AN HONEST PLOT.
Ever since the visit of condolence with which the narrative of
these events opened, there had been a coolness between Mrs Mellis
and Miss Horn. Mr Mellis’s shop was directly opposite Miss Horn’s
house, and his wife’s parlour was over the shop, looking into
the street; hence the two neighbours could not but see each other
pretty often; beyond a stiff nod, however, no sign of smouldering
friendship had as yet broken out. Miss Horn was consequently a good
deal surprised when, having gone into the shop to buy some trifle,
Mr Mellis informed her, in all but a whisper, that his wife was
very anxious to see her alone for a moment, and begged her to have
the goodness to step up to the parlour. His customer gave a small
snort, betraying her first impulse to resentment, but her nobler
nature, which was never far from the surface, constrained her
compliance.
Mrs Mellis rose hurriedly when the plumb-line figure of her
neighbour appeared, ushered in by her husband, and received her with
a somewhat embarrassed _empressement_, arising from the consciousness
of good-will disturbed by the fear of imputed meddlesomeness. She
knew the inward justice of Miss Horn, however, and relied upon that,
even while she encouraged herself by waking up the ever present
conviction of her own superiority in the _petite morale_ of social
intercourse. Her general tendency indeed was to look down upon Miss
Horn: is it not usually the less that looks down on the greater?
I had almost said it must be, for that the less only _can_ look down;
but that would not hold absolutely in the kingdoms of this world,
while in the kingdom of heaven it is all looking up.
“Sit ye doon, Miss Horn,” she said; “it’s a lang time sin we had
a news thegither.”
Miss Horn seated herself with a begrudged acquiescence.
Had Mrs Mellis been more of a tactician, she would have dug a few
approaches ere she opened fire upon the fortress of her companion’s
fair-hearing: but instead of that, she at once discharged the imprudent
question--
“Was ye at hame last nicht, mem, atween the hoors o’ aucht an’
nine?”--a shot which instantly awoke in reply the whole battery of Miss
Horn’s indignation.
“Wha am I, to be speirt sic a queston! Wha but yersel’ wad hae daurt
it, Mistress Mellis?”
“Huly (_softly_), huly, Miss Horn!” expostulated her questioner. “I hae
nae wuss to pry intill ony secrets o’ yours, or--”
“Secrets!” shouted Miss Horn.
But her consciousness of good intent, and all but assurance of final
victory, upheld Mrs Mellis.
“--or Jean’s aither,” she went on, apparently regardless; “but I wad
fain be sure ye kent a’ aboot yer ain hoose ’at a body micht chance to
see frae the croon o’ the caus’ay (_middle of the street_).”
“The parlour-blind’s gane up crookit sin’ ever that thoomb-fingert
cratur, Watty Witherspail, made a new roller till ’t. Gien ’t be that
ye mean, Mistress Mellis,--”
“Hoots!” returned the other. “--Hoo far can ye lippen to that Jean o’
yours, mem?”
“Nae far’er nor the len’th o’ my nose, an’ the breid o’ my twa een,”
was the scornful answer.
Although, however, she thus manifested her resentment of Mrs Mellis’s
catechetical attempts in introducing her subject, Miss Horn had no
desire to prevent the free outcome of her approaching communication.
“In that case, I may speyk oot,” said Mrs Mellis.
“Use yer freedom.”
“Weel, I will. Ye was hardly oot o’ the hoose last nicht, afore --”
“Ye saw me gang oot?”
“Ay did I.”
“What gart ye speir than? What for sud a body come screwin’ up a
straucht stair--noo the face an’ noo the back o’ her?”
“Weel, I nott (_needed_) na hae speirt. But that’s naething to the
p’int.--Ye hadna been gane, as I was saying’, ower a five meenutes,
whan in cam a licht intill the bedroom neist the parlour, an’ Jean
appeart wi’ a can’le in her han’. There was nae licht i’ this room
but the licht o’ the fire, an’ no muckle o’ that, for ’twas maistly
peat, sae I saw her weel eneuch ohn been seen mysel’. She cam
straucht to the window, and drew doon the blind, but lost hersel’
a bit or she wad never hae set doon her can’le whaur it cuist a
shaidow o’ hersel’ an’ her doin’s upo’ the blind.”
“An’ what was ’t she was efter, the jaud?” cried Miss Horn, without
any attempt to conceal her growing interest.
“She made naething o’ ’t, whatever it was; for doon the street cam
the schuilmaister, an’ chappit at the door, an gaed in an’ waitit
till ye cam hame.”
“Weel!?” said Miss Horn.
But Mrs Mellis held her peace.
“Weel!!?” repeated Miss Horn.
“Weel,” returned Mrs Mellis, with a curious mixture of deference
and conscious sagacity in her tone, “a’ ’at I tak upo’ me to say
is--Think ye twise afore ye lippen to that Jean o’ yours.”
