IT is another mercy, too, that in our age we learn to make the best of
what aforetime might be ill to thole, as Bell made fine new garments
out of old ones faded by turning them outside in and adding frills and
flounces. Bud's absence early ceased to be deplorable, since it wakened
cheerful expectations not to be experienced had she stayed at home, gave
rise to countless fond contrivances for her happiness in exile, and two
or three times a year to periods of bliss, when her vacations gave
the house of Dyce the very flower of ecstasy. Her weekly letters of
themselves were almost compensation for her absence. On the days of
their arrival Peter the post would come blithely whistling with his M.C.
step to the lawyer's kitchen window before he went to the castle itself,
defying all routine and the laws of the postmaster-general, for he knew
Miss Dyce would be waiting feverishly, having likely dreamed the night
before of happy things that--dreams going by contraries, as we all of us
know in Scotland--might portend the most dreadful tidings.
Bud's envelope was always on the top of his budget. For the sake of it
alone (it sometimes seemed to Peter and those who got it) had the mail
come splashing through the night--the lawyer's big blue envelopes, as
it were, had got but a friendly lift through the courtesy of clerks in
Edinburgh, and the men on the railway train, and the lad who drove the
gig from Maryfield. What were big blue envelopes of the business world
compared with the modest little square of gray with Lennox Dyce's
writing on it?
“Here's the usual! Pretty thick to-day!” would Peter say, with a smack
of satisfaction on the window-sash. Ah, those happy Saturdays! Everybody
knew about them. “And how's hersel'?” the bell-ringer would ask in the
by-going, not altogether because his kindly interest led to an eye
less strict on his lazy moods in the garden. One Fair day, when Maggie
White's was irresistible, it rang so merrily with drovers, and he lost
the place again, he stopped the lawyer on the street to ask him what
Miss Lennox thought of all this argument about the Churches, seeing she
was in the thick of it in Edinburgh.
“Never you mind the argument, Will,” said Daniel Dyce, “you do your duty
by the auld kirk bell; and as for the Free folk's quarrelling, amang
them be't!”
“But can you tell me, Mr. D-D-Dyce,” said Wanton Wully, with as much
assurance as if he was prepared to pay by the Table of Fees, “what's the
difference between the U.F.'s and the Frees? I've looked at it from
every point, and I canna see it.”
“Come and ask me some day when you're sober,” said the lawyer, and
Wanton Wully snorted.
“If I was sober,” said he, “I wouldna want to ken--I wouldna give a
curse.”
Yet each time Bud came home she seemed, to the mind of her auntie Bell,
a little further off from them--a great deal older, a great deal
less dependent, making for womanhood in a manner that sometimes was
astounding, as when sober issues touched her, set her thinking, made her
talk in fiery ardors. Aunt Ailie gloried in that rapid growth; Aunt Bell
lamented, and spoke of brains overtaxed and fevered, and studies that
were dangerous. She made up her mind a score of times to go herself to
Edinburgh and give a warning to the teachers; but the weeks passed, and
the months, and by-and-by the years, till almost three were gone, and
the Edinburgh part of Lennox's education was drawing to a close, and the
warning visit was still to pay.
It was then, one Easter came. The Macintosh.
Bell and Ailie were out that afternoon for their daily walk in the woods
or along the shore, when Mr. Dyce returned from the sheriff's court
alert and buoyant, feeling much refreshed at the close of an encounter
with a lawyer who, he used to say, was better at debating than himself,
having more law-books in his possession and a louder voice. Letting
himself in with his pass-key, he entered the parlor, and was astonished
to find a stranger, who rose at his approach and revealed a figure
singular though not unpleasing. There was something ludicrous in her
manner as she moved a step or two from the chair in which she had
been sitting. Small, and silver-gray in the hair, with a cheek that
burned--it must be with embarrassment--between a rather sallow neck
and sunken temples, and wearing smoked spectacles with rims of
tortoiseshell, she would have attracted attention anywhere even if her
dress had been less queer. Queer it was, but in what manner Daniel Dyce
was not the person to distinguish. To him there was about it nothing
definitely peculiar, except that the woman wore a crinoline, a Paisley
shawl of silken white, and such a bonnet as he had not seen since
Grandma Buntain's time.
“Be seated, ma'am,” said he. “I did not know I had the honor of a
visitor,” and he gave a second, keener glance that swept the baffling
figure from the flounced green poplin to the snow-white lappet of her
bonnet. A lady certainly--that was in the atmosphere, however odd might
be her dress. “Where, in the world has this one dropped from?” he asked
himself and waited an explanation.
