“I am bid forth to supper.”--MERCHANT OF VENICE.
It was the evening of Miss Insches’ party, and two of her guests were
already comfortably established in the sacred drawing-room. Next day was
the fast day in Fendie, and the Reverend Paulus Whyte was to preach. Mr
Insches was rather a favourite with Mrs Whyte. She had been persuaded to
accompany her husband, and was to remain all night at the Manse.
Mr Whyte was seated in an easy chair, talking in a low, gentle, pleasant
voice to the very attentive Miss Insches. He was a little man, with
courteous, graceful manners, and a very mild, engaging face. No tongue,
however slanderous, could find matter of accusation against Paulus
Whyte; friend and foe alike did unconscious homage to the pure,
unselfish spirit which dwelt among them in its peaceful mildness--a
visible citizen of heaven. He was one of those few men whose especial
gift seems holiness; you heard all classes, the religious and the
profane, do reverence to the distinguishing quality of the gentle
minister. He was a holy man.
He had one weakness--a failing incident to his guileless, benevolent
nature. He was a little too apt to write biographies of very good little
boys, who died at eight or nine in the odour of sanctity, and little
girls who, at a like age, were experienced in all the difficulties and
temptations of the spiritual life. On the counters of religious
booksellers you were continually picking up little books in coloured
covers, memorials of the last small pious Jane or William who had died
within the good minister’s ken. In the simplicity of his own gentle
nature, he received all the traits of childish goodness, which weeping
mothers and aunts told him when their first grief began to soften; and
rejoicing in “the holiness of youth,” recorded the little incidents of
those young lives for the edification of all. They were not always to
edification; but the good man fervently believed them so, and in his own
devout heart gave thanks joyfully for the youthful angels of whom he had
registered so many. There were some who smiled at the weakness, and some
who sneered at its fruits; but few men sneered at Paulus Whyte. His
garments were too spotless--his serene life too pure for any reproaches
of the adversary.
His wife was a vivacious, lively, cheerful person, pleasantly
patronizing to all youthful people. She liked young society, and she
liked to take such as suited her under her wing, and bring them forward,
and encourage them by all kindly means. She was chatting in her own
cheerful, sprightly way, with Robert Insches, who held a high place in
her favour. She was bent at present on providing him with that
indispensable equipment for all young ministers--a wife--and had plans
of her own on the subject, of which Robert had a considerable guess; but
Robert conquered himself, had full confidence in the fascination of
Helen, and felt sure of the ultimate approval of Mrs Whyte.
The first arrival was a sister of Mrs Whyte’s, a widow lady resident at
Fendie. She was a querulous person, constitutionally inclined to look at
the dark side of everything, a perfect contrast to the happier temper of
her sister, but withal not destitute of a kindred kindliness. Only the
youthful people patronized by Mrs Gray, were sedulously tutored into a
melancholy certainty of the inevitable miseries of the world. She tried,
good gloomy woman, to charge the natural atmosphere of hope with the
vapoury fears in which she herself found a certain sombre satisfaction,
and now and then she was temporarily successful.
The drawing-room was not very much crowded. Besides these, there were
only Lilias, Halbert, Helen, and the banker Oswald and his wife.
The last two were invited by Mr Insches for some unexplained reason.
They were certainly his very good friends, but that was not the cause;
he had many good friends in Fendie quite as eligible; but the Reverend
Robert had once or twice encountered William in the immediate vicinity
of Mrs Buchanan’s house, and had an idea that his rival, like himself,
was kept back by scruples of pride, or by consideration of what “the
world” would say. Consequently, William’s parents were invited to-night
to show them that the step was taken, that the dignified youthful
minister had made up his mind, and that Helen was about to be elevated
to the lofty position of Mistress of the Manse.
Helen herself, who had come with some reluctance, felt already
uncomfortably hampered by her host’s attentions; there was a slight
ostentation in them--a certain consciousness of derogation on his own
part, and fear for her, lest the exaltation should dazzle her. Helen
kept closely by the side of Lilias, amused, afraid, and suspecting some
design upon her.
Mrs Oswald seated herself beside the young friends. The banker kept
apart, struggling very vainly against the curiosity which turned his
eyes towards this group; he began to feel an interest in watching the
colour fluctuate and change on Helen’s cheek, and to understand the
half-suppressed, impatient motion and altered attitude, which testified
some annoyance under those elaborate courtesies of Robert Insches. Mr
Oswald was sadly inconsistent; he had a certain satisfaction in
perceiving that these courtesies did not seem particularly acceptable to
Helen.
