friend, and, I hope, my future wife."
But, horror of horrors! who should be announced and ushered in but Mrs
and Miss Bourhill, the mother and daughter who had been such familiar
figures in his nightmare of the past. As the terrible significance
of this reappearance dawned upon him, it seemed to strike him to the
heart, and he fell back in a swoon.
When he recovered consciousness, he found himself propped up in an
easy chair, and saw four women standing round him in a state of silent
excitement. Miss Singleton, pale and pensive, was gazing intently
at him; the two Bourhills were staring at Miss Singleton with an
expression of indignant surprise; and his mother, full of keenest
anxiety, divided her attention between him and the others.
Miss Singleton broke the silence by saying--"I must go. We strangers
had better leave the invalid to quiet and the care of his mother."
"Thank you, my dear lady," said his mother, "for that sensible remark."
"But," said Miss Bourhill, "that remark does not apply to me, his
betrothed."
"Nor to me," added Mrs Bourhill, "his mother-in-law to be."
"Dear me," said Mrs Blair to Miss Bourhill, "you are married, you know.
We saw it in the papers."
"A mistake," replied Miss Bourhill, "a cousin of the same name, not me."
"But," pleaded Mrs Blair, "the engagement fell to the ground. The
correspondence stopped years ago."
"Malcolm's fault," replied Miss Bourhill quietly. "I wrote last."
"A promise," added Mrs Bourhill, "can't be broken but by the consent of
both parties. A bargain's a bargain."
These replies, curt and remorseless, sounded in the young minister's
ears like his death-knell, and he lay back in his chair and closed his
eyes in mute agony.
But Malcolm Blair, enfeebled though he was, was too brave to be
crushed at once. In a few days his mind had regained its strength,
and was calmly looking the difficulty in the face. He had, he saw,
just two alternatives. One was to hold himself bound by his blindfold
engagement, to marry Miss Bourhill, and so to blight his whole future
career: the other was to break his promise and bravely take the
consequences--a law suit, a public exposure of all his private affairs,
the payment of heavy damages, and the resignation of the position to
which he had just been appointed. The latter course was the one which
he was inclined to take. But before definitely deciding, he wrote to
Miss Singleton stating his resolution, and giving his reasons for it.
The engagement between him and Miss Bourhill, he argued, was made in a
moment of excitement, and when they were both young and thoughtless.
Any affection they might have had for each other was a mere fancy, and
very soon vanished. By a tacit agreement they ceased to write to each
other, and for years there had been no correspondence between them.
To go through the solemn and binding rite of marriage under these
circumstances would be to lay the crime of perjury upon their souls.
This argument seemed to Malcolm to be so unanswerable, that he felt
sure of the approval of Miss Singleton.
Great, therefore, was his surprise when he received a letter from
her expressing her deep regret that she could not approve of his
resolution. The exchange of the heart's affection, she said, between
a man and a woman was a serious and solemn engagement. It was often a
matter of life and death. Not only the happiness of the individuals
themselves, but the welfare of society might depend upon it. It was
really as binding as the marriage vow itself. No cooling of affection,
no temporary estrangement, nothing but infidelity could be a reason
for setting it aside. And as for his future happiness, he should not
despair. By the use of tender and assiduous sympathy he had succeeded
in rekindling healthy affection in many a degraded soul. Why should the
influence which had been so effectual in the slums of Coaltown fail at
his own fireside. Let him keep his promise like an honourable man and a
Christian. Let him do the right, and trust in God for the result.
When Malcolm Blair was reading this letter, he felt like a criminal
receiving sentence of death. Had anyone else than Miss Singleton
offered this opinion, he would have spurned it. But she was his
guardian angel, one who, in his belief, had never erred, and could
never err. Besides, if he did what she considered a dishonourable
action, he would forfeit her approval; and that was all the world to
him. He therefore felt himself bound to follow her advice, although
he broke his heart in doing it. He even forced himself to take up her
sanguine view of the future, and hoped that by kind and sympathetic
treatment, he would succeed in making Grace Bourhill into a useful
minister's wife.
Four years have elapsed--four momentous years. Mr and Mrs Blair are
seated at breakfast. He is wan and wasted, and stoops over his cup and
plate as he drinks his weak tea and eats his thin toast. She is stout,
red, and restless-eyed. A pervading air of discomfort is given to the
room by the dirty discoloured tablecloth, the disarranged furniture,
and the careless dress of the two occupants. The following is the
conversation which passes between them.
