THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL
For two years it had been notorious in the square that Sam'l Dickie was
thinking of courting T'nowhead's Bell, and that if little Sanders
Elshioner (which is the Thrums pronunciation of Alexander Alexander)
went in for her he might prove a formidable rival. Sam'l was a weaver
in the Tenements, and Sanders a coal-carter whose trade mark was a bell
on his horse's neck that told when coals were coming. Being something
of a public man, Sanders had not perhaps so high a social position as
Sam'l, but he had succeeded his father on the coal-cart, while the
weaver had already tried several trades. It had always been against
Sam'l, too, that once when the kirk was vacant he had advised the
selection of the third minister who preached for it on the ground that
it came expensive to pay a large number of candidates. The scandal of
the thing was hushed up, out of respect for his father, who was a
God-fearing man, but Sam'l was known by it in Lang Tammas's circle.
The coal-carter was called Little Sanders to distinguish him from his
father, who was not much more than half his size. He had grown up with
the name, and its inapplicability now came home to nobody. Sam'l's
mother had been more far-seeing than Sanders's. Her man had been
called Sammy all his life because it was the name he got as a boy, so
when their eldest son was born she spoke of him as Sam'l while still in
his cradle. The neighbours imitated her, and thus the young man had a
better start in life than had been granted to Sammy, his father.
It was Saturday evening--the night in the week when Auld Licht young
men fell in love. Sam'l Dickie, wearing a blue glengarry bonnet with a
red ball on the top, came to the door of a one-storey house in the
Tenements and stood there wriggling, for he was in a suit of tweed for
the first time that week, and did not feel at one with them. When his
feeling of being a stranger to himself wore off he looked up and down
the road, which straggles between houses and gardens, and then, picking
his way over the puddles, crossed to his father's hen-house and sat
down on it. He was now on his way to the square.
Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dyke knitting stockings, and
Sam'l looked at her for a time.
"Is't yersel, Eppie?" he said at last
"It's a' that," said Eppie.
"Hoo's a' wi' ye?" asked Sam'l.
"We're juist aff an' on," replied Eppie, cautiously.
There was not much more to say, but as Sam'l sidled off the henhouse he
murmured politely, "Ay, ay." In another minute he would have been
fairly started, but Eppie resumed the conversation.
"Sam'l," she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "ye can tell Lisbeth
Fargus I'll likely be drappin' in on her aboot Mununday or Teisday."
Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Tammas McQuhatty, better known
as T'nowhead, which was the name of his farm. She was thus Bell's
mistress.
Sam'l leant against the henhouse as if all his desire to depart had
gone.
"Hoo d'ye kin I'll be at the T'nowhead the nicht?" he asked, grinning
in anticipation.
"Ou, I'se warrant ye'll be after Bell," said Eppie.
"Am no sae sure o' that," said Sam'l, trying to leer. He was enjoying
himself now.
"Am no sure o' that," he repeated, for Eppie seemed lost in stitches.
"Sam'l?"
"Ay."
"Ye'll be speirin' her sune noo, I dinna doot?"
This took Sam'l, who had only been courting Bell for a year or two, a
little aback.
"Hoo d'ye mean, Eppie?" he asked.
"Maybe ye'll do't the nicht."
"Na, there's nae hurry," said Sam'l.
"Weel, we're a' coontin' on't, Sam'l."
"Gae wa wi' ye."
"What for no'?"
"Gae wa wi' ye," said Sam'l again.
"Bell's get an' fond o' ye, Sam'l."
"Ay," said Sam'l.
"But am dootin' ye're a fell billy wi' the lasses."
"Ay, oh, I d'na kin, moderate, moderate," said Sam'l, in high delight.
"I saw ye," said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth, "gae'in on
terr'ble wi Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday."
"We was juist amoosin' oorsels," said Sam'l.
"It'll be nae amoosement to Mysy," said Eppie, "gin ye brak her heart."
"Losh, Eppie," said Sam'l, "I didna think o' that."
"Ye maun kin weel, Sam'l, 'at there's mony a lass wid jump at ye."
"Ou, weel," said Sam'l, implying that a man must take these things as
they come.
"For ye're a dainty chield to look at, Sam'l."