“My dear,” said the plaintive Mrs Gray, addressing Lilias, “I am glad to
see you looking so much stronger: but perhaps you are flushed--just a
little flushed to-night; you must be very careful as you go home that
you don’t take cold.”
“I heard Mrs Mense making a great provision of cloaks for my
home-going,” said Lilias, smiling; “they are too careful of me, Mrs
Gray. I shall not take cold if my good friends can guard me from it.”
“Well,” said Mrs Gray, “this is a strange world; you will see trouble
coming often to those who are most carefully guarded, while others who
can use no precautions escape it altogether. Ay, Miss Insches, you may
well shake your head; I have seen such things myself.”
Miss Insches had indeed shaken her head sympathetically, because the
good-humoured little woman thought some assent was necessary; but on
being thus involved as an interlocutor, she looked very guilty and
confused, and was by no means sure whether she should have done it or
no.
“But why speak of it so drearily, Agnes?” said Mr Whyte, who, mild man
as he was, gave his sister-in-law’s doleful moods no quarter. “I can see
cause for nothing but thankfulness in that. That Providence specially
cares for those who cannot care for themselves; it is positive sunshine
to think of it.”
“Ay,” said Mrs Gray, mournfully, “the minister and I always take
different views; but you’ll allow, Paulus, what the Bible says its very
self of this weary world. A vale of tears--a shadow that fleeth
away--the valley of the shadow of death.”
“My dear Agnes,” said the vivacious Mrs Whyte, with some impatience, “I
wish you would quote the chapter and verse, for I really have no
recollection of the vale of tears in Scripture.”
“Elizabeth,” answered Mrs Gray, with solemnity, “the dark day has not
fallen upon you yet, and I hope it may be long deferred; but it is a
heavy life. The very best of it is just a succession of work and
fatigue, waking and sleeping, weariness and rest. I see you agree with
me, Mr Oswald. We are in a miserable world, and the sooner we are done
with it the better for ourselves.”
The banker, thus appealed to, looked as much amazed as Miss Insches; he
did by no means agree with Mrs Gray, but he was somewhat slow of speech,
and could not manage to express his sentiments. There was a certain
orthodoxy too in this view of the matter; so the honest man hesitated
and looked confused, and not knowing what to say, finally said nothing.
“And Miss Buchanan, my dear,” said Mrs Gray, with an affectionate
sadness, “I see I have you on my side.”
“Oh no, no, no,” said Helen eagerly, in the tremulous low voice which
she always spoke in, when she was greatly moved; a voice, more than half
reverie, broken now and then abruptly by a consciousness of being
listened to.
“No?”
“There is nothing miserable in it,” said Helen, forgetting herself, and
speaking rapidly, and so low that the banker needed to bend forward
before he could hear; “nothing but what we _make_; I think the words
should be noble and grand rather, in all its light and all its gloom. It
is very dark sometimes. I know there are eclipses and thunderclouds; but
not miserable--no, no. It does not become us--surely it does not become
us to make its changes matters of sadness; for the labour’s sake it is
good to rest, and the labour itself--I think sometimes that if we had no
other blessing, _that_ would be great enough to rejoice in all our
days--to have work to do under the sunshine of heaven--work for the
Master--the King! I do not know; I think there is no grief that can
match the joy of this.”
The nervous small fingers were clasped together, the unquiet face
looking into the vacant air with shining, abstracted eyes, the head
erected in eager enthusiasm; and bending forward as if to a magnet, the
banker Oswald looked on.
Lilias Maxwell laid her hand gently on Helen’s clasped fingers. There
was an instantaneous change: the erect head fell into its ordinary
stoop, the eyes were cast down, the figure shrank back shy and
trembling, and Mr Oswald drew a long breath, and threw himself back in
his chair, as the Reverend Robert brought down the tone of the
conversation to the common-place and prosaic, by saying, with some
emphasis,--
“I perfectly agree with Miss Buchanan.”
Mrs Gray had been somewhat startled. Mr Insches set her right again. She
shook her head.
“Ah, young people, young people; it is quite natural, no doubt; but you
don’t know--you will find it out only too soon.”
Mr Whyte rose from his chair with some displeasure, and lifted his fine
hand in admonition.
“Rejoice in the Lord alway, and again I say unto you rejoice.”
The animation of his words lighted up his gentle face; not alone in the
sunshine and in the fair earth, but in the Lord with whom was the
wonderful “fellowship” of the holy man. It was meet that there should be
gladness in all his peaceful life, for this was its charm and spell.
