_TIBBIE'S TROUBLES_.
Elspeth Macaulay sat in her doorway and basked in the autumn sun
repining, and browning herself like the hazel nuts in the adjoining
thicket, which, like herself, were hard of shell, though sweet and
sound of heart when you could reach it,--and wrapped in thin wrinkled
leathery husks, not far different from the withered parchment which
served her aged bones for a fleshly covering. She was very old, but
her eye had not grown dim, and her bodily force had not abated. She
lived all alone in her shieling perched high on a steep brae looking
down the glen, but she felt quite able to do for herself, and carried
her eggs and butter to market as blythely as the youngest. The hearth
within was clean swept, and the turf on it burned brightly; while the
oaten cakes toasting before it diffused a nutty fragrance through the
house. As Elspeth sat knitting her stocking and looking down the glen
extended beneath her, she spied a white mutch on the highroad wending
towards her. Presently it reached the 'slap' in the stone and divot
dyke, where the footpath leading to her own residence debouched on the
road. The wearer of the mutch passed through the slap and proceeded to
thread the upward path.
'Preserve us a'!' she muttered to herself, 'wha's this? It's no mony
comes in as they gae by to see Elspeth noo a days! I'se fesh out the
kebbock, it looks hearty. An' there's few comes to pree't noo. Na! na!
They're a' yardet maist, my cronies, by noo. An' them 'at's t'ey fore
yet's ower dottle to travel that far! I'm no wantin' the young
gomerals either, 'at stuffs their head i' bannets, an' thinks to be
mista'en for their betters! But here's a decent auld wife 'at's no
abune wearin' a mutch like her mither 'at gaed afore her.'
The huge cheese was produced from the awmry, the toasting cakes turned
before the fire, and Elspeth was back in her place before the guest
had mounted the brae.
'An' is that yersel', Tibbie Tirpie?' she presently exclaimed as the
wearer of the mutch, slowly mounting, began to raise her head over the
edge where the hill slid down out of sight. 'Hoo's wi' ye, woman? I'm
blythe to get a sicht o' ye.'
'An hoo's yoursel', Elspeth! Hech sirs! But that's a stey brae for
auld folk! It's braw when ye're up, but it's a sair job to clim't.'
The two old women partook of the cheer provided; after that they took
snuff together, and then they settled themselves in the sunshine for
their 'crack.' Elspeth's walking powers were not what they had been,
and she had not been present at the ceremonies of the day before, so
there was much for Tibbie to tell. Both of them would have been
classed, I fear, as 'of the world,' by the more devout. Kirks and
preachings were not by any means to them the most important matters in
life, still they were the news of the day, and, as such, interesting.
'An' what said our ain young minister himsel', Tibbie?' inquired
Elspeth at last, after all the fine things said by the others had been
duly discussed.
'Hoot, woman! He wasna there ava. Did ye no ken he was lyin'? an' rael
ill. I winder Jean didna tell ye that! For it was Mistress Sangster,
the folk's tellin', 'at cam near giein' him his death. Ye see they
gaed stravaigin' ower the hills, an' what suld come ower my leddy but
she maun coup in a burn! Up comes the minister to pu' her out, and a
sair job he'd hae fand it at the best, for she's a muckle hefty wife;
but the daft auld rinketer, whan ance she'd gotten a grip o' him, she
gied a screech an' a fling, an' pu'ed him in ower aside her, an' baith
gat a sair drookin', an' a wamefu' o' cauld water. Aweel! Stephen
Boague's wife, she dried the claes o' my leddy, an' she's nae waur;
but the puir minister beut to gang hame as he was--a' drouket--an'
he's gotten a sair host 'at's like to be the death o' him.'
'Puir chield! The cauld water he drank was ower strong for him. I
ne'er thocht muckle o' that for a drink mysel'. It wants whusky peuten
til't, to gar't lie licht on the staumick. But if a' folk says be
true, it's het water he's gotten amang noo! honest man. Think ye he'll
thole that better nor the cauld?' with a sidelong glance which was not
observed.
'I ken there's daft-like clashes rinnin' round, but I ne'er mind them.
There's folk 'at maun aye be blatherin' some gate. But he's a gude
man, I'll say! an' a worthy son o' the gude auld minister 'at gaed
afore him.'
'An' ye think it's lees the folk's tellin' about him?' with a
quizzical smile. Elspeth had heard all the rumours, and after a
lengthened experience of her fellow-creatures, she was disposed to
credit all she heard against any of them, without thinking much the
worse of them for merely being found out, which she supposed to be the
only difference between them and their accusers; but it was a tempting
amusement to prod Tibbie on the subject of these reports, and to hover
about the edge of what must not be said to a friend or a guest.
'I'll believe naething on Mester Brown till there's pruif for't! He's
a gude lad, an' a free-handet as I hae cause to ken.'
'Ay! What is't ye ken, Tibbie?'
'Aweel! he has gien me siller like the fine gentleman he is! An' me no
seekin't frae him either.'
'An' hoo was that, Tibbie?'