"There!" says she, tossing to her husband a letter which she has just
opened and glanced over, "there's Goodsir's, the grocer's account."
"Good heavens!" replied he, staring at it and turning pale.
"Don't swear."
"Sixty-four pounds seventeen and eightpence! and of that, thirty pounds
odd for wine! We must really do with less wine."
"You say _we_, meaning that I have consumed most of it. You grudge me
the glass of port which the doctor ordered."
"My dear! have I not often pressed you to take it?"
"You forget the wine you give away to your paupers."
"I can't see my poor sick fellow-creatures perishing without sharing
with them the best that I have."
"You smuggled two bottles away last night in your greatcoat pocket."
"Yes, and if I can save poor widow Slight to her young family, and
Robbie Stark to his distracted parents, my reward will be great."
"You forget, too, the bottles which you sent to your mother. She is the
greatest pauper of them all. She wanted to live here to sorn upon us;
but I soon sent her to the right about."
"My dear, is it kind, is it Christian-like to use such language?"
"You never send any to _my_ mother."
"Your mother is strong. Besides, you forget the yearly allowance that I
pay to her."
"If I do forget it, it's not for want of it being cast up to me. Why
don't you ask for a rise of stipend?"
"My dear, I could not, through sheer shame, do such a thing. My poor
people are severely taxed already to make up my salary. There's Sandy
Slack, with ten shillings a week and six children, giving one shilling
a month toward my maintenance. Upon my word, I'm ashamed to look the
poor man in the face."
"Why don't you look out for a better situation?"
"No, no, no! I could not go about like a hireling, offering myself to
the highest bidder. I would forfeit my own self-respect as well as the
respect of every one in my congregation."
"Much respect they have for you when they insult your wife as they do."
"No, no, not insult."
"You know they do. I'm sure (_shedding tears_) when I came here I tried
to do my duty as a minister's wife. I went among the poor and gave them
the benefit of my advice. And what was my reward? That man, Kinnell,
because I found fault with him for giving his children tea instead of
porridge, turned me to the door, and I became the laughing-stock of the
whole congregation."
"Unfortunately, your zeal carried you away. In dealing with these
people we must come down to their level, and look at things from their
point of view."
"Come down to their level, indeed! I should be sorry to do so. And
then the big folk of your congregation! You can't say that I did not
come down to their level. And what did I bring upon myself? One day at
afternoon tea at Lady Brockie's, I heard her friends, Mrs Soutar and
Mrs Stables, call her Sarah, and I followed suit. You should have seen
her face. She was never the same afterwards; and now she never invites
me along with you. I'm not good enough for your grand friends."
"My dear, we all receive slights. You should be like those who have
given themselves up to mission work. They look upon such slights as
part of the cross they have to bear."
"I know what you mean. You were about to say I should be like your
precious Miss Singleton. You are constantly casting her up."
"My dear! I never mentioned her name."
"That makes it all the more suspicious. You are constantly thinking of
her. Don't deny it. I tell you I _know_ it; and I know your ongoings
with her at Coaltown. Mr Murdoch told me. And I know that on the day of
your ordination you were waiting for her, in the manse here, to propose
to her, when I dropped in, in time to spoil the sport. Ha! ha! you
wonder how I found that out. Your mother let the cat out of the bag.
And you got a letter from her this morning. I detected the handwriting.
If there's nothing wrong, why do you hide it?"
"I did not hide it. I was just going to show it to you. There it is.
Read it."
"What? coming here to-day at eleven (_starting to her feet_); she
sha'n't come here. Not so long as _I_'m here. I'll tell the servant not
to let her in."
"I will certainly countermand that order."
"Then I'll go to the door myself and slam it in her face."
"And I will certainly take means to prevent you. Listen to me. I'm
speaking quite calmly. That venomous man, Murdoch, who told you about
the ongoings of Miss Singleton and myself, is a slanderer. Our whole
souls were in our mission work. Every word exchanged between us was
about it, and might have been published to the world. She comes here
to-day as a servant of God, interested in God's work, and I would be
a heartless, graceless coward if I allowed my door to be shut in her
face. Now let that be understood. Let that be understood."