"Do ye think so, Eppie? Ay, ay; oh, I d'na kin am onything by the
ordinar."
"Ye mayna be," said Eppie, "but lasses doesna do to be ower partikler."
Sam'l resented this, and prepared to depart again.
"Ye'll no tell Bell that?" he asked, anxiously.
"Tell her what?"
"Aboot me an' Mysy."
"We'll see hoo ye behave yersel, Sam'l."
"No 'at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. I widna think
twice o' tellin her mysel."
"The Lord forgie ye for leein', Sam'l," said Eppie, as he disappeared
down Tammy Tosh's close. Here he came upon Henders Webster.
"Ye're late, Sam'l," said Henders.
"What for?"
"Ou, I was thinkin' ye wid be gaen the length o' T'nowhead the nicht,
an' I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin's wy there an oor syne."
"Did ye?" cried Sam'l, adding craftily, "but it's naething to me."
"Tod, lad," said Henders, "gin ye dinna buckle to, Sanders'll be
carryin' her off."
Sam'l flung back his head and passed on.
"Sam'l!" cried Henders after him.
"Ay," said Sam'l, wheeling round.
"Gie Bell a kiss frae me."
The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam'l began to
smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it came upon Henders
while he was in his garden feeding his ferret. Then he slapped his
legs gleefully, and explained the conceit to Will'um Byars, who went
into the house and thought it over.
There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in the square, which
was lit by a flare of oil suspended over a cadger's cart. Now and
again a staid young woman passed through the square with a basket on
her arm, and if she had lingered long enough to give them time, some of
the idlers would have addressed her. As it was, they gazed after her,
and then grinned to each other.
"Ay, Sam'l," said two or three young men, as Sam'l joined them beneath
the town clock.
"Ay, Davit," replied Sam'l.
This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in Thrums, and it
was not to be expected that they would let this opportunity pass.
Perhaps when Sam'l joined them he knew what was in store for him.
"Was ye lookin' for T'nowhead's Bell, Sam'l?" asked one.
"Or mebbe ye was wantin' the minister?" suggested another, the same who
had walked out twice with Chirsty Duff and not married her after all.
Sam'l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he laughed
good-naturedly.
"Ondoobtedly she's a snod bit crittur," said Davit, archly.
"An' michty clever wi' her fingers," added Jamie Deuchars.
"Man, I've thocht o' makkin' up to Bell mysel," said Pete Ogle. "Wid
there be ony chance, think ye, Sam'l?"
"I'm thinkin' she widna hae ye for her first, Pete," replied Sam'l, in
one of those happy flashes that come to some men, "but there's nae
sayin' but what she micht tak ye to finish up wi.'"
The unexpectedness of this sally startled every one. Though Sam'l did
not set up for a wit, however, like Davit, it was notorious that he
could say a cutting thing once in a way.
"Did ye ever see Bell reddin up?" asked Pete, recovering from his
overthrow. He was a man who bore no malice.
"It's a sicht," said Sam'l, solemnly.
"Hoo will that be?" asked Jamie Deuchars.
"It's weel worth yer while," said Pete, "to ging atower to the
T'nowhead an' see. Ye'll mind the closed-in beds i' the kitchen? Ay,
weel, they're a fell spoilt crew, T'nowhead's litlins, an' no that aisy
to manage. Th' ither lasses Lisbeth's hae'n had a michty trouble wi'
them. When they war i' the middle o' their reddin up the bairns wid
come tumlin' about the floor, but, sal, I assure ye, Bell didna fash
lang wi' them. Did she, Sam'l?"
"She did not," said Sam'l, dropping into a fine mode of speech to add
emphasis to his remark.
"I'll tell ye what she did," said Pete to the others. "She juist
lifted up the litlins, twa at a time, an' flung them into the
coffin-beds. Syne she snibbit the doors on them, an' keepit them there
till the floor was dry."
"Ay, man, did she so?" said Davit, admiringly.
"I've seen her do't mysel," said Sam'l.
"There's no a lassie maks better bannocks this side o' Fetter Lums,"
continued Pete.
"Her mither tocht her that," said Sam'l; "she was a gran' han' at the
bakin', Kitty Ogilvy."
