"_WOOED AN' MARRIED AN' A'_."
Joseph Smiley lived in a small cottage all by himself. It was not on
the main street, but built in what should have been the back yard of a
house on that thoroughfare, and was approached by a narrow passage
round the end of the house in front. It was just the place for any one
who desired retirement, being extremely private, which, strangely
enough, seems the great desideratum of all inquisitive people. Joseph
was extremely expert in spelling out the affairs of his neighbours
from external signs, and it may have been owing to that, that he kept
his own life so studiously in the shade, knowing so well how much may
be divined from passing glimpses. He spoke of his home as 'juist the
bit placey whaur he bed,' 'weel eneugh for a quiet lanesome chield
like himsel', but no' fit to tak folk til,' which was scarcely doing
it justice, seeing that it was perhaps the snuggest little cabin in
the village; for Joseph was a Sybarite according to his lights. It was
the best feather bed in the village on which he took his nightly rest,
and there was a comfortably cushioned chair or two in which he might
repose during the day. The cupboard contained pickles, spices, and a
good many bottles; for his fare was dainty, and far different from the
vigorous parritch on which he professed to subsist. Parritch may be
said to have been the food of his imagination, for he continually
spoke of it, but it was with something considerably more succulent
that he nourished his material frame.
Yet Joseph enjoyed a high reputation for saving thrift.
This was owing to the fierceness of his principles, his tenacity in
holding them, and the vigour with which he carried them out. There is
nothing in the world so helpful as a clear understanding between a man
and himself as to what it really is which he wants, and a consistent
pertinacity in meaning to have it; and yet it seems even rarer than
the self-knowledge so highly recommended. Think of the force wasted in
desultory effort for the attainment of what is really not desired!
Joseph's principles might all have been resolved into one, and that
was to take care of Joseph Smiley. Nothing was too good for that
cherished person, so he got the lead; and as nobody else ever got
anything at all, it was not more costly than an unprincipled life of
impulse, and much more comfortable to the beloved object. Had his
brother man been allowed to dip with him in the dish, both must have
contented themselves with plain fare, but by letting the brother
forage elsewhere, a smaller and choicer mess would be enough for the
rest of the party.
When Joseph went out in the morning he locked his door and handed the
key to Peggy Mathieson, his neighbour, whom he employed to make his
bed, cook his meals, and 'do' for him generally. Peggy was a lone
widow, who supplied the youth of the village with bullseyes and
marbles. She was discreet and silent, asked no questions and told no
tales, and knew how to make him comfortable.
On the evening of the day which had witnessed Joseph's discomfiture at
Auchlippie, Peggy was engaged as usual in preparing his evening meal.
The fire was lit, and the kettle set to boil, the floor swept, the tea
things arranged on the table, and a neat rasher stood ready for the
frying pan when he should come in. She was giving a last look around
to see that all was in order before retiring to her own premises, when
the door opened and Tibbie Tirpie walked in, followed by her daughter
carrying a baby. Each had a basket on her arm, and both took seats,
which they drew up to the hearth, and seated themselves, before either
appeared to observe that any one else was present. As for Peggy, she
was a woman of few words, and her employer she knew to be what in
higher circles is called a peculiar person, that is one with whose
affairs it is safest not to meddle, except by his particular request;
therefore she stood silent waiting to be addressed.
'I wuss ye gude e'en, Peggy!' said Tibbie. 'We're juist waitin' for
Joseph to come in, and we'll bide till then, e'en gin he be late; sae
ye needna mind stoppin' here for hiz. We'se mak out brawly our lane!'
'Aweel, Tibbie, I'se leave ye, for my yett's steikit, an' aiblins
there's bairns wantin' some o' my sma' trokes, an' wearyin' to get
in.'