Mr Blair sits waiting for a reply. His wife, however, preserves an
unusual silence, and sits staring into vacancy with a fixed look. He
does not like this, as it is so uncommon with her, and he anticipates a
stormy scene. But to his infinite surprise, when the door bell sounds,
she does not get up; and when Miss Singleton is ushered in, she rises
and shakes hands with her, and goes out of the room saying that she
will bring her a cup of tea. And then comes a scene which can never
cease to haunt his memory! He feels himself to be in a sort of trance,
seeing horrible deeds swiftly done before him, desiring to prevent
them, but utterly unable to do so. He and his visitor have scarcely
exchanged the usual inquiries regarding health, before he sees his
wife enter with a cup. He sees her give it to Miss Singleton; he sees
Miss Singleton receive it with a smile; before he can cry out to her,
"Don't drink it," he sees her take several sips; he sees her fall back
lifeless; he sees his wife throw her arms into the air with a demoniac
gesture of delight; and he sees and hears no more.
When he comes to his senses, he is conscious of the presence of several
people, and hears Sir Benjamin Brockie's voice, very much broken down
and full of tears. This hard, unsympathetic man, generally so replete
with narrow opinions, and so stubborn in maintaining them, is, by some
strong influence, quite softened. The flinty rock has been touched as
if by the prophet's rod, and the pure waters of Christian charity flow
forth.
"This excellent woman," he is saying, "has died a martyr. She had heard
of Mr Blair's unhappy married life, and she came over expressly to try
and put things right. She called upon me to see how the land lay, and
she thought that we had been lacking in sympathy towards Mrs Blair. All
that we want, she said, to regenerate mankind is enough of sympathy.
Sympathy is the great sanitary agent in the moral world. If applied
in large enough measure, it will neutralise every evil, and sweeten
the social atmosphere. She had great hopes that she would make all
right; and I believe that she would have succeeded had she not been so
suddenly cut off by the unfortunate woman whom she was trying to save.
I don't know how it was, but her own example seemed to be a mirror in
which other people saw how defective they were. For my own part, I felt
to-day, after seeing her, that I and my family, and the rest of the
congregation, had been remiss in our duty towards Mr and Mrs Blair; and
I hurried over to lose no time in atoning for my mistake."
The sight of the best and purest being whom he had ever known, murdered
before his eyes by the woman who bore his name, was never to be
forgotten by Malcolm Blair. It haunted his soul like a spectre, would
give him no rest, and wasted his strength away. For many weeks he lay
prostrate, hovering between life and death; and during his hours of
delirium, when his judgment no longer kept the door of his heart, his
feelings wandered forth at will, and those waiting at his bedside heard
him express repugnance for his wife, and call in agonising tones for a
glimpse of Julia Singleton's face. He recovered enough of strength to
be able to rise from his bed, but it was only to find himself alone
and helpless. His wife was a hopeless lunatic in a private asylum; his
aged mother, crushed by the misfortunes of her dear son, was dead; and
he felt himself called upon to resign his pleasant manse, and to retire
to the solitary lodging at Sandyriggs in which I knew him.
At first, he felt that his Divine Master had no more work for him, and
that all that remained for him was to lie down and die. But by and by
Milton's noble lines occurred to him:
"Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
And thus he waited patiently till Death, the remover of all burdens and
the solver of all difficulties, came to his release.
A ROMANCE OF THE HARVEST FIELD.
A large field of ripe wheat surrounded by a fringe of trees; a long
line of sun-brown reapers, of all ages and of both sexes, stretching
across the whole breadth of the field, and bending to their work; the
golden shocks falling before the gleaming sickles; and over all a warm
autumnal haze.
