"Well," said Ben, "that's just what I want to tell you. You see I have had my chances—all the advantages which a man could have—education, society, money. I could not use them, and they nearly did for me. They have been a curse to me. I don't want them again. It is evident that my proper sphere is a humble lot in the country. I shall be content if anybody allows me to work in the fields, and gives me in return bed and board and a suit of clothes once a year. A man who has frequently supped on a turnipand slept under a hedge, will look upon a cog of oatmeal porridge and a bunch of straw in the barn as real luxuries."
Hillend's eyes glistened. "Well," he thought, "here's something new at a farmer's fireside, a man that has gaen up and doon the hale ladder o' Fortune, and kens a' the changes o' Life. What a companion he will be for the long winter nichts! A' the tales o' the Borders in one livin' edition! A well that can always be pumped, and will never gang dry! I think we must ask him to stey for a week or twa at least."
He gave a significant glance at his sisters, and they returned it. Then he said—"Ye micht stey on here for a wee till ye can look aroond ye. It happens that Jamie Doo, oor orra man, has just left. Ye can tak his place, and pit oot your haund to ony job that's wanted; and ye'se get a bed in the bothy, and your share o' the parritch and kail that's gaun in the kitchen."
Weeks, months, and even years passed, and Ben Levy still remained at the farm. The truth is that they could not do without him. He was the factotum of Hillend, and also of the two sisters. During the day, if any stress of work arose, he was the man to push it through; andin the evening, if any visitors dropt in, he was the man to entertain them with his startling experiences.
One remark he always made at the end of his story. "It's strange that a few weeks experience of country labour in my boyhood should have been more useful to me than all my school and university education. It has enabled me to earn my bread. I believe it's because my heart was in it.
"'The heart's aye the part ayeThat maks us richt or wrang.'"
THE ONE FATAL MISTAKE.
Inmy boyhood I was familiar with a thin emaciated man, that used to be seen in the streets of Sandyriggs. Consumption had wasted his body, and utterly quenched his spirit. Wan and dumb, he moved among the healthy faces of the town folk like a ghost; and it was a painful sight to see him crawl up the outside stair that led to his solitary room above the butcher's shop. People called him "a blighted being" and "a living wreck," and associated his name with a tragedy which had long been the talk of the county. Yet, twenty years before, he began his career under the most favourable auspices.
When Malcolm Blair entered the University of St Andrews, he might have been considered a favourite of Fortune. He was the only son and the pride of his father, a prosperous farmer. His body was healthy and handsome, and hismind agile and enthusiastic. He had a keen relish, not only for material blessings, but for knowledge of every kind. It was as pleasant to him to study as to take a bracing morning walk. Without any difficulty he drank in classics, mathematics, literature, and science. In all the college competitions he easily took the first place, and at the end of every session came out the first man of his year.
At the same time, his learning did not make him moody and unsocial. He put it (to use a homely phrase) "into a good skin." It was thoroughly digested, became part of his being, promoted his general health, and fed his buoyant spirits. When the time came for tossing aside his books, mirth danced in his eyes and rioted in his laugh. His motto seemed to be "Taste life's glad moments." At all the students' recreations—the social gatherings on the Friday night, the Saturday excursions into the country, the jolly junketings at Guardbridge and at Leuchars—he was the life of the company. He could sing, recite, tell stories, make a speech or "screamer," as it was called, and give the most ludicrous imitation of the different professors.
"Blair," said one of his friends, "is irrepressible.How does he keep up that vivid tone, both of body and mind? One would imagine that his food was ambrosia and his drink was nectar; and the air which he breathed was laughing-gas."
Altogether Blair was a youth full of promise, and apparently destined for a popular and successful career.
But it was this highly-strung excitable temperament that brought him into danger. The time came, towards the end of his Arts curriculum at St Andrews, when "the young man's fancy lightly turned to thoughts of love." If he had been privileged to mix in cultured family life, his fancy might have settled on a suitable object. But in St Andrews, where the distinctions of caste are strongly defined, the students are unfortunately placed. They are regarded as being beneath the upper or professional class; and they consider themselves as above the under or trading class. They are, therefore, shut out from family life, and are left to herd together in their lodgings. And thus it came to pass that Malcolm Blair's fancy was unable to find a resting-place till it settled on his landlady's daughter.