“Oh, Mr. Dyce!” said the lady, in a high, shrill voice that plainly told
she never came from south of the border, and with a certain trepidation
in her manner, “I'm feared I come at an inconvenient time to ye, and I
maybe should hae bided at your office; but they tell't me ye were out at
what they ca'd a Pleading Diet. I've come about my mairrage.”
“Your marriage!” said the lawyer, scarcely hiding his surprise.
“Yes, my mairrage!” she repeated, sharply, drawing the silken shawl
about her shoulders, bridling. “There's naething droll, I hope and trust,
in a maiden lady ca'in' on a writer for his help about her settlements!”
“Not at all--not at all, ma'am,” said Daniel Dyce. “I'm honored in your
confidence.” And he pushed his spectacles up on his brow that he might
see her less distinctly and have the less inclination to laugh at such
an eccentric figure.
She broke into a torrent of explanation. “Ye must excuse me, Mr. Dyce,
if I'm put about and gey confused, for it's little I'm acquent wi'
lawyers. A' my days I've heard o' naething but their quirks, for they
maistly rookit my grandfaither. And I cam' wi' the coach frae Maryfield,
and my heart's in a palpitation wi' sic brienging and bangin' ower
heughs and hills--” She placed a mittened hand on a much-laced stomacher
and sighed profoundly.
“Perhaps--perhaps a glass of wine--” began the lawyer, with his eye on
the bell-pull and a notion in his head that wine and a little seed-cake
someway went with crinolines and the age of the Paisley shawl.
“No, no!” she cried, extravagantly. “I never lip it; I'm--I'm in the
Band o' Hope.”
The lawyer started, and scanned her again through his glasses with a
genial, chuckling crow. “So's most maiden ladies, ma'am,” said he. “I'm
glad to congratulate you on your hopes being realized.”
“It remains to be seen,” said the visitor. “Gude kens what may be the
upshot. The maist deleeberate mairrage maun be aye a lottery, as my
auntie Grizel o' the Whinhill used to say; and I canna plead that mine's
deleeberate, for the man just took a violent fancy the very first nicht
he set his een on me, fell whummlin' at my feet, and wasna to be put
aff wi' 'No' or 'Maybe.' We're a puir, weak sex, Mr. Dyce, and men's sae
domineerin'!”
She ogled him through her clouded glasses; her arch smile showed a
blemish of two front teeth a-missing. He gave a nod of sympathy, and
she was off again. “And to let ye ken the outs and ins o't, Mr. Dyce,
there's a bit o' land near Perth that's a' that's left o' a braw estate
my forebears squandered in the Darien. What I want to ken is, if I winna
could hinder him that's my _fiancé_ frae dicin' or drinkin' 't awa' ance
he got me mairried to him? I wad be sair vexed at ony such calamity,
for my family hae aye been barons.”
“Ance a baron aye a baron,” said the lawyer, dropping into her own broad
Scots.
“Yes, Mr. Dyce, that's a' very fine; but baron or baroness, if there's
sic a thing, 's no great figure wantin' a bit o' grun to gang wi' the
title; and John Cleghorn--that's my intended's name--has been a gey
throughither chiel in his time by a' reports, and I doubt wi' men it's
the aulder the waur.”
“I hope in this case it 'll be the aulder the wiser, Miss--” said the
lawyer, and hung unheeded on the note of interrogation.
“I'll run nae risks if I can help it,” said the lady, emphatically;
“and I'll no' put my trust in the Edinburgh lawyers, either; they're a'
tarred wi' the a'e stick, or I sair misjudge them. But I'm veesitin' a
cousin ower by at Maryfield, and I'm tell't there's no' a man that's
mair dependable in a' the shire than yoursel', so I just cam' ower ains
errand for a consultation. Oh, that unco' coach! the warld's gane wud,
Mr. Dyce, wi' hurry and stramash, and Scotland's never been the same
since--But there! I'm awa' frae my story; if it's the Lord's will that
I'm to marry Johnny Cleghom, what comes o' Kaims? Will he be owner o't?”
“Certainly not, ma'am,” said Mr. Dyce, with a gravity well preserved
considering his inward feelings. “Even before the Married Women's
Property Act, his _jus mariti_, as we ca' it, gave him only his wife's
personal and movable estate. There is no such thing as _communio
bonorum_--as communion of goods--between husband and wife in Scotland.”
“And he canna sell Kaims on me?”
“No; it's yours and your assigns _ad perpetuam remanentiam_, being feudal
right.”
“I wish ye wad speak in honest English, like mysel', Mr. Dyce,” said
the lady, sharply. “I've forgotten a' my Laiten, and the very sound o't
gars my heid bizz. I doubt it's the lawyer's way o' gettin' round puir,
helpless bodies.”
“It's scarcely that,” said Mr. Dyce, laughing. “It's the only chance
we get to air auld Mr. Trayner, and it's thought to be imposin'. _Ad
perpetuam remanentiam_ just means to remain forever.”
