THE CUTTLE FISH AND THE CRAB.
Although the better portion of the original assembly had forsaken the
Baillies’ Barn, there was still a regular gathering in it as before,
and if possible even a greater manifestation of zeal for the conversion
of sinners. True, it might not be clear to an outsider that they always
made a difference between being converted and joining their company, so
ready were they to mix up the two in their utterances; and the results
of what they counted conversion were sometimes such as the opponents
of their proceedings would have had them: the arrogant became yet more
arrogant, and the greedy more greedy; the tongues of the talkative went
yet faster, and the gad-abouts were yet seldomer at home, while there
was such a superabundance of private judgment that it overflowed the
cisterns of their own concerns, and invaded the walled gardens of other
people’s motives: yet, notwithstanding, the good people got good, if
the other sort got evil; for the meek shall inherit the earth, even
when the priest ascends the throne of Augustus. No worst thing ever
done in the name of Christianity, no vilest corruption of the Church,
can destroy the eternal fact that the core of it is in the heart of
Jesus. Branches innumerable may have to be lopped off and cast into the
fire, yet the word _I am the vine_ remaineth.
The demagogues had gloried in the expulsion of such men as Jeames
Gentle and Blue Peter, and were soon rejoiced by the return of
Bow-o’-meal--after a season of backsliding to the fleshpots of Egypt,
as they called the services of the parish church--to the bosom of
the Barn, where he soon was again one of the chief amongst them.
Meantime the circles of their emanating influence continued to
spread, until at length they reached the lower classes of the upper
town, of whom a few began to go to Barn. Amongst them, for reasons
best known to herself, though they might be surmised by such
as really knew her, was Mrs Catanach. I do not know that she ever
professed repentance and conversion, but for a while she attended
pretty often. Possibly business considerations had something to do
with it. Assuredly the young preacher, though he still continued
to exhort, did so with failing strength, and it was plain to see
that he was going rapidly: the exercise of the second of her twin
callings might be required. She could not, however, have been drawn
by any large expectations as to the honorarium. Still, she would
gain what she prized even more--a position for the moment at the
heart of affairs, with its excelling chances of hearing and overhearing.
Never had lover of old books half the delight in fitting together
a rare volume from scattered portions picked up in his travels,
than Mrs Catanach found in vitalizing stray remarks, arranging odds
and ends of news, and cementing the many fragments, with the help
of the babblings of gossip, into a plausible whole; intellectually
considered, her special pursuit was inasmuch the nobler as the
faculties it brought into exercise were more delicate and various;
and if her devotion to the minutiæ of biography had no high end
in view, it never caused her to lose sight of what ends she had,
by involving her in opinions, prejudices, or disputes: however she
might break out at times, her general policy was to avoid quarrelling.
There was a strong natural antagonism between her and the Partaness,
but she had never shown the least dislike to her, and that although
Mrs Findlay had never lost an opportunity of manifesting hers to
the midwife. Indeed, having gained a pretext by her ministrations
to Lizzy when overcome by the suggestions of the dog-sermon, Mrs
Catanach had assayed an approach to her mother, and not without
success. After the discovery of the physical cause of Lizzy’s
ailment, however, Mrs Findlay had sought, by might of rude resolve, to
break loose from the encroaching acquaintanceship, but had found,
as yet, that the hard-shelled crab was not a match for the glutinous
cuttlefish.
On the evening of the Sunday following the events related in the
last chapter, Mrs Catanach had, not without difficulty, persuaded
Mrs Findlay to accompany her to the Baillies’ Barn, with the
promise of a wonderful sermon from a new preacher--a ploughman
on an inland farm. That she had an object in desiring her company
that night, may seem probable from the conversation which arose as
they plodded their way thither along the sands.
“I h’ard a queer tale aboot Meg Horn at Duff Harbour the ither
day,” said the midwife, speaking thus disrespectfully both to ease
her own heart and to call forth the feelings of her companion, who
also, she knew, disliked Miss Horn.
“Ay! an’ what micht that be?”