Grace Bourhill, daughter of Mrs Bourhill,lodging-house keeper in College Street, had no special charms beyond a fresh complexion and a pair of bright eyes. But she was ambitious, and tried all her little fascinations on Mr Blair. When she brought in his meals, she was always tidy as Hebe herself or neat-handed Phyllis. When he spoke to her, she would blush and smile and look at him from the corner of her eyes. When she ran against him in the lobby, she would show the prettiest confusion, and after begging pardon, would trip away like a startled fawn. As a matter of course, he soon saw that the girl was fond of him, and could not help appreciating her good feeling and taste. He found a pleasure in looking upon her and speaking to her, and when he was singing Burns's songs, he would often call up her image to help him to realise the poet's heroines. Yet all the while he never once thought of her as a suitable partner for him. He considered the whole affair as an innocent flirtation. Miserable delusion! He soon found out his mistake.
Blair's curriculum was drawing to a close. He was about to take farewell of St Andrews' University. As he was preparing himself for the Dissenting Ministry, his divinity studies wereto be prosecuted in Edinburgh. It was a time of great excitement among the students. The winter, with its dull days and its hard work, had gone; and the spring, with its bright hours and its prospect of country holidays, had come. Song and laughter were in the air, and infected every one; and the evenings were entirely given up to farewell merry-meetings. One of the most important of these was theGaudeamusof the Literary Society, held in the Cross Keys Hotel. The chair was taken by an honorary member, a divinity student of jovial tendencies; and a galaxy of youthful faces, all glowing with intelligence and good humour, was grouped before him. What could be the result but an utter abandonment to the influence of the time? The past, with all its trials, was forgotten; the future, with its promised happiness, was taken for granted; and the present, with its grateful pleasures, engrossed their whole souls.
Prominent among the company was Malcolm Blair. He was, in a certain sense, the hero of the evening. He had just completed his literary course with the greatest distinction, having taken his degree of Master of Arts with special commendation, and come out the first man of hisyear in every branch; and he had, therefore, every reason for being in the highest spirits. During dinner his jokes and anecdotes kept up a constant roar. After dinner he sang songs and proposed toasts in the most effective style. And then to crown all, he was called upon by the voice of the whole company to give his imitation of Tammy, the mathematical professor. Standing up, and putting on the well-known grimaces, awkward gestures, and broad Scotch accent, he delivered a speech on elocution, urging them all to cultivate a correct and refined style of speaking, and to take an example from him, the speaker, who, though born and brought up in Fife, had so thoroughly got rid of his native peculiarities of phrase and accent, that he defied any stranger to detect even his nationality. He sat down amid a prolonged shout of applause; and on every side he was saluted with cries of "Health and Imitation," and with pressing calls from dozens of his admirers to drink with them.
Replying to these on the spur of the moment, he imbibed more than he was aware of; and thus it happened, when the meeting broke up, that he was in a state of the highest excitement.
This state of excitement was, indeed, very unfortunate. But another unfortunate circumstance was fated to happen. On that particular night, of all nights in the year, it chanced that his landlady, Mrs Bourhill, was seized with a sort of fit; and when he reached his lodgings, he witnessed a most distressing plight—the mother lying insensible on the sofa, and the daughter wringing her hands and crying in despair. Alarm and pity took possession of his heart; and after uttering a few words of sympathy and comfort, he rushed away and brought back a doctor. The doctor, a young man beginning practice, was solemn and taciturn. Asking a few questions, and feeling the pulse of Mrs Bourhill, he looked very grave, and tried one restorative after another until at length she opened her eyes; and then, with the aid of the daughter, he led her to her bedroom and shut the door.