“I lippen naething till her! I wad as sune lippen to the dottle o’
a pipe amo’ dry strae. What saw ye, Mistress Mellis?”
“Ye needna speyk like that,” returned Mrs Mellis, for Miss Horn’s tone
was threatening: “I’m no Jean.”
“What saw ye?” repeated Miss Horn, more gently, but not less eagerly.
“Whause is that kist o’ mahogany drawers i’ that bedroom, gien I may
preshume ta spier?”
“Whause but mine?”
“They’re no Jean’s?”
“Jean’s!!”
“Ye micht hae latten her keep her bit duds i’ them, for onything I
kent!”
“Jean’s duds i’ my Grizel’s drawers! A lik’ly thing!”
“Hm! They war puir Miss Cam’ell’s, war they?”
“They war Grizell Cam’ell’s drawers as lang ’s she had use for ony;
but what for ye sud say _puir_ till her, I dinna ken, ’cep’ it be ’at
she’s gane whaur they haena muckle ’at needs layin’ in drawers. That’s
neither here nor there.--Div ye tell me ’at Jean was intromittin’ wi
thae drawers? They’re a’ lockit, ilk ane o’ them --an’ they’re guid
locks.”
“No ower guid to hae keyes to them--are they?”
“The keyes are i’ my pooch,” said Miss Horn, clapping her hand to
the skirt of her dress. “They’re aye i’ my pooch, though I haena
had the feelin’s to mak use o’ them sin’ she left me.”
“Are ye sure they war there last nicht, mem?”
Miss Horn seemed struck.
“I had on my black silk last nicht,” she answered vaguely, and was
here silent, pondering doubtfully.
“Weel, mem, jist ye put on yer black silk again the morn’s nicht,
an’ come ower aboot aucht o’clock; an’ ye’ll be able to jeedge by
her ongang whan ye’re no i’ the hoose, gien there be onything amiss
wi’ Jean. There canna be muckle ill dune yet--that’s a comfort!”
“What ill, by (_beyond_) meddlin’ wi’ what doesna concern her, cud
the wuman du?” said Miss Horn, with attempted confidence.
“_That_ ye sud ken best yersel’, mem. But Jean’s an awfu’ gossip,
an’ a lady like yer cousin micht hae left dockiments ahint her ’at
she wadna jist like to hear procleemt frae the hoose-tap. No ’at
_she_ ’ll ever hear onything mair, puir thing!”
“What mean ye?” cried Miss Horn, half frightened, half angry.
“Jist what I say--neither mair nor less,” returned Mrs Mellis.
“Miss Cam’ell may weel hae left letters for enstance, an’ hoo wad
they fare in Jean’s han’s?”
“Whan _I_ never had the hert to open her drawers!” exclaimed Miss
Horn, enraged at the very notion of the crime. “_I_ hae _nae_ feelin’s,
thank God for the furnishin’ o’ me!”
“I doobt Jean has her full share o’ a’ feelin’s belangin’ to fallen
human natur’,” said Mrs Mellis, with a slow horizontal oscillation
of the head. “But ye jist come an’ see wi’ yer ain een, an’ syne
jeedge for yersel’: it’s nae business o’ mine.”
“I’ll come the nicht, Mrs Mellis. Only lat it be atween ’s twa.”
“I can haud my tongue, mem,--that is, frae a’ but ane. Sae lang
’s merried fowk sleeps in ae bed, it’s ill to haud onything till
a body’s sel’.”
“Mr Mellis is a douce man, an’ I carena what he kens,” answered
Miss Horn.
She descended to the shop, and having bought bulk enough to account
to Jean for her lengthened stay, for she had beyond a doubt been
watching the door of the shop, she crossed the street, went up to
her parlour, and rang the bell. The same moment Jean’s head was
popped in at the door: she had her reasons for always answering
the bell like a bullet.
“Mem?” said Jean.
“Jean, I’m gaein’ oot the nicht. The minister oucht to be spoken
till aboot the schuilmaister, honest man. Tak the lantren wi’ ye
to the manse aboot ten o’clock. That’ll be time eneuch.”
“Verra weel, mem. But I’m thinkin’ there’s a mune the nicht.”
“Naething but the doup o’ ane, Jean. It’s no to ca’ a mune. It’s
a mercy we hae lantrens, an’ sic a sicht o’ cairds (_gipsies_) aboot.”
“Ay, lantren lats them see whaur ye are, an’ haud oot o’ yer gait,”
said Jean, who happened not to relish going out that night.
“Troth, wuman, ye’re richt there!” returned her mistress, with
cheerful assent. “The mair they see o’ ye, the less they’ll meddle
wi’ ye--caird or cadger. Haud ye the licht upo’ yer ain face,
lass, an’ there’s feow’ll hae the hert to luik again.”