'He heard tell I was a lanesome widdie an' no weel aff, an' he cam to
speer after me. An' he out wi' his siller an' gied it til me, an' me
no seekin't, mind! An' no the gate ye wad fling a bawbee til a beggar,
or a bane til a dug; but just like's he was a man, an' me a woman made
o' flesh an' bluid like himsel'.'
'Ay? But wha's yon wi' Jean, coming danderin' alang at this time o'
day. I maun gie that lassie a bit o' my mind about a' this
galavantin'. We'll be haein' the folk's tongues waggin' after _her_
next,' with a mischievous glance at Tibbie; but the latter's eyes were
fixed on Jean's companion.
'She's a gude bairn, Jean,' Elspeth went on, 'an' rael mindfu' o' her
granny. There's ane o' my kye like to gang frae her milk, an' I can do
naething wi' her, but Jean's a grand milker, an' she comes ower ilka
day an' milks the puir beast hersel'. I'm thinkin', yon chield's
comin' up here wi' her, an' if it's no that auld sneckdrawer Joseph
Smiley! I'm thinkin' we'll be for haein' a waddin' here afore lang;
but gin I was Jean, it's no a shilpet auld tike like yon wad be the
lad, an' mair to wale amang. But it's Jean's waddin' ye see an' no
mine, sae she beut to wale her ain ground; an' gin she brews gude
yale, she'll drink the better. But sit ye still!'
Tibbie was rising to go. 'It's time I was hame,' she said. 'But I'll
gie a look till yer coo afore I gang. Ye ken I'm skilly on kye! or sae
the Inchbracken folk thinks. Bide still an' hae yer crack wi' Jean.
I'se find my road t'ey byre mysel'!'
Tibbie's wrath was aflame against Joseph. She dared not trust herself
in his presence, with Elspeth and Jean for audience or chorus in the
scene that might follow, so she stole off to the byre before the young
people could reach the brow of the hill. Their eyes having been
engrossed with each other, they had not observed her while they were
still at a distance, and Joseph was not aware how near she was, or his
heart would have failed him.
Tibbie placed herself conveniently to overhear the conversation, and
as usual with eavesdroppers, heard little that could gratify her
feelings.
'Behave yersel', Joseph Smiley,' were the first words that reached her
ear, spoken with energy, 'or I'se gar yer lugs dirl! Ye muckle calf!
I'se hae nane o' yer slaverin' an' kissin', sae stand aff! Wha gae ye
the last ane til, I winder?'
'I gae the last til yer ain bonny sel' last nicht, Jean. Think ye I'd
let ony body--'
'Ye leein' rascal! Tak ye that!' followed by a resounding crack, as
though a palm and a cheek had come in violent contact.
'Od, woman! That's sair!'
'I'se gie ye a harder skelp nor that next time, sae mind yer tongue!'
There were sounds of scuffling after this, but eventually they were
calmed by Elspeth's.
'Whisht, bairns! Behave yersels! Ye kenna wha micht be hearkenin'. An'
what's yer news, Joseph? Hae ye nae cracks to divert a lane auld body,
forby daffin' wi' Jean? Is there naething steerin' e'y glen ava?'
'There's plenty steerin', granny! Muckle din, but aiblins little 'oo,
as the dei'l said whan he scrapit the soo.'
'Mind what ye're sayin', Joseph Smiley! She's no' _your_ granny, she's
mines; an' what's mair, gin ye dinna talc yersel' up, she'll ne'er be
yours ava! Sae dinna let yer tongue wag ower soople!'
'Be quiet, Jean, ye fechtin' hempie, an' let the man speak! I'm juist
wearyin' to hear the news. An' what's a' the din for, Joseph?'
'It's just about the minister an' his bairn, an' his carryin's on
amang the lasses.'
'Ay? An' is't a' true, think ye?'
'Wha kens? The lad's but young yet, an' the lass is no that ill
faured. The Kirk Session's taen't up, an' the Presbytery, an' there'll
be sair wark afore a''s dune.'
'An' what'll be dune wi' them, think ye, Joseph?'
'Oo! The minister '11 be peuten oot, nae doubt o' that, gin a' 'at's
said be true. An' the puir quine, she beut to be sotten e'y cuttie
stule, an' be rebuket afore the hale congregation. Hech! but it's weel
for Angus Tirpie he's no t'ey fore this day to see his dochter come to
sic shame. An' I'm wae for the lass hersel'. There's naebody wud hae
thocht it o' her; but she's a randie auld tinkler yon mither o' her's,
an' it's sma' winder 'at them she had the guidin' o' suld come to
harm.'
Tibbie clenched her teeth, and seized a heather besom leaning near
her. She could scarcely contain herself, and would gladly have broken
the slanderer's head; but the women, his companions, would be sure to
side with him either by words or blows, seeing it was but another
woman's character that was in question! And then the after-talk in the
glen! Naturally she heard less than other people, but still she had a
candid friend or two, as who has not? and the averted looks of the
neighbours when she appeared gave full confirmation of all the candid
friends had to say. She dared not furnish new food for talk. Turning
round, she hurried away, choosing a path which sheltered her from the
view of Elspeth and the rest, and vowing bitter vengeance on Joseph
Smiley's treacherous head.