"I've heard say," remarked Jamie, putting it this way so as not to tie
himself down to anything, "'at Bell's scones is equal to Mag Lunan's."
"So they are," said Sam'l, almost fiercely.
"I kin she's a neat han' at singein' a hen," said Pete.
"An' wi't a'," said Davit, "she's a snod, canty bit stocky in her
Sabbath claes."
"If onything, thick in the waist," suggested Jamie.
"I dinna see that," said Sam'l.
"I d'na care for her hair either," continued Jamie, who was very nice
in his tastes; "something mair yallowchy wid be an improvement."
"A'body kins," growled Sam'l, "'at black hair's the bonniest."
The others chuckled.
"Puir Sam'l!" Pete said.
Sam'l not being certain whether this should be received with a smile or
a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compromise. This was
position one with him for thinking things over.
Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choosing a helpmate
for themselves. One day a young man's friends would see him mending
the washing tub of a maiden's mother. They kept the joke until
Saturday night, and then he learned from them what he had been after.
It dazed him for a time, but in a year or so he grew accustomed to the
idea, and they were then married. With a little help he fell in love
just like other people.
Sam'l was going the way of the others, but he found it difficult to
come to the point. He only went courting once a week, and he could
never take up the running at the place where he left off the Saturday
before. Thus he had not, so far, made great headway. His method of
making up to Bell had been to drop in at T'nowhead on Saturday nights
and talk with the farmer about the rinderpest.
The farm kitchen was Bell's testimonial. Its chairs, tables, and
stools were scoured by her to the whiteness of Rob Angus's sawmill
boards, and the muslin blind on the window was starched like a child's
pinafore. Bell was brave, too, as well as energetic. Once Thrums had
been overrun with thieves. It is now thought that there may have been
only one, but he had the wicked cleverness of a gang. Such was his
repute that there were weavers who spoke of locking their doors when
they went from home. He was not very skilful, however, being generally
caught, and when they said they knew he was a robber he gave them their
things back and went away. If they had given him time there is no
doubt that he would have gone off with his plunder. One night he went
to T'nowhead, and Bell, who slept in the kitchen, was wakened by the
noise. She knew who it would be, so she rose and dressed herself, and
went to look for him with a candle. The thief had not known what to do
when he got in, and as it was very lonely he was glad to see Bell. She
told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, and would not let him out
by the door until he had taken off his boots so as not to soil the
carpet.
On this Saturday evening Sam'l stood his ground in the square, until by
and by he found himself alone. There were other groups there still,
but his circle had melted away. They went separately, and no one said
good-night. Each took himself off slowly, backing out of the group
until he was fairly started.
Sam'l looked about him, and then, seeing that the others had gone,
walked round the townhouse into the darkness of the brae that leads
down and then up to the farm of T'nowhead.
To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to know her ways
and humour them. Sam'l, who was a student of women, knew this, and so,
instead of pushing the door open and walking in, he went through the
rather ridiculous ceremony of knocking. Sanders Elshioner was also
aware of this weakness of Lisbeth's, but, though he often made up his
mind to knock, the absurdity of the thing prevented his doing so when
he reached the door. T'nowhead himself had never got used to his
wife's refined notions, and when any one knocked he always started to
his feet, thinking there must be something wrong.
Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the way in.
"Sam'l," she said.
"Lisbeth," said Sam'l.
He shook hands with the farmer's wife, knowing that she liked it, but
only said, "Ay, Bell," to his sweetheart, "Ay, T'nowhead," to
McQuhatty, and "It's yersel, Sanders," to his rival.
They were all sitting round the fire, T'nowhead, with his feet on the
ribs, wondering why he felt so warm, and Bell darned a stocking, while
Lisbeth kept an eye on a goblet full of potatoes.
"Sit into the fire, Sam'l," said the farmer, not, however, making way
for him.
"Na, na," said Sam'l, "I'm to bide nae time." Then he sat into the
fire. His face was turned away from Bell, and when she spoke he
answered her without looking round. Sam'l felt a little anxious.
Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, but looked
well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at home. He asked Bell
questions out of his own head, which was beyond Sam'l, and once he said
something to her in such a low voice that the others could not catch
it. T'nowhead asked curiously what it was, and Sanders explained that
he had only said, "Ay, Bell, the morn's the Sabbath." There was
nothing startling in this, but Sam'l did not like it. He began to
wonder if he was too late, and had he seen his opportunity would have
told Bell of a nasty rumour that Sanders intended to go over to the
Free Church if they would make him kirk-officer.
[Illustration: Sabbath at T'Nowhead. From a photograph by G. W.
Wilson.]
Sam'l had the good-will of T'nowhead's wife, who liked a polite man.
Sanders did his best, but from want of practice he constantly made
mistakes. To-night, for instance, he wore his hat in the house because
he did not like to put up his hand and take it off. T'nowhead had not
taken his off either, but that was because he meant to go out by and by
and lock the byre door. It was impossible to say which of her lovers
Bell preferred. The proper course with an Auld Licht lassie was to
prefer the man who proposed to her.
"Ye'll bide a wee, an' hae something to eat?" Lisbeth asked Sam'l, with
her eyes on the goblet.
"No, I thank ye," said Sam'l, with true genteelity.
"Ye'll better?"
"I dinna think it."
"Hoots aye; what's to hender ye?"
"Weel, since ye're sae pressin', I'll bide."
No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was but the
servant, and T'nowhead knew that the kick his wife had given him meant
that he was not to do so either. Sanders whistled to show that he was
not uncomfortable.
"Ay, then, I'll be stappin' ower the brae," he said at last.
He did not go, however. There was sufficient pride in him to get him
off his chair, but only slowly, for he had to get accustomed to the
notion of going. At intervals of two or three minutes he remarked that
he must now be going. In the same circumstances Sam'l would have acted
similarly. For a Thrums man it is one of the hardest things in life to
get away from anywhere.
At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The potatoes were
burning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on his tongue.
"Yes, I'll hae to be movin'," said Sanders, hopelessly, for the fifth
time.
"Guid nicht to ye, then, Sanders," said Lisbeth. "Gie the door a
fling-to, ahent ye."
Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together. He looked
boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. Sam'l saw with
misgivings that there was something in it which was not a handkerchief.
It was a paper bag glittering with gold braid, and contained such an
assortment of sweets as lads bought for their lasses on the Muckle
Friday.
"Hae, Bell," said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an off-hand way
as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless he was a little excited, for
he went off without saying good-night.
No one spoke. Bell's face was crimson. T'nowhead fidgetted on his
chair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam'l. The weaver was strangely calm and
collected, though he would have liked to know whether this was a
proposal.
"Sit in by to the table, Sam'l," said Lisbeth, trying to look as if
things were as they had been before.
She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near the fire to melt,
for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helps over a meal of
potatoes. Sam'l, however, saw what the hour required, and jumping up,
he seized his bonnet.
"Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth," he said with dignity;
"I'se be back in ten meenits."
He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking at each other.
"What do ye think?" asked Lisbeth.
"I d'na kin," faltered Bell.
"Thae tatties is lang o' comin' to the boil," said T'nowhead.
In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam'l would have been
suspected of intent upon his rival's life, but neither Bell nor Lisbeth
did the weaver that injustice. In a case of this kind it does not much
matter what T'nowhead thought.
The ten minutes had barely passed when Sam'l was back in the farm
kitchen. He was too flurried to knock this time, and, indeed, Lisbeth
did not expect it of him.
"Bell, hae!" he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag twice the
size of Sanders's gift.
"Losh preserve's!" exclaimed Lisbeth; "I'se warrant there's a shillin's
worth."
"There's a' that, Lisbeth--an' mair," said Sam'l, firmly.
"I thank ye, Sam'l," said Bell, feeling an unwonted elation as she
gazed at the two paper bags in her lap.
"Ye're ower extravegint, Sam'l," Lisbeth said.
"Not at all," said Sam'l; "not at all. But I widna advise ye to eat
thae ither anes, Bell--they're second quality."
Bell drew back a step from Sam'l.
"How do ye kin?" asked the farmer shortly, for he liked Sanders.
"I spiered i' the shop," said Sam'l.