Blair retired to his own room to wait the result. The minutes passed slowly without a single sound to break the oppressive silence. At last he heard the doctor go, and shut the outer door; but he waited in vain for any other sound. Sick of suspense, and imagining all sorts ofevil, he crept quietly out of his room and entered the parlour; and there he found Miss Bourhill seated on a chair, the picture of silent misery.
"What has happened?" he asked, in a voice of alarm.
She answered by breaking down into a paroxysm of weeping.
"For God's sake, Miss Bourhill," he cried, "what has happened? Is your mother dead?"
Then she rose, and with her hair streaming over her shoulders, and the tears running down her cheeks, she clasped his hands, and said, "Oh, Mr Blair! you have been so kind. But what am I to do? whatamI to do? The doctor says that mother's condition is very serious, and that another attack may be fatal, and I shall be left alone in the world with nobody to care for me." And here she broke down again.
Now, what could this unsophisticated lad do, wrought up as he was by various causes into a high state of excitement? What could he do but take her hand, and pat her on the shoulder, and, in his anxiety to soothe her, protest that he would take care of her? And other tender promises he made which he was afterwards told about, but which he did not remember.
Next morning he awoke with a curious, confused feeling which cannot be described. Amid all the confusion, however, there still started up the impression that he had said to Miss Bourhill many things which he ought not to have said. He feared, in fact, that he had given her the impression that he really loved her; and he resolved to lose no time in disabusing her mind. He would represent it as an ordinary flirtation, and would apologise most earnestly and humbly for trifling with her feelings. He was not going to allow his future prospects to be blighted, and he must set himself right at once, and at all hazards. But, unfortunately, this resolute plan of his was utterly foiled by unforeseen circumstances. No sooner had he stepped out of his bedroom into the passage than Miss Bourhill, radiant with the consciousness of one who was both loving and beloved, and looking really beautiful, had thrown her arms around his neck and was embracing him; and her mother, glowing with recovered health, came up and saluted him also.
"Mother," said the daughter, "this is my future husband."
And the mother, blessing them fervently, protested that he was the very one whom she herself would have chosen, and congratulated him upon his having secured such a priceless jewel.
"She canna," said she, "strum on the pianny, but she can darn stockins and mak shirts. She'll no be able to jabber French, but she'll scrub and cook and keep yer manse comfortable. And she's high-spirited too, and she'll keep the members o' the congregation in their proper places. She was jist born to be a minister's wife."
Now what could the fated Malcolm do, involved as he was in such a witches' coil! He felt that if he didn't speak out and protest at once he was lost; but the smiles, caresses, and blandishments that were rained upon him, drugged and chloroformed his powers, and literally shut his mouth; and he remained speechless and helpless. Two days afterwards, Malcolm Blair left St Andrews an engaged man. The one fatal mistake had been made.
During the six months of the summer vacation that Scotch students enjoy, Malcolm Blair had been accustomed to continue his studies under the most exhilarating circumstances. What a pleasant change it was from the closeness andmonotony of St Andrews' lecture-rooms to the airy canopy and ever-changing glories of nature! And oh, the delight, at daybreak, when the ploughman drove his team afield amid the thousand melodies of morn; or at noon, when a golden haze brooded over the pastures and cornfields, and the silence was broken only by the hum of the bee; or in the evening, when the scent of flowers was in the air and the coo of the cushat came from the firry woodland—oh, the delight! to dwell upon the country scenes of the Mantuan Bard, or roll out the winged words of Homer, or trill "the native wood-notes wild" of the Swan of Avon. Standing on the same green earth, under the same glorious sky, and amid the same perennial influences, he was able to look at things from their point of view and in their spirit, and thus virtually to realise—to make real to himself—their thoughts and feelings regarding Nature.
But now, what a difference! He moped about the fields and hedges a blighted being. The consciousness of his calamity, like a frosty cloud, enveloped his imagination; and, seen through this cloud, the world had lost its glory. And before he had been a week at home there camefrom his betrothed a letter which brought the blush to his cheek. With unsteady pen and bad spelling, the poor girl had laboured to express her affection, but, alas! had only betrayed her meagre and undeveloped mind. As he read this epistle at breakfast, his mother was watching him; and he knew that she was wondering who his illiterate correspondent could be; and to give her no more ground for suspicion, he was mean enough to bribe Marjory, the servant, to bring his letters in future directly to himself, and not to lay them on the breakfast table.
