Long ago, in the days when our caged blackbirds never saw a king's
soldier without whistling impudently, "Come ower the water to
Charlie," a minister of Thrums was to be married, but something
happened, and he remained a bachelor. Then, when he was old, he passed
in our square the lady who was to have been his wife, and her hair was
white, but she, too, was still unmarried. The meeting had only one
witness, a weaver, and he said solemnly afterwards, "They didna speak,
but they just gave one another a look, and I saw the love-light in
their een." No more is remembered of these two, no being now living
ever saw them, but the poetry that was in the soul of a battered
weaver makes them human to us for ever.
It is of another minister I am to tell, but only to those who know
that light when they see it. I am not bidding good-bye to many
readers, for though it is true that some men, of whom Lord Rintoul was
one, live to an old age without knowing love, few of us can have met
them, and of women so incomplete I never heard.
Gavin Dishart was barely twenty-one when he and his mother came to
Thrums, light-hearted like the traveller who knows not what awaits him
at the bend of the road. It was the time of year when the ground is
carpeted beneath the firs with brown needles, when split-nuts patter
all day from the beech, and children lay yellow corn on the dominie's
desk to remind him that now they are needed in the fields. The day was
so silent that carts could be heard rumbling a mile away. All Thrums
was out in its wynds and closes--a few of the weavers still in
knee-breeches--to look at the new Auld Licht minister. I was there
too, the dominie of Glen Quharity, which is four miles from Thrums;
and heavy was my heart as I stood afar off so that Gavin's mother
might not have the pain of seeing me. I was the only one in the crowd
who looked at her more than at her son.
Eighteen years had passed since we parted. Already her hair had lost
the brightness of its youth, and she seemed to me smaller and more
fragile; and the face that I loved when I was a hobbledehoy, and loved
when I looked once more upon it in Thrums, and always shall love till
I die, was soft and worn. Margaret was an old woman, and she was only
forty-three; and I am the man who made her old. As Gavin put his eager
boyish face out at the carriage window, many saw that he was holding
her hand, but none could be glad at the sight as the dominie was glad,
looking on at a happiness in which he dared not mingle. Margaret was
crying because she was so proud of her boy. Women do that. Poor sons
to be proud of, good mothers, but I would not have you dry those
tears.
[Illustration: A STREET IN THRUMS.]
When the little minister looked out at the carriage window, many of
the people drew back humbly, but a little boy in a red frock with
black spots pressed forward and offered him a sticky parly, which
Gavin accepted, though not without a tremor, for children were more
terrible to him then than bearded men. The boy's mother, trying not to
look elated, bore him away, but her face said that he was made for
life. With this little incident Gavin's career in Thrums began. I
remembered it suddenly the other day when wading across the wynd where
it took place. Many scenes in the little minister's life come back to
me in this way. The first time I ever thought of writing his love
story as an old man's gift to a little maid since grown tall, was one
night while I sat alone in the school-house; on my knees a fiddle that
has been my only living companion since I sold my hens. My mind had
drifted back to the first time I saw Gavin and the Egyptian together,
and what set it wandering to that midnight meeting was my garden gate
shaking in the wind. At a gate on the hill I had first encountered
these two. It rattled in his hand, and I looked up and saw them, and
neither knew why I had such cause to start at the sight. Then the gate
swung to. It had just such a click as mine.
These two figures on the hill are more real to me than things that
happened yesterday, but I do not know that I can make them live to
others. A ghost-show used to come yearly to Thrums on the merry Muckle
Friday, in which the illusion was contrived by hanging a glass between
the onlookers and the stage. I cannot deny that the comings and goings
of the ghost were highly diverting, yet the farmer of T'nowhead only
laughed because he had paid his money at the hole in the door like the
rest of us. T'nowhead sat at the end of a form where he saw round the
glass and so saw no ghost. I fear my public may be in the same
predicament. I see the little minister as he was at one-and-twenty,
and the little girl to whom this story is to belong sees him, though
the things I have to tell happened before she came into the world. But
there are reasons why she should see; and I do not know that I can
provide the glass for others. If they see round it, they will neither
laugh nor cry with Gavin and Babbie.
When Gavin came to Thrums he was as I am now, for the pages lay before
him on which he was to write his life. Yet he was not quite as I am.
The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story,
and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the
volume as it is with what he vowed to make it. But the biographer sees
the last chapter while he is still at the first, and I have only to
write over with ink what Gavin has written in pencil.
How often is it a phantom woman who draws the man from the way he
meant to go? So was man created, to hunger for the ideal that is above
himself, until one day there is magic in the air, and the eyes of a
girl rest upon him. He does not know that it is he himself who crowned
her, and if the girl is as pure as he, their love is the one form of
idolatry that is not quite ignoble. It is the joining of two souls on
their way to God. But if the woman be bad, the test of the man is when
he wakens from his dream. The nobler his ideal, the further will he
have been hurried down the wrong way, for those who only run after
little things will not go far. His love may now sink into passion,
perhaps only to stain its wings and rise again, perhaps to drown.
Babbie, what shall I say of you who make me write these things? I am
not your judge. Shall we not laugh at the student who chafes when
between him and his book comes the song of the thrushes, with whom, on
the mad night you danced into Gavin's life, you had more in common
than with Auld Licht ministers? The gladness of living was in your
step, your voice was melody, and he was wondering what love might be.
[Illustration: "BABBIE."]
You were the daughter of a summer night, born where all the birds are
free, and the moon christened you with her soft light to dazzle the
eyes of man. Not our little minister alone was stricken by you into
his second childhood. To look upon you was to rejoice that so fair a
thing could be; to think of you is still to be young. Even those who
called you a little devil, of whom I have been one, admitted that
in the end you had a soul, though not that you had been born with one.
They said you stole it, and so made a woman of yourself. But again I
say I am not your judge, and when I picture you as Gavin saw you
first, a bare-legged witch dancing up Windyghoul, rowan berries in
your black hair, and on your finger a jewel the little minister could
not have bought with five years of toil, the shadows on my pages lift,
and I cannot wonder that Gavin loved you.
Often I say to myself that this is to be Gavin's story, not mine.
Yet must it be mine too, in a manner, and of myself I shall
sometimes have to speak; not willingly, for it is time my little
tragedy had died of old age. I have kept it to myself so long that
now I would stand at its grave alone. It is true that when I heard
who was to be the new minister I hoped for a day that the life broken
in Harvie might be mended in Thrums, but two minutes' talk with Gavin
showed me that Margaret had kept from him the secret which was hers
and mine, and so knocked the bottom out of my vain hopes. I did
not blame her then, nor do I blame her now, nor shall any one who
blames her ever be called friend by me; but it was bitter to look at
the white manse among the trees and know that I must never enter it.
For Margaret's sake I had to keep aloof, yet this new trial came
upon me like our parting at Harvie. I thought that in those eighteen
years my passions had burned like a ship till they sank, but I
suffered again as on that awful night when Adam Dishart came back,
nearly killing Margaret and tearing up all my ambitions by the
root in a single hour. I waited in Thrums until I had looked again
on Margaret, who thought me dead, and Gavin, who had never heard
of me, and then I trudged back to the school-house. Something I
heard of them from time to time during the winter--for in the
gossip of Thrums I was well posted--but much of what is to be told
here I only learned afterwards from those who knew it best. Gavin
heard of me at times as the dominie in the glen who had ceased to
attend the Auld Licht kirk, and Margaret did not even hear of me. It
was all I could do for them.
Chapter Two.