The goblet was placed on a broken plate on the table with the saucer
beside it, and Sam'l, like the others, helped himself. What he did was
to take potatoes from the pot with his fingers, peel off their coats,
and then dip them into the butter. Lisbeth would have liked to provide
knives and forks, but she knew that beyond a certain point T'nowhead
was master in his own house. As for Sam'l, he felt victory in his
hands, and began to think that he had gone too far.
In the meantime Sanders, little witting that Sam'l had trumped his
trick, was sauntering along the kirk-wynd, with his hat on the side of
his head. Fortunately he did not meet the minister.
The courting of T'nowhead's Bell reached its crisis one Sabbath about a
month after the events above recorded. The minister was in great force
that day, but it is no part of mine to tell how he bore himself. I was
there, and am not likely to forget the scene. It was a fateful Sabbath
for T'nowhead's Bell and her swains, and destined to be remembered for
the painful scandal which they perpetrated in their passion.
Bell was not in the kirk. There being an infant of six months in the
house it was a question of either Lisbeth or the lassie's staying at
home with him, and though Lisbeth was unselfish in a general way, she
could not resist the delight of going to church. She had nine children
besides the baby, and being but a woman, it was the pride of her life
to march them into the T'nowhead pew, so well watched that they dared
not misbehave, and so tightly packed that they could not fall. The
congregation looked at that pew, the mothers enviously, when they sang
the lines--
"Jerusalem like a city is
Compactly built together."
The first half of the service had been gone through on this particular
Sunday without anything remarkable happening. It was at the end of the
psalm which preceded the sermon that Sanders Elshioner, who sat near
the door, lowered his head until it was no higher than the pews, and in
that attitude, looking almost like a four-footed animal, slipped out of
the church. In their eagerness to be at the sermon many of the
congregation did not notice him, and those who did put the matter by in
their minds for future investigation. Sam'l, however, could not take
it so coolly. From his seat in the gallery he saw Sanders disappear,
and his mind misgave him. With the true lover's instinct he understood
it all. Sanders had been struck by the fine turn-out in the T'nowhead
pew. Bell was alone at the farm. What an opportunity to work one's
way up to a proposal. T'nowhead was so overrun with children that such
a chance seldom occurred, except on a Sabbath. Sanders, doubtless, was
off to propose, and he, Sam'l, was left behind.
The suspense was terrible. Sam'l and Sanders had both known all along
that Bell would take the first of the two who asked her. Even those
who thought her proud admitted that she was modest. Bitterly the
weaver repented having waited so long. Now it was too late. In ten
minutes Sanders would be at T'nowhead; in an hour all would be over.
Sam'l rose to his feet in a daze. His mother pulled him down by the
coat-tail, and his father shook him, thinking he was walking in his
sleep. He tottered past them, however, hurried up the aisle, which was
so narrow that Dan'l Ross could only reach his seat by walking
sideways, and was gone before the minister could do more than stop in
the middle of a whirl and gape in horror after him.
A number of the congregation felt that day the advantage of sitting in
the laft. What was a mystery to those downstairs was revealed to them.
From the gallery windows they had a fine open view to the south; and as
Sam'l took the common, which was a short cut though a steep ascent, to
T'nowhead, he was never out of their line of vision. Sanders was not
to be seen, but they guessed rightly the reason why. Thinking he had
ample time, he had gone round by the main road to save his
boots--perhaps a little scared by what was coming. Sam'l's design was
to forestall him by taking the shorter path over the burn and up the
commonty.
It was a race for a wife, and several on-lookers in the gallery braved
the minister's displeasure to see who won. Those who favoured Sam'l's
suit exultingly saw him leap the stream, while the friends of Sanders
fixed their eyes on the top of the common where it ran into the road.
Sanders must come into sight there, and the one who reached this point
first would get Bell.