“Haith, mem, there’s twa sic like o’ ’s!” returned Jean bitterly,
and bounced from the room.
“That’s true tu,” said her mistress--adding after the door was
shut, “It’s a peety we cudna haud on thegither.”
“I’m gaein’ noo, Jean,” she called into the kitchen as she crossed
the threshold at eight o’clock.
She turned towards the head of the street, in the direction of the
manse; but, out of the range of Jean’s vision, made a circuit, and
entered Mr Mellis’s house by the garden at the back.
In the parlour she found a supper prepared to celebrate the renewal
of old goodwill. The clear crystal on the table; the new loaf so
brown without and so white within; the rich, clear-complexioned
butter, undebased with a particle of salt; the self-satisfied hum
of the kettle in attendance for the guidman’s toddy; the bright
fire, the golden glow of the brass fender in its red light, and the
dish of boiled potatoes set down before it, under a snowy cloth;
the pink eggs, the yellow haddock, and the crimson strawberry jam;
all combined their influences--each with its private pleasure
wondrously heightened by the zest of a secret watch and the hope
of discomfitted mischief--to draw into a friendship what had
hitherto been but a somewhat insecure neighbourship. From below
came the sound of the shutters which Mr Mellis was putting up a
few minutes earlier than usual; and when presently they sat down
to the table, and, after prologue judged suitable, proceeded to
enjoy the good things before them, an outside observer would have
thought they had a pleasant evening, if not Time himself, by the
forelock.
But Miss Horn was uneasy. The thought of what Jean _might_ have
already discovered had haunted her all day long; for her reluctance
to open her cousin’s drawers had arisen mainly from the dread of
finding justified a certain painful suspicion which had haunted
the whole of her intercourse with Grizell Campbell--namely, that
the worm of a secret had been lying at the root of her life, the
cause of all her illness, and of her death at last. She had fought
with, out-argued, and banished the suspicion a thousand times while
she was with her, but evermore it had returned; and now since her
death, when again and again on the point of turning over her things,
she had been always deterred by the fear, not so much of finding
what would pain herself as of discovering what Grizell would not
wish her to know. Never was there a greater contrast between form
and reality, between person and being, between manner and nature,
than existed in Margaret Horn: the shell was rough, the kernel
absolute delicacy. Not for a moment had her suspicion altered her
behaviour to the gentle suffering creature towards whom she had
adopted the relation of an elder and stronger sister. To herself,
when most satisfied of the existence of a secret, she steadily
excused her cousin’s withholdment of confidence, on the ground of
her own lack of feelings: how could she unbosom herself to such as
she! And now the thought of eyes like Jean’s exploring Grizell’s
forsaken treasures, made her so indignant and restless that she
could hardly even pretend to enjoy her friend’s hospitality.
Mrs Mellis had so arranged the table and their places, that she and
her guest had only to lift their eyes to see the window of their
watch, while she punished her husband for the virile claim to greater
freedom from curiosity by seating him with his back to it, which
made him every now and then cast a fidgety look over his shoulder
--not greatly to the detriment of his supper, however. Their plan
was, to extinguish their own the moment Jean’s light should appear,
and so watch without the risk of counter-discovery.
“There she comes!” cried Mrs Mellis; and her husband and Miss Horn
made such haste to blow out the candle, that they knocked their
heads together, blew in each other’s face, and the first time missed
it. Jean approached the window with hers in her hand, and pulled
down the blind. But, alas, beyond the form of a close bent elbow
moving now and then across a corner of the white field, no shadow
appeared upon it!
Miss Horn rose.
“Sit doon, mem, sit doon; ye hae naething to gang upo’ yet,”
exclaimed Mr Mellis, who, being a bailie, was an authority.
“I can sit nae langer, Mr Mellis,” returned Miss Horn. “I hae
eneuch to gang upo’ as lang ’s I hae my ain flure aneth my feet:
the wuman has nae business there. I’ll jist slip across an’ gang
in, as quaiet as a sowl intill a body; but I s’ warran’ I s’ mak
a din afore I come oot again!”
With a grim diagonal nod she left the room.
Although it was now quite dark, she yet deemed it prudent to go by
the garden-gate into the back lane, and so cross the street lower
down. Opening her own door noiselessly, thanks to Jean, who kept
the lock well oiled for reasons of Mrs Catanach’s, she closed it
as silently, and, long-boned as she was, crept up the stair like
a cat. The light was shining from the room; the door was ajar. She
listened at it for a moment, and could distinguish nothing; then
fancying she heard the rustle of paper, could bear it no longer,
pushed the door open, and entered. There stood Jean, staring at
her with fear-blanched face, a deep top-drawer open before her,
and her hands full of things she was in the act of replacing. Her
terror culminated, and its spell broke in a shriek, when her mistress
sprang upon her like a tigress.