One day, however, when he was superintending (or "grieving," as it was called) the haymakers, an idea struck across his brain, and instantly changed his whole mood, and filled his heart with delight. Grace, he thought, was uneducated just now, but was it necessary that she should remain so? She was naturally bright and clever, and without doubt would be eager to learn. Why should she not have the opportunity? He would earn some money by going out as a tutor, and with this money he would send her to a first-class boarding-school, where she would learn the accomplishments, manners, and graces; and thus she would become a young lady of whomanyone in his position might be proud. A fond dream which might so easily be realised!
But when, in his next letter, he had propounded his plan to Grace, she, instead of accepting it gratefully, rejected it with the utmost scorn. She had some difficulty in expressing her love, but none in giving vent to her indignation. So (she wrote) he was ashamed of her because she could not jabber a few French phrases, and hammer on the piano; and he wanted her to go to one of those boarding-schools, where nothing but what was bad could be learned. She would not go to one of these dens of wickedness; but as he was ashamed of her, she would poison herself, and her murder would lie at his door. Thus ended Blair's first and last attempt to educate his betrothed.
Three years had passed without altering the state of matters. His parents had come to know of his engagement, and he saw, by their looks, how deeply disappointed and chagrined they were. He had frequently visited Grace; and although he could not help being pleased with her affectionate greeting, yet her frequent vulgar remarks, and her mother's coarse style of joking, stung him to the quick. And now there happened achange of circumstances which stirred up within him a strange mixture of vexation and delight. The letters of Miss Bourhill came to be short and far between. He suspected that there was some new attraction engrossing her; and he asked a confidential friend in St Andrews to ascertain if this was so. His suspicion was correct. She was frequently seen with a divinity student, by name Harker, good-looking after a sort, but notoriously self-indulgent and even loose in his principles. In fact, his very name at the University seemed redolent of dissipation; and his presence among innocent young girls would have been deemed absolutely blighting. He would have looked like an obscene raven among a troop of snowy doves. This man was now Mrs Bourhill's lodger, and it was evident that Miss Grace was trying her charms upon him. The reason of this double-dealing was equally clear. As a student of the Established Church, he had the prospect of a better manse, and a larger and surer stipend, than Blair would ever possess.
This revelation threw Blair into a fever of excitement; and various feelings within him struggled for the mastery: Indignation at beingjilted for such a worthless rival; shame at having been inveigled into tying himself to such a mercenary flirt; determination to do his utmost to free himself; and exultation at the prospect of being able to do so. Under the influence of this whirlpool of emotion he set out to walk to St Andrews, and was carried along at a great pace, scarcely noticing the objects that he passed, and making little of the long distance. As he drew near to the ancient city, there came into his view two figures that instantly revived his flagging feelings—Harker and Miss Bourhill returning from a walk on the links. Keeping well behind them, he dogged their footsteps, and watched with a fiendish gratification how they talked, looked into each other's faces and laughed, until they reached College Street and disappeared in Mrs Bourhill's house. Then he entered without much ceremony, received the surprise and the salutation of the two women, who were in the lobby, with a cold and stern manner, said that he wished to speak with Grace alone, and following her into the parlour, locked the door to keep the mother out.
Malcolm lost no time in giving vent to his feelings. He told her the reports that hadreached him; he exposed the deplorable character of Harker; he demanded that she should break off all correspondence with this man whose touch was an insult to a woman; and he wound up by saying that she must, on the spot, and once for all, choose between him and this new admirer. He spoke with great vehemence and determination, and expected to see her completely overwhelmed with shame and confusion.