As Auld Lichts do not walk abroad on the Sabbath, Sanders would
probably not be delayed. The chances were in his favour. Had it been
any other day in the week Sam'l might have run. So some of the
congregation in the gallery were thinking, when suddenly they saw him
bend low and then take to his heels. He had caught sight of Sanders's
head bobbing over the hedge that separated the road from the common,
and feared that Sanders might see him. The congregation who could
crane their necks sufficiently saw a black object, which they guessed
to be the carter's hat, crawling along the hedge-top. For a moment it
was motionless, and then it shot ahead. The rivals had seen each
other. It was now a hot race. Sam'l, dissembling no longer, clattered
up the common, becoming smaller and smaller to the onlookers as he
neared the top. More than one person in the gallery almost rose to
their feet in their excitement. Sam'l had it. No, Sanders was in
front. Then the two figures disappeared from view. They seemed to run
into each other at the top of the brae, and no one could say who was
first. The congregation looked at one another. Some of them
perspired. But the minister held on his course.
Sam'l had just been in time to cut Sanders out. It was the weaver's
saving that Sanders saw this when his rival turned the corner; for
Sam'l was sadly blown. Sanders took in the situation and gave in at
once. The last hundred yards of the distance he covered at his
leisure, and when he arrived at his destination he did not go in. It
was a fine afternoon for the time of year, and he went round to have a
look at the pig, about which T'nowhead was a little sinfully puffed up.
"Ay," said Sanders, digging his fingers critically into the grunting
animal; "quite so."
"Grumph," said the pig, getting reluctantly to his feet.
"Ou ay; yes," said Sanders, thoughtfully.
Then he sat down on the edge of the sty, and looked long and silently
at an empty bucket. But whether his thoughts were of T'nowhead's Bell,
whom he had lost for ever, or of the food the farmer fed his pig on, is
not known.
"Lord preserve's! Are ye no at the kirk?" cried Bell, nearly dropping
the baby as Sam'l broke into the room.
"Bell!" cried Sam'l.
Then T'nowhead's Bell knew that her hour had come.
"Sam'l," she faltered.
"Will ye hae's Bell?" demanded Sam'l, glaring at her sheepishly.
"Ay," answered Bell.
Sam'l fell into a chair.
"Bring's a drink o' water, Bell," he said.
But Bell thought the occasion required milk, and there was none in the
kitchen. She went out to the byre, still with the baby in her arms,
and saw Sanders Elshioner sitting gloomily on the pigsty.
"Weel, Bell," said Sanders.
"I thocht ye'd been at the kirk, Sanders," said Bell.
Then there was a silence between them.
"Has Sam'l spiered ye, Bell?" asked Sanders, stolidly.
"Ay," said Bell again, and this time there was a tear in her eye.
Sanders was little better than an "orra man," and Sam'l was a weaver,
and yet---- But it was too late now. Sanders gave the pig a vicious
poke with a stick, and when it had ceased to grunt, Bell was back in
the kitchen. She had forgotten about the milk, however, and Sam'l only
got water after all.
In after days, when the story of Bell's wooing was told, there were
some who held that the circumstances would have almost justified the
lassie in giving Sam'l the go-by. But these perhaps forgot that her
other lover was in the same predicament as the accepted one--that of
the two, indeed, he was the more to blame, for he set off to T'nowhead
on the Sabbath of his own accord, while Sam'l only ran after him. And
then there is no one to say for certain whether Bell heard of her
suitors' delinquencies until Lisbeth's return from the kirk. Sam'l
could never remember whether he told her, and Bell was not sure
whether, if he did, she took it in. Sanders was greatly in demand for
weeks after to tell what he knew of the affair, but though he was twice
asked to tea to the manse among the trees, and subjected thereafter to
ministerial cross-examinations, this is all he told. He remained at
the pigsty until Sam'l left the farm, when he joined him at the top of
the brae, and they went home together.
"It's yersel, Sanders," said Sam'l.
"It is so, Sam'l," said Sanders.
"Very cauld," said Sam'l.
"Blawy," assented Sanders.
After a pause--
"Sam'l," said Sanders.
"Ay."
"I'm hearin' yer to be mairit."
"Ay."
"Weel, Sam'l, she's a snod bit lassie."
"Thank ye," said Sam'l.
"I had ance a kin' o' notion o' Bell mysel," continued Sanders.
"Ye had?"
"Yes, Sam'l; but I thocht better o't."
"Hoo d'ye mean?" asked Sam'l, a little anxiously.
"Weel, Sam'l, mairitch is a terrible responsibeelity."
"It is so," said Sam'l, wincing.
"An' no the thing to tak up withoot conseederation."