“But she’s maybe a freen’ o’ yours, Mrs Findlay? Some fowk likes
her, though I canna say I’m ane o’ them.”
“Freen’ o’ mine!” exclaimed the Partaness. “We gree like twa bills
(_bulls_) i’ the same park!”
“I wadna wonner!--for they tellt me ’at saw her fechtin’ i’ the
High Street wi’ a muckle loon, near-han’ as big ’s hersel’! an’
haith, but Meg had the best o’ ’t, an’ flang him intill the gutter,
an’ maist fellt him! An’ that’s Meg Horn!”
“She had been at the drink! But I never h’ard it laid till her
afore.”
“Didna ye than? Weel, I’m no sayin’ onything--that’s what I
h’ard.”
“Ow, it’s like eneuch! She was bulliraggin’ at me nae langer ago
nor thestreen; but I doobt I sent her awa’ wi’ a flech (_flea_) in
her lug!”
“Whaten a craw had she to pluck wi’ _you_, no?”
“Ow fegs! ye wad hae ta’en her for a thief-catcher, and me for the
thief! She wad threpe (_insist_) ’at I bude to hae keepit some o’
the duds ’at happit Ma’colm MacPhail the reprobat, whan first he
cam to the Seaton--a puir scraichin’ brat, as reid ’s a bilet
lobster. Wae’s me ’at ever he was creatit! It jist drives me horn-daft
to think ’at ever he got the breast o’ me. ’At _he_ sud sair
(_serve_) me sae! But I s’ hae a grip o’ ’im yet, or my name’s no
--what they ca’ me.”
“It’s the w’y o’ the warl’, Mistress Findlay. What cud ye expec’
o’ ane born in sin an’ broucht furth in ineequity?”--a stock
phrase of Mrs Catanach’s, glancing at her profession, and embracing
nearly the whole of her belief.
“It’s a true word. The mair’s the peety he sud hae hed the milk
o’ an honest wuman upo’ the tap o’ that!”
“But what cud the auld runt be efter? What was _her_ business wi’
’t? _She_ never did onything for the bairn.”
“Na, no _she_! She never had the chance, guid or ill--Ow! doobtless
it wad be anent what they ca’ the eedentryfeein’ o’ ’im to the
leddy o’ Gersefell. _She_ had sent her. She micht hae waled (_chosen_)
a mair welcome messenger, an’ sent her a better eeran! But she made
little o’ me.”
“_Ye_ had naething o’ the kin’, I s’ wad.”
“Never a threid. There _was_ a twal-hunner shift upo’ the bairn,
rowt roon ’im like deid-claes:--gien ’t had been but the Lord’s
wull! It gart me wonner at the time, for that wasna hoo a bairn
’at had been caret for sud be cled.”
“Was there name or mark upo’ ’t?” asked cuttlefish.
“Nane; there was but the place whaur the reid ingrain had been
pykit oot,” answered crab.
“An what cam o’ the shift?”
“Ow, I jist made it doon for a bit sark to the bairn whan he grew
to be rinnin’ aboot. ’At ever I sud hae ta’en steik in claith for
sic a deil’s buckie! To _me_ ’at was a mither till ’im! The Lord
haud me ohn gane mad whan I think o’ ’t!”
“An’ syne for Lizzy!--” began Mrs Catanach, prefacing fresh remark.
But at her name the mother flew into such a rage that, fearful of
scandal, seeing it was the Sabbath and they were on their way to
public worship, her companion would have exerted all her powers of
oiliest persuasion to appease her. But if there was one thing Mrs
Catanach did not understand, it was the heart of a mother.
“Hoots, Mistress Findlay! Fowk’ll hear ye. Haud yer tongue, I beg.
She may dee i’ the strae for me. I s’ never put han’ to the savin’
o’ her, or her bairn aither,” said the midwife, thinking thus to
pacify her.
Then, like the eruption following mere volcanic unrest, out brake
the sore-hearted woman’s wrath. And now at length the crustacean
was too much for the mollusk. She raved and scolded and abused Mrs
Catanach, till at last she was driven to that final resource--the
airs of an injured woman. She turned and walked back to the upper
town, while Mrs Findlay went on to take what share she might in
the worship of the congregation.