“I thocht that maybe John might hae the poo'er to treat Kaims as my
tocher.”
“Even if he had,” said Mr. Dyce, “a _dot_, or _dos_, or tocher, in the
honest law of Scotland, was never the price o' the husband's hand; he
could only use the fruits o't. He is not entitled to dispose of it, and
must restore it intact if unhappily the marriage should at any time be
dissolved.”
“Dissolved!” cried the lady. “Fegs! ye're in an awfu' hurry, and the
ring no' bought yet. Supposin' I was deein' first?”
“In that case I presume that you would have the succession settled on
your husband.”
“On Johnny Cleghom! Catch me! There's sic a thing as--as--as bairns, Mr.
Dyce,” and the lady simpered coyly, while the lawyer rose hurriedly to
fumble with some books and hide his confusion at such a wild conjecture.
He was relieved by the entrance of Bell and Ailie, who stood amazed at
the sight of the odd and unexpected visitor.
“My sisters,” said the lawyer, hastily. “Miss--Miss--I did not catch the
name.”
“Miss Macintosh,” said the stranger, nervously, and Bell cried out,
immediately, “I was perfectly assured of it! Lennox has often spoken
of you, and I'm so glad to see you. I did not know you were in the
neighborhood.”
Ailie was delighted with so picturesque a figure. She could scarcely
keep her eyes off the many-flounced, expansive gown of poplin, the
stomacher, the ponderous ear-rings, the great cameo brooch, the long
lace mittens, the Paisley shawl, the neat poke bonnet, and the fresh
old face marred only by the spectacles and the gap where the teeth were
missing.
“I have just been consultin' Mr. Dyce on my comin' mairrage,” said The
Macintosh; and at this intelligence from a piece of such antiquity Miss
Bell's face betrayed so much astonishment that Dan and Ailie almost
forgot their good manners.
“Oh, if it's business--” said Bell, and rose to go; but The Macintosh
put a hand on her sleeve and stayed her.
“Ye needna fash to leave, Miss Dyce,” said she. “A' thing's settled.
It seems that Johnny Cleghom canna ca' a rig o' Kaims his ain when he
mairries me, and that was a' I cam' to see about. Oh, it's a
mischancy thing a mairrage, Miss Dyce; maist folk gang intill't
heels-ower-hurdies, but I'm in an awfu' swither, and havena a mither to
guide me.”
“Keep me!” said Miss Bell, out of all patience at such maidenly
apprehensions; “ye're surely auld enough to ken your ain mind. I hope
the guidman's worthy.”
“He's no' that ill--as men-folk gang,” said The Macintosh, resignedly.
“He's as fat's creish, and has a craighlin' cough, the body, and he's
faur frae bonny, and he hasna a bawbee o' his ain, and, sirs! what a
reputation! But a man's a man, Miss Dyce, and time's aye fleein'.”
At such a list of disabilities in a husband, the Dyces lost all sense of
the proprieties and broke into laughter, in which the lady joined them,
shaking in her armchair. Bell was the first to recover with a guilty
sense that this was very bad for Daniel's business. She straightened her
face, and was about to make apologies, when Footles bounded in at the
open door, to throw himself at the feet of The Macintosh and wave a
joyous tail. But he was not content there! In spite of her resistance he
must be in her lap, and then, for the first time, Bell and Ailie noticed
a familiar cadence in the stranger's laugh.
Dan rose and clapped her on the back. “Well done, Bud!” said he. “Ye had
us a'; but Footles wasna to be swindled wi' an auld wife's goon,” and he
gently drew the spectacles from the laughing eyes of his naughty niece.
“Oh, you rogue!”, cried Auntie Ailie.
“You wretch!” cried Auntie Bell. “I might have known your cantrips.
Where in the world did you get these clothes?”
Bud sailed across the room like a cutter yacht and put her arms about
her aunt's neck. “Didn't you know me?” she asked.
“How could I know you, dressed up like that? And your teeth--you imp!
they're blackened; and your neck--you jad! it's painted; and--oh,
lassie, lassie! Awa', awa'! the deil's ower grit wi' ye!”
“Didn't _you_ know me, Aunt Ailie?” asked Bud.
“Not in the least,” said Ailie, taking the droll old figure in her arms.
“Perhaps I might have known you if I didn't think it was to-morrow you
were coming.”
“It was to have been to-morrow; but the measles have broken out in
school, and I came a day earlier, and calculated I'd just hop in and
surprise you all. Didn't you guess, Uncle Dan?”
“Not at first,” said he. “I'll admit I was fairly deceived, but when
you talked about being in the Band of Hope I saw at a shot through The
Macintosh. I hope you liked my Latin, Bud.”