"But it's a blessed and honourable state, Sanders; ye've heard the
minister on't."
"They say," continued the relentless Sanders, "'at the minister doesna
get on sair wi' the wife himsel."
"So they do," cried Sam'l, with a sinking at the heart.
"I've been telt," Sanders went on, "'at gin ye can get the upper han'
o' the wife for a while at first, there's the mair chance o' a
harmonious exeestence."
"Bell's no the lassie," said Sam'l, appealingly, "to thwart her man."
Sanders smiled.
"D' ye think she is, Sanders?"
"Weel, Sam'l, I d'na want to fluster ye, but she's been ower lang wi'
Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways. An a'body kins what a life
T'nowhead has wi' her."
"Guid sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o' this afore?"
"I thocht ye kent o't, Sam'l."
They had now reached the square, and the U. P. kirk was coming out.
The Auld Licht kirk would be half an hour yet.
"But, Sanders," said Sam'l, brightening up, "ye was on yer way to spier
her yersel."
"I was, Sam'l," said Sanders, "and I canna but be thankfu ye was ower
quick for's."
"Gin't hadna been you," said Sam'l, "I wid never hae thocht o't."
"I'm sayin' naething agin Bell," pursued the other, "but, man Sam'l, a
body should be mair deleeberate in a thing o' the kind."
"It was michty hurried," said Sam'l, woefully.
"It's a serious thing to spier a lassie," said Sanders.
"It's an awfu thing," said Sam'l.
"But we'll hope for the best," added Sanders, in a hopeless voice.
They were close to the Tenements now, and Sam'l looked as if he were on
his way to be hanged.
"Sam'l?"
"Ay, Sanders."
"Did ye--did ye kiss her, Sam'l?"
"Na."
"Hoo?"
"There's was varra little time, Sanders."
"Half an 'oor," said Sanders.
"Was there? Man Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never thocht o't."
Then the soul of Sanders Elshioner was filled with contempt for Sam'l
Dickie.
The scandal blew over. At first it was expected that the minister
would interfere to prevent the union, but beyond intimating from the
pulpit that the souls of Sabbath-breakers were beyond praying for, and
then praying for Sam'l and Sanders at great length, with a word thrown
in for Bell, he let things take their course. Some said it was because
he was always frightened lest his young men should intermarry with
other denominations, but Sanders explained it differently to Sam'l.
"I hav'na a word to say agin the minister," he said; "they're gran'
prayers, but Sam'l, he's a mairit man himsel."
"He's a' the better for that, Sanders, is'na he?"
"Do ye no see," asked Sanders, compassionately, "'at he's tryin' to mak
the best o't?"
"Oh, Sanders, man!" said Sam'l.
"Cheer up, Sam'l," said Sanders, "it'll sune be ower."
Their having been rival suitors had not interfered with their
friendship. On the contrary, while they had hitherto been mere
acquaintances, they became inseparables as the wedding-day drew near.
It was noticed that they had much to say to each other, and that when
they could not get a room to themselves they wandered about together in
the churchyard. When Sam'l had anything to tell Bell he sent Sanders
to tell it, and Sanders did as he was bid. There was nothing that he
would not have done for Sam'l.
The more obliging Sanders was, however, the sadder Sam'l grew. He
never laughed now on Saturdays, and sometimes his loom was silent half
the day. Sam'l felt that Sanders's was the kindness of a friend for a
dying man.
It was to be a penny wedding, and Lisbeth Fargus said it was delicacy
that made Sam'l superintend the fitting-up of the barn by deputy. Once
he came to see it in person, but he looked so ill that Sanders had to
see him home. This was on the Thursday afternoon, and the wedding was
fixed for Friday.
"Sanders, Sanders," said Sam'l, in a voice strangely unlike his own,
"it'll a' be ower by this time the morn."
"It will," said Sanders.
"If I had only kent her langer," continued Sam'l.
"It wid hae been safer," said Sanders.
"Did ye see the yallow floor in Bell's bonnet?" asked the accepted
swain.
"Ay," said Sanders, reluctantly.
"I'm dootin'--I'm sair dootin' she's but a flichty, licht-hearted
crittur after a'."