Mrs Mair had that evening gone once more to the Baillies’ Barn in
her husband’s absence; for the words of unbelief he had uttered
in the Job-like agony of his soul, had haunted the heart of his
spouse, until she too felt as if she could hardly believe in a God.
Few know what a poor thing their faith is till the trial comes.
And in the weakness consequent on protracted suffering, she had
begun to fancy that the loss of Phemy was a punishment upon them
for deserting the conventicle. Also the schoolmaster was under an
interdict, and that looked like a judgment too! She _must_ find some
prop for the faith that was now shaking like a reed in the wind.
So to the Baillies’ Barn she had gone.
The tempest which had convulsed Mrs Findlay’s atmosphere, had
swept its vapours with it as it passed away; and when she entered
the cavern, it was with an unwonted inclination to be friendly all
round. As fate would have it, she unwittingly took her place by
Mrs Mair, whom she had not seen since she gave Lizzy shelter. When
she discovered who her neighbour was, she started away, and stared;
but she had had enough of quarrelling for the evening, and besides
had not had time to bar her door against the angel Pity, who suddenly
stepped across the threshhold of her heart with the sight of Mrs
Mair’s pale thin cheeks and tear-reddened eyes. As suddenly, however,
an indwelling demon of her own house, whose name was Envy, arose
from the ashes of her hearth to meet the white-robed visitant:
Phemy, poor little harmless thing, was safe enough! who would harm
a hair of her? but Lizzy! And this woman had taken in the fugitive
from honest chastisement! She would yet have sought another seat
but the congregation rose to sing; and her neighbour’s offer of
the use in common of her psalm-book, was enough to quiet for the
moment the gaseous brain of the turbulent woman. She accepted the
kindness, and, the singing over, did not refuse to look on the same
holy page with her daughter’s friend, while the ploughman read,
with fitting simplicity, the parable of the Prodigal Son. It touched
something in both, but a different something in each. Strange to
say, neither applied it to her own case, but each to her neighbour’s.
As the reader uttered the words “was lost and is found” and ceased,
each turned to the other with a whisper. Mrs Mair persisted in
hers; and the other, which was odd enough, yielded and listened.
“Wad the tale haud wi’ lassies as weel ’s laddies, Mistress Findlay,
div ye think?” said Mrs Mair.
“Ow, surely!” was the response; “it maun du that. There’s no respec’
o’ persons wi’ _him_. There’s no a doobt but yer Phemy ’ill come
hame to ye safe an’ soon’.”
“I was thinkin’ aboot Lizzy,” said the other, a little astonished;
and then the prayer began, and they had to be silent.
The sermon of the ploughman was both dull and sensible,--an
excellent variety where few of the sermons were either; but it made
little impression on Mrs Findlay or Mrs Mair.
As they left the cave together in the crowd of issuing worshippers,
Mrs Mair whispered again:
“I wad invete ye ower, but ye wad be wantin’ Lizzy hame, an’ I can
ill spare the comfort o’ her the noo,” she said, with the cunning
of a dove.
“An’ what comes o’ _me_?” rejoined Mrs Findlay, her claws out in a
moment where her personal consequence was touched.
“Ye wadna surely tak her frae me a’ at ance!” pleaded Mrs Mair.
“Ye micht lat her bide--jist till Phemy comes hame; an’ syne----”
But there she broke down; and the tempest of sobs that followed quite
overcame the heart of Mrs Findlay. She was, in truth, a woman like
another; only being of the crustacean order, she had not yet swallowed
her skeleton, as all of us have to do more or less, sooner or later,
the idea of that scaffolding being that it should be out of sight.
With the best commonplaces at her command she sought to comfort her
companion; walked with her to the foot of the red path; found her much
more to her mind than Mrs Catanach: seemed inclined to go with her all
the way, but suddenly stopped, bade her good-night, and left her.