'An' noo, Tibbie,' said the mother when they were left alone, 'gie me
the bairn, an' gang ye til yer bed. Aiblins ye'll can sleep. Ony gate
steik yer eyen ticht, an' dinna cheep, what e'er may come o't; an'
let's see gin I canna gar this balksome naig o' yours tak baith bridle
an' saidle, ay, an' a lick or twa o' the whup as weel afore I'm
through wi' him. Heest ye, lass! an' dinna staand there fummlin' wi'
prins. Aff wi' yer bannet an' in wi' ye! Juist hap up weel. It's a
kittle job at the best, but gin I'm to hae ye at the greetin' on my
haands, forby him, I may lay by afore I begin. In wi'ye!'
Thus exhorted, the daughter lay down in the bed, and covered herself
with the blankets.
'Turn round t'ey wa', Tibbie! Ye'd be for keekin' at ween yer eyen,
an' greetin', (wha kens?) an' gin he catches sicht o' a sign o'
saftness in ye, it's a' ower wi' you an' the bairn!'
The daughter complied, and Tibbie, seated before the fire, brought out
certain little habiliments from her basket, and proceeded to array her
grandchild for the night, hanging his daylight apparel on chairs, on
all the chairs she could find, and marshalling them before the fire,
till that staid apartment assumed the appearance not only of a
nursery, but of one for a dozen infants. Having got so far, she had
leisure to survey the refreshments provided for her son-in-law.
'Od, Tibbie! ye'll be rael crouse here, woman! The best o' a' thing,
an' plenty! An' here's as bonny a fry o' bacon as e'er was seen! I'se
on wi' 't til the fire. It gars a body's mouth water juist to see til
't! He little thocht, honest man, it wad be his gudemother wad fry his
supper for him the nicht! Ay faigs! 'An' eat her share o' 't as weel.
But there's little enough for twa here,' she added, going to the
cupboard where the remainder of the flitch was discovered, as well as
the other little comforts and supplies with which Joseph had provided
himself.
'My certie, laad! But ye live weel! An' ye'll do credit to yer
gudemither or a's dune! He was aye ane o' the unco gude, an' here's
the gude livin'! Whether it be holy livin' or no'.'
Another plentiful rasher was cut, the frying-pan laid on the coals,
and Tibbie returned to her seat. But now, disturbed by so many
gettings-up and sittings-down, the babe began to whimper.
'Whist, my bonny man! Ye'se hae yer share o' yer daddie's supper as
weel as the lave!' And thereupon she emptied the contents of Joseph's
milk jug into a basin. Then she cut the nice new loaf and broke some
of the bread into the milk; after that a contribution was levied on
the sugar basin, and lastly the singing kettle completed the gracious
mess, of which the wandering heir thus unexpectedly returned to his
father's halls partook with appetite. Then stretching himself out in
his grandmother's arms, he fell asleep.
Joseph Smiley being a beadle, and liable to be called away at all
times and seasons, worked by the piece. He was a good workman, and so
could dictate in some measure his terms. He was working on the new
church, and having lost so much time fruitlessly in the morning, he
remained at work after the other men had left. It was nearly dark,
therefore, when at last he laid aside his tools and moved homewards
very much beyond his usual hour.
He had been depressed and disgusted with himself all day. How could
he, a man of sense as he had always supposed, and one accustomed to
play upon the weaknesses of his fellows--how had it ever come to pass
that he, so clear-sighted as he thought, should have come to grief in
this utterly discreditable fashion? To himself it was incomprehensible,
though to the perspicuous reader plain enough. Joseph had been trying
to do two things at once--to capture both Jean and her Mistress,
meaning to use whichever might happen to answer best in the end; and
he had missed both, as any man of his intelligence should have known
would come of it. But then small successes make a man conceited, and
conceit makes a man blind (Pray to be defended from small successes,
my reader!) It is the single eye which hits the mark.
As Joseph walked along the main street, a subtle fragrance seemed to
hover in the air, thin, bright, appetizing, but indefined.
'Hech!' he said to himself, 'somebody has a gude supper the nicht! I
wuss I was there.'
As he neared the approach to his own dwelling the odour began to grow
specific.
'That's bacon, an' gye an' like my ain!'