Mrs Whyte changed her seat. She took the chair which Mrs Gray left
vacant beside Lilias and Helen, to the great contentment of the Reverend
Robert.
“I warn you, young ladies, against my sister,” said Mrs Whyte,
cheerfully. “Agnes has had a great deal of grief herself, and she thinks
it is the common lot, and is anxious to prepare others for all that
befell her. She means it very kindly, though I think she is mistaken;
but, Miss Maxwell, you must not adopt these melancholy views of hers--it
is quite soon enough to be sorrowful when sorrow comes.”
“You warn _me_, Mrs Whyte,” said Lilias, smiling. “Have you no fear for
Helen?”
“No, Miss Buchanan has quite reässured me,” said Mrs Whyte; “and I am
not sure that I should at any time have feared for her so much as for
you. Is not Mossgray very quiet--shall I say dull? We have an idea that
your guardian is a melancholy man, Miss Maxwell.”
“No, indeed, no,” said Lilias. “He likes to be alone, and is a
thoughtful man, but Mossgray is not melancholy--if melancholy means
anything like unhappiness. He may be pensive as the stars are--but not
sad--never gloomy. You think so, Helen?”
Helen assented in a single word, for she had been led into saying far
more than she intended before, and was considerably ashamed and
embarrassed now; especially as the Reverend Robert was drawing up his
stately figure close beside her, and Mrs Whyte looked interested and
curious.
“You must come to the Manse and see me, Miss Buchanan,” said Mrs Whyte,
“when the days are longer. I shall expect you often, mind, and we are
really rather attractive people; besides myself, you know, there is
Paulus, whom everybody has a kindness for, and two treasures of bairns.
You will like Paulus,” continued the minister’s wife, glancing at him
with a kindly smile, as he sat talking to Mrs Oswald: “and Paulus would
say, I think, that you were not likely to cast out with me, and of
course there can be but one opinion about the bairns. I shall expect
you, Miss Buchanan, and I shall expect Miss Maxwell. It is not a very
long walk, and you will do me a kindness if you come.”
The words were easily said, and it was very true that two such guests as
Lilias and Helen would most pleasantly relieve the quietness of the
Manse of Kirkmay; but they made the heart of the young schoolmistress
glad. The delicate perception which gave this special invitation to
_her_ rather than to the well-friended Lilias--the true friendliness and
appreciation which could venture to praise to her its own especial
household. It is surely true that _words_ will rise up hereafter in
judgment against us: so well and gracefully as we might heal and cheer
and encourage with these magic utterances; so often as we make them
poisoned arrows, to pierce, and kill, and wound.
“And I am sure,” said Miss Insches, who had been listening with great
edification, “it would be a real charity if you would call whiles on me.
I might maybe no presume on asking Miss Maxwell, because she’s a gey bit
from the town, besides being delicate; but as you’re so near hand, Miss
Buchanan, it wouldna be much trouble, and I would take it real kind. I’m
sure Robert never wearies speaking about you, and he would be as glad as
me: for ye see--Eh, is that you Robert? Was you wanting me?”
Robert had secretly, in vehement shame and anger, pulled his indiscreet
sister’s sleeve, and the result was, that the innocent Miss Insches
turned suddenly round upon him, and revealed the artifice he had used to
stay her disclosures. The Reverend Robert blushed to the very hair.
Helen shrank back, shyly conscious. Mrs Whyte cast wicked, intelligent
glances at the minister, and Miss Insches, seeing that something was
wrong, and that she had blundered, looked about her in bewildered
penitence.
“Eh, Robert,” she repeated under her breath, “is’t me?”
The Reverend Robert was too much annoyed to laugh, but Mrs Whyte did, as
she came to the rescue.
“I think when Paulus has his duty over to-morrow, that you and I must
make some calls, Mr Insches. Miss Buchanan, will you introduce me to
your mother; and may I venture, Miss Maxwell, to come as far as
Mossgray?”
Lilias answered for both. Miss Insches’ last master-stroke had entirely
silenced Helen.
Halbert all this time had been alone, or nearly so, and now Lilias
perceived him at the other end of the room, patiently listening to Mrs
Gray; so there was a general movement to rescue him. Halbert had felt
rather _de trop_ this evening; he was almost inclined to chime in at
first with the lamentations of the mournful lady; and it was a relief to
all parties when Mr Insches changed places with the young heir of
Mossgray.