It is a great occasion, a sort of annual festival to which people have
flocked from every quarter of the country. There are solid-looking
Highlanders in garments rough-spun, and smelling of peat reek; canny
Aberdonians asking "far is't" and "far was't"; Edinburgh wives, with
tongues so slick and sharp that (to use a vulgar phrase) they could
almost "clip a clout"; well-favoured matrons and maidens from the
cottages round about; and chubby boys and girls who glean, or (as they
call it) "gather" among the stooks, making up their gatherings into
"singles." Even the infant is there, attended by his elder sister,
and kicking his heels as he lies on a couch of sheaves. There is a
feeling of hilarity in the air. The thought of the higher wages they
are earning, the prospect of scones and ale for lunch and dinner,
the sight of the abundant harvest they are reaping, the scent of the
aromatic herbs they are treading upon, and the glorious weather, all
combine to gladden their hearts and let loose their tongues. They talk,
they laugh, and they sing. And sometimes, in the superfluity of their
spirits and strength, they take to what is called "kemping," that is to
say, each _rig_ or company or division of shearers tries to get before
the others. In other words, there is a competition as to which band
will do the most work. Strange! will workers of the present day believe
this?
High above all the clamour is heard the voice of Peg Jackson, a
broad-beamed, brawny virago, who is known by the expressive name of
"The Bummer." She is one of that class who bring themselves into notice
by virtue of a loud and glib tongue, and a bold and brazen countenance.
In her remarks she is no respecter of persons. Her satire glances at
all sorts of game, from Dave, the herd boy, up to Mr Stocks, the
master. Many of her phrases also are very graphic; and, like burrs, are
prickly and apt to stick to the persons against whom they are cast.
This self-elected oracle is engaged in disposing of some local scandal
that has been brought up for her judgment, when she catches sight of
the farmer, along with a gentleman and several ladies, entering the
field.
"Oh," exclaims Peg, "there's Stocks himsel comin' to keep us at oor
wark; and he has brocht some friens wi' him to glower at us, jist as
if we were wild beasts in a show. My certie! a bonnie sicht we'll mak,
raxin' and sweatin' like pownies in a mill."
"But wha's thae wi' him," asked Kate Corby, a girl from the Nethergate
at Sandyriggs, who, after a few days' acquaintance, had become Peg's
admirer and toady.
"Tuts, lassie, whaur hae ye been cleckit that ye dinna ken that,"
replied Peg. "That thing in a white frock, and wi' a face made o'
skim-milk cheese, is Stocks's sister, Miss Tammy (Thomasina they ca'
her when they want to speak proper). And that lanky shaver, for a'
the warld like a pair o' tangs oot for a daunder, is her sweetheart,
young Tosh o' Lammert's Mill. That little black-e'ed cratur in a red
jacket is Miss Winnie Laverock, a veesitor from East the Coast. She's
as bonnie and lively as a robin, and is briskin' up, they say, to Mr
Stocks. But, my word, she'll no nab him withoot a warstle. Dae ye see
that cummer in black, for a' the warld like a howdie craw wi' a sair
gaby? That's Magdalen Jaap, the maister's cousin, but awfu' anxious to
be the maister's wife."
Miss Winnie Laverock, whose appearance and character have thus been
touched off by the irrepressible Peg, was the daughter of the minister
of Pitlochie. Her father was a man of great accomplishments and strong
character. Winnie was all that was left of his family; and it was his
ambition to teach her everything he knew. And most amply was he repaid
for his trouble. She had a merry heart, and a keen and active mind;
took an interest in everything; and mastered every subject. Ill-natured
people, it is true, sometimes said that "if she was quick to learn, she
was also quick to show off." But, as her father remarked, why should
her intelligence be kept to herself? If she was witty, how could she
help expressing her wit? She was a real gem, and it was her nature to
sparkle even amid the dullest surroundings. If there was a ray of light
to be got under the whole horizon, she was sure to catch it and reflect
it.
As they entered the harvest field, Winnie was in high spirits and
full talk. "How delightful this is," she said. "What a glow from the
hawthorn hedges and from the ripe grain! I actually feel myself getting
warmer and brighter every minute."
"Not brighter," said Mr Stocks, "that would not be possible."
"No irony, Mr Stocks!" she replied. "But here comes Collie to welcome
us and do the honours of the field."
"Collie," said Mr Stocks, "is an important personage here. He fancies
that he is superintending the shearers."
"Superintending the universe, I should say," replied Miss Laverock,
"judging from the way he looks above and around. Controlling the laws
of gravity! In fact, he is gravity itself. But, Mr Tosh! why does he
put out his tongue, as he stands staring at you?"
"Bad manners, I suppose," said Mr Tosh.
"No," replied Miss Laverock, "he takes you for the family doctor, and
wants you to prescribe."