The '_close_' reached, the whole air seemed greasily aromatic. 'Can
Peggy be eatin' my bacon hersel'? I ne'er catched her yet at ony sic
tricks; but still water's rael deep. I'se drap on her an' her no
thinkin', an' hae my share o' 't, an' gin I dinna eat an' drink tea
an' sugar and bread to the vailey o' a' she's stealt, I'm no Joseph
Smiley!'
Joseph hurried homeward so quickly, and so full of thief-catching
thoughts, that he failed to observe the gleam of the candle from his
casement. Joseph always lighted his candle himself. It was therefore
as if some one had struck him when he threw the door open, and the
cheerful light of the fire and two candles fell on his sight. Tibbie
seeing a spare candlestick and a number of candles, thought that if
the candle on the table was necessary along with the fire-light for a
solitary man, it would need at least one more candle to lighten his
family fittingly. Wherefore she stuck a candle in the spare
candlestick, and when the daylight outside had altogether faded away,
she lit the two candles and heaped fresh fuel on the hearth.
Joseph stood in the doorway contemplating the scene. Had he been
drinking? The candle was double. But no! He had washed down his dinner
with a draft of buttermilk, and that was never known to go to
anybody's head.
The air was heavy with the richness of frizzling bacon. The chairs
were gathered like a palisade around the hearth, and hung all over
with baby linen. Joseph's next idea was that he had mistaken the
house, turned up the wrong close or entry. No! There was Peggy at her
back door, ostensibly sweeping something out, but, as Joseph knew full
well, in reality watching to see what he would do or say. Was she
partner in some plot against him? Then he would leave her no excuse or
opportunity to intervene and join forces with the enemy. He entered
with as resolute a stride as he could assume, and banged the door
behind him.
'Hm!' he coughed with a mighty effort, endeavouring to rally his
sinking heart, where black foreboding sat heavily and blocked the
lagging current of his blood, while cobwebs of misgiving seemed
gathering in his throat, till the nearly stifled voice could hardly
come.
'Whisht man! whisht!' hissed Tibbie in her loudest whisper, from the
hearth where she sat, and throwing up a warning hand. 'Ye'll waaken
yer wife! Hsh! She's beddet! an' she's sleepin'.
'Tibbie Tirpie!' The exclamation hovered feebly about Joseph's lips,
like the thin grey smoke that hangs over a hill of burnt whins, when
food for fire has been exhausted, and nothing remains but black and
hopeless desolation. The bag of tools slipped from his nerveless
fingers with a clatter.
'Ca' canny! Joseph! or ye'll waaken yer bairn! Yer supper's juist
ready, sae set ye down.'
[Illustration: "An' wha bade ye come here, an' mak my supper,
gudewife?" Page 271.]
'An' wha bade _ye_ come here? an' mak my supper, gudewife?'
'Hoot, toot, Joseph! Say naething! It's nae fash ava! Think ye yer
gude-mither wadna do faar mair nor that for ye? Juist bide or ye see!'
Here the baby, aroused by the talking, opened its eyes, and the
grand-mother began to shake and addle him after the usual manner of
nurses.
'Bonny man! An' did his daddie waaken him?'
'He's gotten yer ain glint o' the e'e, Joseph! Ye pawkie rascal! I'se
tell ye he's the gleg ane like his faither afore him.'
'Lay by, gudewife! an' get ye hame! you an' a' belangin' to ye! Ye hae
carried on eneugh for ae nicht, an' I'se hae nae din here!'
Tibbie made no reply. She merely regarded the speaker with a shrug of
amusement, mingled with a dash of humorous pity, while she lifted the
frying-pan from the coals and deposited the bacon done to a nicety on
the dish. She then began to place the second rasher which she had cut
in the pan; but this was more than Joseph could endure.
'Let alane o' my baacon, ye auld jad!' he cried, 'an' get ye gane! you
an' a' yer tribe.'
Then followed a silence of some duration, for Tibbie did not seem to
think the last observation worthy of notice. At length, however, she
spoke again.
