till he had heard
orders given for his subsequent refreshment, and had actually fingered
the lady's coin, that he began to show something like interest.
'And what's the news in Glen Effick, Joseph?'
'No muckle, mem. Tarn Jamieson's coo's gotten a cauf. I'm thinkin'
that's about a'.'
'And your master the minister? No news about him?'
'Weel mem, he's lyin' sin' yester mornin', whan he cam hame frae
Gortonside. But I'm thinkin' ye ken better about that nor me. Folk
says ye an' him got a terrible dookin' e'y burn, up by on Findochart.
An' gin it hadna been for him ye'd ne'er hae gotten out ava, mem. An'
noo it's a' ower, the folk says he's like to dee o't.'
'Indeed, we had a most trying time, Joseph, and have much cause for
thankfulness, in having escaped as we did, and I hope Mr. Brown's
illness will not prove serious. But, tell me, are there no reports or
rumours about him circulating in the village?'
'I kenna what ye're drivin' at, mem, I'm sure.'
'There is, then, nothing stirring down the Glen at all?'
'I ken o' naething, mem.'
'Widow Tirpie's girl has come home again I hear, and looks poorly.'
Joseph started slightly, and glanced suspiciously under his eyelids,
but he answered impassively enough.
'I heard sae, mem, but I haena seen her mysel.'
'And is nobody's name associated in the village with that?' Joseph, in
his discomposure, missed his hammer stroke, and gave himself a severe
rap on the thumb, which with a gulp he transferred to his mouth.
'I'm no sure 'at I guess what ye're drivin' at, mem.'
'And about her child?' continued Mrs. Sangster, still intent on
learning something.
'I ne'er heard tell that she had ane,' said Joseph, waxing more and
more uneasy.
'Do the people ever remark a likeness between her and the baby Miss
Brown has adopted, for instance?'
Joseph turned round and looked Mrs. Sangster in the face; he felt
relieved he was safe, but he was also astonished.
'I hae na heard ony body speakin' that gate; an' gin I micht mak sae
free, mem, do you see ony yersel?'
'You are a canny man, Joseph, but I think the more of you for it. It
would not do for you to be disclosing your master's secrets, but you
must remember you are the servant of the church as well, and that she
has the highest claim on your fidelity, and I don't mind saying to you
that I see a very remarkable resemblance, notwithstanding that the
eyes are of a different colour, and the hair fair instead of dark.
That's what makes it so remarkable! The features are all different,
there is nothing that can be set aside as a mere accidental
coincidence, and yet the likeness is so manifest to me! Do you really
mean that nobody in the village has noticed it?'
'Deed, mem, an' I hae na juist heard quite sae muckle as that. But ye
see we're plenn folk down by, an' maun look til our betters for
guidance, whiles?'
'Very true. But what are they saying about it all?'
'I hae telled ye a' I ken, mem, an' that's naething.'
'And what do you think yourself, then, of all these rumours and
suspicions that are flying about? Can it really be possible that Mr.
Brown is the father of that infant, do you think?'
'God forbid, mem, that our young minister suld hae sae far fa'en frae
grace! I wad houp for the best! But it's an auld an' true sayin', that
there's aye water whaur the stirk's drooned, an we ken oursels there's
nae reek but whaur there's burnin'.'
But come now, Joseph, is not Mr. Brown constantly going to see those
women after dark? And does he not give them a great deal of money?'
'He's been there, mem, I ken, but he gangs to a' body; it's his wark.
An' he's gien them siller, but he's aye doin' that as weel, whan he
thinks folk want it. I see na weel 'at that need tell against him.
Hooever, as ye say yersel', the suspeecion wad na licht, athout some
grund. It's a bad job.'