Home she hurried with panting speed. Her perturbed mind deprived of
other utterance, vented itself in tumultuous motion, and by the time
she reached her cottage she was comparatively calm. She unlocked her
door, entered, revived her fire, and sat down to meditate on revenge:
but not for long. As Mr. Geddie and his companions were coming out
from their interview with Roderick, Tibbie was passing homewards.
Ebenezer, discontented with the result of their mission, and
foreboding diminished honour at his own fireside from her who acted
Little Conscience there, and had kept him to his duty through years of
wedded life, with the whipcracks of her stinging tongue,--Ebenezer saw
her, and proposed that they should follow her home, and 'deal' with
her as they had meant to do when they visited her earlier in the day.
Mr. Geddie consented, 'and I take it as a token for good,' he added,
'that we have seen her returning home at the very time we had given up
hope of being able to find her.'
It was not long, therefore, before Tibbie's meditations were
interrupted by the entrance of the inquisitors. They saluted her but
briefly, and seated themselves on such chairs and stools as appeared,
without waiting for much invitation, and disregarding Tibbie's enquiry
of 'What's yer wull?' Mr. Geddie opened his book, lifted up his voice
and held forth. It was a discourse on the vanity of concealment in the
matter of sin, and an exhortation to confession as some measure of
atonement, and the first step to repentance. Having concluded, he
fixed his eyes on her and sat waiting to see what effect his words
would have on her moral nature. Apparently they had none.
'Do you know, my woman, what brings us here today?'
'The very thing I hae been wantin' ye to tell me.'
'Where is your daughter?'
'What's yer wyll wi' my dochter?'
'Behave yersel', Tibbie Tirpie!' said Peter. 'Ye're no blate to speak
that gate til a gentleman far less a minister.'
'I see little signs o' the _gentleman!_ Stappin' richt in ower o' my
house, an' never wi' yer leave, gude wife,' an' just settin' himsel'
down, an' syne t'ey preaching'! Wad ye daar noo, my birkie, to stap
that gate intil my Leddy Drysdale's parlour? I'm no thinkin' 't! Do ye
think a puir body maun aye be like a cadger's tike, 'at ilka gowk can
gie the ither kick til? An' then ne'er venture to bite? Gin I had mair
siller, ye wad tak mair tent! An' as for my dochter, just mind what
ye're after! gin ye daar say an ill word o' her I'se hae ye up afore
the Shirra, an' I'se hae there twa freends o' yours for witnesses
against ye. I hae some notion o' the ill tales they hae been tellin'
through the glen, an' I'se gar them swear afore the Shirra against ye
for the very tales they hae telled ye themsel's, sae tak ye tent! Them
'at lie doon wi' dugs, rise up wi' fleas! An' it's little worth
company ye hae been keepin', for a' their holy sough an' their lang
faces. They'll rin round spyin' an' keekin' intil ilka kale-pat but
their ain. (It's no in Mig Prittie's kale-pat 'at Ebenezer there daar
stick his neb, I'm thinkin'). An' syne they rin round wi' a curran
clashes, swallin' ilka gowk's head wi' their clavers. But gin they
dinna gie ower prankin' wi' my gude name an', my dochter's, I'se gie
them something they're no lookin' for, an' they'll wuss they had
steiket their jaws afore they meddled wi' Tibbie Tirpie!'
Wull ye no' whisht, an' hear til the man o' God? ye rantin' auld
tinkler!' cried Peter. 'Ye hae a tongue 'at wad clip clouts!'
An' ye hae a conscience like a mill-door, for a' yer whingin','
retorted Tibbie, grown louder at the interruption. It wad set yer man
o' God better nor bautherin' a puir auld wife, gin he wad dale wi'
_you_. Wi' yer saul, I mean, for he'll better leave the shop alane.
Echtpence the pund for saand frae the burn-side, is ower dear to pay,
an' I hae coosten the last sugar at echtpence I gat frae ye t'ey hens!
It's no fit meat for christian folk!'
'Ye jad! But whaur gat _ye_ the siller to be buyin' sugar? That's
just what we're comin' til!'
'I cam by't honest, an' that's mair nor ye can say for yer pose e'y
savin's bank.'
'It was the waages o' sin, Tibbie, yon siller! an' that ye ken.'
'I tak you twa men to witness, what Peter Malloch has said! an' I'se
hae the law o' him! An' there's plenty witness e'y glen forby, whan
the time comes!'
'Alas! alas! poor woman!' cried Mr. Geddie, 'you are sinning with the
high hand and brazening out your iniquity. Confession would better
become you, and repentance, and public penitence before the church,
for the public scandal you have brought on it.'
'Ay! an' the cuttie stule for them baith,' ejaculated Peter as he made
for the door, for Tibbie was reaching up for her porridge-stick on the
shelf, and an onslaught seemed imminent. The other two followed
without the ceremony of leave-taking, further 'dealing' with the
enraged old woman, being manifestly out of the question. Slowly and
disappointedly they wended back to the village, while Tibbie stood out
in the road before her cottage shaking her fist and scolding at the
top of her voice. Doubtless she had reason; but the wind caught up her
words as they flew, and they never reached the ears of her retreating
enemies.