'Are ye for nae baacon the nicht, than, Joseph? I'm thinkin' I cud eat
maist a' 'at's fried mysel'. An' I wadna say but Tibbie micht be for
tryin' juist a bittie, whan she waakens out o' her first sleep.'
'Tibbie! say ye?' gasped Joseph, looking around. His eyes fell on the
disordered bed, and there they fastened, widening and rolling as
though they beheld a ghost.
'Gudesakes! Pity me! gin there's no' a wummin' i' my very bed! To the
de'il wi' the weemin', say I! gin ye gang na to _them_, they'se come
efter _ye!_ Sae there's nae haudin' awa frae them!'
'Deed no! Joseph! an' that's sae. Whan it's a likely bit chappie, like
yersel'. They're no that plenty, ye see. But keep up yer heart, laad!
Atween yer wife an' yer gude-mither, ye'll be clear o' the lave. Ye
needna misdoubt o' that.'
'But set ye doon an' eat yer supper, or it grows cauld,' she
continued, at the same time selecting a piece of the bacon from the
dish and putting it in her mouth with manifest relish.
'Lay by! ye auld wutch. An' awa wi' ye!' cried Joseph, roused into
vigour by the raid on his provisions. 'I'se pet ye out gin ye winna
gang!'
'No ye winna! Joseph. Ye hae mair sense nor raise a din whan it's
yersel' wad get the dirdom o't.'
'Gang quiet then, an' gang smart!''
'An' wad ye? Honest noo! wad ye raelly pet 's a' out e'y the dark this
nicht? There's yer ain wee bairn no sax month auld. An' him juist in
his wee sark, an' a' his coats hingin' afore the fire! Wad ye noo?
'Deed then, Luckie, an' I wad!' cried Joseph, gathering courage at the
tone of remonstrance he thought he detected in the old woman's voice.
'An' it's no afore my fire but intil't, the duds o' yer dochter's brat
sall gang, ay! an' her ain as weel! gin ye tak na them out o' here.
The shameless limmer! to lay hersel' down in a decent man's bed, an'
never "wi' yer leave?"' He even got so far as to begin tossing the
child's clothing together in a heap, when the old woman, snatching a
brand from the hearth, struck him across the hand with the red hot
end, making him desist with a scream of pain. He glared at her for an
instant as if about to rush on her, then wavered and turned round as
if about to call for help.
'Noo! set ye doon, Joseph Smiley! an hear sense. Gin ye gang yaupin'
an' skirlin' out there, ye'se raise a din wull do far mair scaith to
yersel', nor it can til hiz. An' gin ye aince raise 't, ye'll ne'er
can lay't again! sae keep ye a calm sough, an' let me hae my say.'
It wasna muckle,' she continued, ''at I kenned o' you an' Tibbie's
on-gaein's, whan I spak to ye first, an' I spak ye fair, an' ye ken
what cam o' 't--juist naething ava, sae noo I hae fand out a'thing,
an' I hae ta'en advice, an' ye beut to yield, or I can gar ye. I'll
pruive yer contrac' an' promise o' mairriage by auld Forsyth 'at I
ance named to ye afore, an' hoo ye garred puir Tibbie swear no' to let
on, sae lang as Jess Clapperton be'd a single woman, for fear she suld
hae ye up afore the shirra for breach o' promise, an' get a' yer
siller frae ye for daamage. Weel she's waddet noo, sae the steek's aff
Tibbie's mouth, an' sae she's gane an' brocht hame yer bairn, an' ye
beut to tak them hame til ye, or I'se gar ye! ye dirty tinkler's tyke!