"Then," said Mr Tosh, "I shall prescribe a little more _bark_."
"Oh, Mr Tosh!" said Miss Laverock. "But what a delightful scene this
is! The sight of the shearers with their bright faces and strong arms,
the clatter of their sickles, and the rustle of the falling corn, have
a strange effect upon me. I feel inclined to share their work. Such is
the influence of good example."
"It's like the measles, infectious," said Mr Stocks.
"Or like the moral leaven," replied Miss Laverock, "which leaveneth
the whole lump. But I am really ashamed to stand idle before all these
industrious people. They must have a low opinion of us. Look at the
glances which that stout woman in the striped shortgown is casting
at us! She evidently pities me as a poor feckless idler, and thanks
Providence that she has got a pair of strong arms and plenty of honest
work to do."
"That's Peg Jackson," said Mr Stocks, "the randy of the parish; and I
don't think that she is much given to thank Providence for anything."
"Oh," said Miss Laverock, "I don't know. I should say that she belongs
to the sect of the muscular Christians. And she really looks a good all
round woman."
"She goes by the nickname of The Bummer," explained Mr Stocks.
"That means the Queen Bee," said Miss Laverock; "and a very appropriate
name, for she has got a fine swarm of busy bees around her. But look
at that big black man in tattered attire! What an illustration of
Shakespeare's phrase, 'looped and windowed raggedness.'"
"Yes," remarked Mr Stocks. "In one way at least he attends to
ventilation."
"But," exclaimed Mr Tosh, "what a villainous look he has! That means
murder, robbery, and all the other seven deadly sins."
"Not at all," said Miss Laverock. "These black beetle brows were very
likely handed down to him from his grandmother, along with a stocking
full of her savings. The stocking he has squandered; but he couldn't
get rid of the beetle brows."
"Yes," remarked Mr Tosh, "he has squandered the stocking, if we may
judge from the bare toes peeping out from the ventilating holes in his
shoes."
"That little man beside him," said Mr Stocks, "is his inseparable
companion, although he looks a being of a different stamp. He has not
been used to this kind of labour. His features are refined, and his
hands are white and delicate."
"Oh!" said Mr Tosh, "he's the worst of the two. He reminds me of a
portrait I once saw of Jack Sheppard--keen, rat-like eyes, and fingers
like claws itching to clutch his prey. But, look! how he is darting
glances at Miss Laverock. By Jove, Miss Laverock, you have made a
conquest! I congratulate you."
But Miss Laverock did not reply. She was dumb with amazement and
horror. The sight of that face had recalled a painful episode in her
life; and, under the coarse guise of a reaper, she had recognised
one who had formerly been very dear to her. After a few moments she
recovered so far, and tried to resume the conversation; but her spirit
and elasticity were gone. All the members of her party noticed the
sudden collapse. Mr Tosh asked if she had been hurt by the rude staring
of that man, and offered to give the fellow a wigging on the spot. And
Mr Stocks, remarking that the heat was too much for her, drew her arm
into his, and suggested that they should all return to the house.
But there was one person who did not take such a lenient view of the
incident. This was Miss Jaap. She had already expressed to her chosen
confidante, the tablemaid, her opinion of Miss Laverock.
"People," she had said, "admire what they call her brightness.
Well, forwardness is often mistaken for cleverness. I might even
use a stronger word than forwardness. I might call it by the good
old-fashioned name of impudence. And the way she ogles men, and jokes
with them, and leads them on to make idiots of themselves--it's
disreputable. That's what it is."
And now, here was an incident which seemed to justify all Miss Jaap's
suspicions, and to give her an opportunity of supplanting her rival.
Her excitement was so great that she could scarcely walk home quietly
along with the others. And when she reached the farm-house, she rushed,
bursting with confidence, to the tablemaid.
"Oh, Kirsten!" she cried, "such a scandal to happen in any respectable
community! Ye may well cry, 'What is't?' Your precious Miss Laverock
exchanging glances with a common shearer on the harvest field, and
turning deadly pale. Yes! a common dirty shearer! Some poor unfortunate
wretch with whom she has had an intrigue! That woman would intrigue
with anything in the shape of a man. You must help me to find out more
about him. He is the companion of Black Morgan. I'll expose her; and
I'll see that your poor deluded master's eyes are opened."