"I had ay my suspeecions o't," said Sanders.
"Ye hae kent her langer than me," said Sam'l.
"Yes," said Sanders, "but there's nae gettin' at the heart o' women.
Man, Sam'l, they're desperate cunnin'."
"I'm dootin't; I'm sair dootin't."
"It'll be a warnin' to ye, Sam'l, no to be in sic a hurry i' the
futur," said Sanders.
Sam'l groaned.
"Ye'll be gaein up to the manse to arrange wi' the minister the morn's
mornin'," continued Sanders in a subdued voice.
Sam'l looked wistfully at his friend.
"I canna do't, Sanders," he said, "I canna do't."
"Ye maun," said Sanders.
"It's aisy to speak," retorted Sam'l, bitterly.
"We have a' oor troubles, Sam'l," said Sanders, soothingly, "an' every
man maun bear his ain burdens. Johnny Davie's wife's dead, an' he's no
repinin'."
"Ay," said Sam'l, "but a death's no a mairitch. We hae haen deaths in
our family too."
"It may a' be for the best," added Sanders, "an' there wid be a michty
talk i' the hale country-side gin ye didna ging to the minister like a
man."
"I maun hae langer to think o't," said Sam'l.
"Bell's mairitch is the morn," said Sanders, decisively.
Sam'l glanced up with a wild look in his eyes.
"Sanders," he cried.
"Sam'l?"
"Ye hae been a guid friend to me, Sanders, in this sair affliction."
"Nothing ava," said Sanders; "dount mention'd."
"But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin oot o' the kirk that
awfu' day was at the bottom o'd a'."
"It was so," said Sanders, bravely.
"An' ye used to be fond o' Bell, Sanders."
"I dinna deny't."
"Sanders, laddie," said Sam'l, bending forward and speaking in a
wheedling voice, "I aye thocht it was you she likeit."
"I had some sic idea mysel," said Sanders.
"Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited to ane
anither as you an' Bell."
"Canna ye, Sam'l?"
"She wid mak ye a guid wife, Sanders. I hae studied her weel, and
she's a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, there's no the like o'
her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said to mysel, There's a lass ony man
micht be prood to tak. A'body says the same, Sanders. There's nae
risk ava, man: nane to speak o'. Tak her, laddie, tak her, Sanders;
it's a grand chance, Sanders. She's yours for the spierin. I'll gie
her up, Sanders."
"Will ye, though?" said Sanders.
"What d'ye think?" asked Sam'l.
"If ye wid rayther," said Sanders, politely.
"There's my han' on't," said Sam'l. "Bless ye, Sanders; ye've been a
true frien' to me."
Then they shook hands for the first time in their lives; and soon
afterwards Sanders struck up the brae to T'nowhead.
Next morning Sanders Elshioner, who had been very busy the night
before, put on his Sabbath clothes and strolled up to the manse.
"But--but where is Sam'l?" asked the minister; "I must see himself."
"It's a new arrangement," said Sanders.
"What do you mean, Sanders?"
"Bell's to marry me," explained Sanders.
"But--but what does Sam'l say?"
"He's willin'," said Sanders.
"And Bell?"
"She's willin', too. She prefers't."
"It is unusual," said the minister.
"It's a' richt," said Sanders.
"Well, you know best," said the minister.
"You see the hoose was taen, at ony rate," continued Sanders. "An I'll
juist ging in til't instead o' Sam'l."
"Quite so."
"An' I cudna think to disappoint the lassie."
"Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders," said the minister; "but I
hope you do not enter upon the blessed state of matrimony without full
consideration of its responsibilities. It is a serious business,
marriage."
"It's a' that," said Sanders, "but I'm willin' to stan' the risk."
So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took to wife
T'nowhead's Bell, and I remember seeing Sam'l Dickie trying to dance at
the penny wedding.
Years afterwards it was said in Thrums that Sam'l had treated Bell
badly, but he was never sure about it himself.
"It was a near thing--a michty near thing," he admitted in the square.
"They say," some other weaver would remark, "'at it was you Bell liked
best."
"I d'na kin," Sam'l would reply, "but there's nae doot the lassie was
fell fond o' me. Ou, a mere passin' fancy's ye micht say."