Ye wad hae gotten them to set the puir lass on the cuttie stule, alang
o' the minister's bairn, an' _ye_ kennin' the very contrar yer ain
sel'! But, my certie! gin scaith or scorn e'er fa's on _her_, it's
_ye_ sall stand aside her, an' tak yer share! An' Jean Macaulay wad be
the first to fling the rotten eggs at ye--ye leein' brock! Didna I
hear ye evenin' my dochter t'ey cuttie stule afore Jean, wi' my ain
lugs, an' garrin' auld Elspeth lauch? Od! but I'd hae liket to pu' the
ill scrapit tongue out o' yer leein' head! An' what's mair, I'se do't
yet, gin ye tak na tent. But there's nae gude, ye an' me to gang
fechtin'. We ken ane anither by noo--yer character's gane, and yer
name o' godliness in Glen Effick, an' ye'se be peuten out o' the
beadleship, gin ye mak a fash--an' the shirra wad gar ye tak her after
a'. Sae juist ye tak thocht in time, an' say naething ava! Ye hae na
sped sae waur as mony anither birkie laad, 'at wad before tryin' on
his gemms. For Tibbie's a decent lass an' a bonny, tho' it's me 'at
says't, (an' ne'er a word wad there hae been o' her, gin it hadna been
for that auld rinketer Briggs, my leddy's wumman up by), an' she liket
ye rael weel ance, an' she may again, gin ye're juist ordnar gude til
her.'
Joseph sat and listened with a lengthening visage, and his finger in
his mouth. He felt very foolish. A scandal would ruin him in Glen
Effick, and after the scene of the morning he had nothing to hope from
the good opinion of his whilom patroness Mrs. Sangster, or his late
sweetheart Jean Macaulay. He would become the common talk, and no girl
worth anything would have a word to say to him. He felt like some gay
butterfly caught by the heel in a cobweb of gossamer. Why flutter his
pretty wings any more? They would only get broken for nothing. He
would never fly again! The admiring flowers would spread their rosy
bosoms all in vain, and breathe their fragrant sighs. Poor, poor
Lothario! His day was done. He was caught at last. And there like a
dreadful spider sat Tibbie, his (to be) mother-in-law, regarding him
with red-rimmed eyes, and opening her mouth to devour--well, if not
him, at least his bacon. As he looked, she selected another tempting
slice (it was cooling now), and her jaws closed on it with a snap,
followed by a snort of relish.
'Aweel, Tibbie! Ye can gang hame for the nicht, you an' yer dochter. I
wad like to think ower't, an' sleep on't.'
'Fient a stap her or me sall gang out ower yer door, Joseph Smiley,
afore Sawbith! We micht na get in sae chancey next time. O' Sawbith
she'll gang linket wi' ye t'ey Kirk, an' I'se walk ahint ye, carryin'
yer bairn. Sae ye maun speak t'ey minister the morn, an' speir him to
baptise't. An' sae ye'll can explain a' thing t'ey minister yersel',
afore they hae time to raise clashes. Ye can juist tell the tale about
Jess Clapperton, 'at ye made a fule o' puir Tib wi'. I wad na say but
it micht do for the minister very weel, an' _ye_ ken hoo to put legs
an' arms til't as weel as the next ane. Ye was ne'er at a loss for a
lee in yer life, Josey, my man, I'm thinkin'! Losh keep me! I'm
thinkin' I've begood to like ye a'ready! It'll be yer ain fau't gin I
be na the _gude_ mither to ye, forby the gude-_mither_. Set ye doon
noo, an' tak yer supper. I'm fear'd it's cauld for ye, an' ye'll hae
to drink yer tea wantin' the milk. Wee Josey drank that a while syne.
It's a' e'y family! An' syne, I'm fear'd ye'll hae to sleep e'y fluir
for the nicht; for me an' the bairn's gaun in aside Tibbie.'
Joseph groaned in spirit, and ate his supper in silent despair. Not
one kick of resistance was left in his miserable soul, and he
submitted to his fate as meekly as Sindbad, after some experience of
the old man of the sea, found it best to do.
Tibbie devoted her attention to the entertainment of the young heir,
who seemed to enjoy his return to the paternal hall, and rode on her
knee crowing in the highest spirits, to the enlivening strains of--
'Wooed sn' married an' a','
which his grandam lilted to him, with just a suspicion of malice in
her humorous triumph.