The watchers in the opposite house heard no cry, and only saw
a heave of two intermingled black shadows across the blind, after
which they neither heard nor saw anything more. The light went on
burning until its final struggle with the darkness began, when it
died with many a flickering throb. Unable at last to endure the
suspense, now growing to fear, any longer, they stole across the
street, opened the door, and went in. Over the kitchen-fire, like
an evil spirit of the squabby order, crouched Mrs Catanach, waiting
for Jean; no one else was to be found.
About ten o’clock the same evening, as Mr Graham sat by his peat
fire, some one lifted the latch of the outer door and knocked at
the inner. His invitation to enter was answered by the appearance
of Miss Horn, gaunt and grim as usual, but with more than the wonted
fire gleaming from the shadowy cavern of her bonnet. She made no
apology for the lateness of her visit, but seated herself at the
other side of the deal table, and laid upon it a paper parcel,
which she proceeded to open with much deliberation and suppressed
plenitude. Having at length untied the string with the long fingers
of a hand which, notwithstanding its evident strength, trembled so
as almost to defeat the attempt, she took from the parcel a packet
of old letters sealed with spangled wax, and pushed it across the
table to the schoolmaster, saying--
“Hae, Sandy Graham! Naebody but yersel’ has a richt to say what’s to
be dune wi’ _them_.”
He put out his hand and took them gently, with a look of sadness
but no surprise.
“Dinna think I hae been readin’ them, Sandy Graham. Na, na! I wad
read nae honest man’s letters, be they written to wha they micht.”
Mr Graham was silent.
“Ye’re a guid man, Sandy Graham,” Miss Horn resumed, “gien God ever
took the pains to mak ane. Dinna think onything atween you an’ her
wad hae brocht me at this time o’ nicht to disturb ye in yer ain
chaumer. Na, na! Whatever was atween you twa had an honest man intill
’t, an’ I wad hae taen my time to gie ye back yer dockiments. But
there’s some o’ anither mark here.”
As she spoke, she drew from the parcel a small cardboard box,
broken at the sides, and tied with a bit of tape. This she undid
and, turning the box upside down, tumbled its contents out on the
table before him.
“What mak ye o’ sic like as thae?” she said.
“Do you want me to----?” asked the schoolmaster with trembling voice.
“I jist div,” she answered.
They were a number of little notes--some of them but a word or
two, and signed with initials; others longer, and signed in full.
Mr Graham took up one of them reluctantly, and unfolded it softly.
He had hardly looked at it when he started and exclaimed,--
“God have mercy! What can be the date of this!”
There was no date to it. He held it in his hand for a minute, his
eyes fixed on the fire, and his features almost convulsed with his
efforts at composure; then laid it gently on the table, and said
but without turning his eyes to Miss Horn,--
“I cannot read this. You must not ask me. It refers doubtless to
the time when Miss Campbell was governess to Lady Annabel. I see
no end to be answered by _my_ reading one of these letters.”
“I daursay! Wha ever saw ’at wadna luik?” returned Miss Horn, with
a glance keen as an eagle’s into the thoughtful eyes of her friend.
“Why not do by the writer of these as you have done by me? Why not
take them to him?” suggested Mr Graham.
“That wad be but thoomb-fingert wark--to lat gang the en’ o’ yer
hank!” exclaimed Miss Horn.
“I do not understand you, ma’am.”
“Weel, I maun gar ye un’erstan’ me. There’s things whiles, Sandy
Graham, ’at’s no easy to speyk aboot--but I hae nae feelin’s,
an’ we’ll a’ be deid or lang, an’ that’s a comfort. Man ’at ye
are, ye’re the only human bein’ I wad open my moo’ till aboot this
maitter, an’ that’s ’cause ye lo’e the memory o’ my puir lassie,
Grizell Cam’ell.”
“It is not her memory, it is herself I love,” said the schoolmaster
with trembling voice. “Tell me what you please: you may trust me.”
“Gien I needit you to tell me that, I wad trust ye as I wad the
black dog wi’ butter!--Hearken, Sandy Graham.”
The result of her communication and their following conference
was, that she returned about midnight with a journey before her,
the object of which was to place the letters in the safe keeping
of a lawyer-friend in the neighbouring county town.
Long before she reached home, Mrs Catanach had left--not without
communication with her ally, in spite of a certain precaution
adopted by her mistress, the first thing the latter did when she
entered being to take the key of the cellar stairs from her pocket,
and release Jean, who issued crestfallen and miserable, and was
sternly dismissed to bed. The next day, however, for reasons of her
own, Miss Horn permitted her to resume her duties about the house
without remark, as if nothing had happened serious enough to render
further measures necessary.