But what was his astonishment to find that this uneducated girl, with nothing but her animal cunning, was more than a match for all his culture, and was prepared to defend her conduct out and out. With the air and smile of one who was dealing with a testy and unreasonable child, she proceeded to argue the matter with him. Did he really mean to blame her, because she spoke to her mother's lodger, and because she allowed him, when he met her in the street, to walk home with her? And did he really wish her to promise not to speak to Mr Harker? They could not afford to turn him away, and as long as he remained in their rooms they could not insult him. Then, waxing righteously indignant, she demanded why he employed sneaks to tell tales of her, and whyhe came raging and locking the door as if he were going to murder her. The fact was, that he was ashamed of her, and wanted to pick a quarrel, and to get an excuse for throwing her off. But, thank God! although she was a poor girl, she was not without friends. Her uncle, the solicitor in Edinburgh, would see that she was not wronged. And having said all this calmly, she unlocked the door and went out.
After a rest and slight repast at the Star Hotel, Malcolm returned home full of the gloomiest thoughts. This wretched girl had come out in her true character—cunning, unscrupulous, heartless. While she claimed the liberty of throwing him off, he was not to have the liberty of throwing her off. That reference to her uncle, the solicitor, showed that the terrors of the law would be employed, if necessary, to keep him to his bargain. It was a gloomy future that was opening up before him; and for several days he wandered aimlessly about, the most melancholy of men.
But Nature takes care that a healthy young soul shall not droop for long. Like a downtrodden daisy, it revives under the influence of sunshine and shower, and opens its heart to thebrightness of Spring. When weeks had passed without bringing a letter from Miss Bourhill, he became sanguine, nay, even confident. Her new flirtation was evidently prospering. Harker would soon be licensed; and, as he was glib and clever enough, he would soon get a church and marry her; and then, oh! what an ominous cloud would be lifted from his life! He would then be a free man! And so a miraculous change now came over him. His youth seemed to be restored; and he began to look with a new and fresh interest on all the old familiar scenes. His mother noticed the transformation, and knew the cause; and, as she said to her husband, "Now that the boy was himself again, the farmyard and the fields seemed brighter and pleasanter."
But unfortunately this exultation was premature. One evening towards the end of March, as he sat in the parlour reading the county paper, his eyes fell upon a paragraph which struck him like an electric shock. He tried hard to fancy that the narrative might not be true after all; but the details were given in such a circumstantial and confident manner, that he was compelled in the end to believe them. They were as follows:—
"Sad Death of a Student.
"On the afternoon of Friday last, two divinity students, Harker and Johnstone, set out from St Andrews for a walk in the country. As they passed through Strathkinness, they stopped for refreshment at a small inn. After a time they seemed to have grown reckless, and to have set in for serious drinking; and in rapid succession they ordered tumbler after tumbler of whisky toddy; and when the landlord, becoming alarmed, refused to supply them with any more, they left and went to another public-house, where they had several glasses of brandy. When they started to go home, they were both unsteady, especially Johnstone. Some of the villagers saw them staggering down the street, and overheard Harker abusing his companion for being drunk. Next morning, Johnstone was found lying dead by the roadside near Denbrae, between Strathkinness and St Andrews; and when Harker, who had arrived at his lodgings late on the previous night, was asked what had become of his companion, he grew confused, and could only say that he could not get him to come along, and had been obliged to leave him. On Monday, the Senatus Academicus summoned Harker before them, and, after due deliberation, passed upon him the extreme sentence of expulsion. This is a severe punishment, blighting as it does his whole future career: but a still more terrible punishment must be the reflection, that he took a poor unsophisticated youth into a public-house, deliberately set to work to make him tipsy, and then in the end left him to perish by the wayside."
"On the afternoon of Friday last, two divinity students, Harker and Johnstone, set out from St Andrews for a walk in the country. As they passed through Strathkinness, they stopped for refreshment at a small inn. After a time they seemed to have grown reckless, and to have set in for serious drinking; and in rapid succession they ordered tumbler after tumbler of whisky toddy; and when the landlord, becoming alarmed, refused to supply them with any more, they left and went to another public-house, where they had several glasses of brandy. When they started to go home, they were both unsteady, especially Johnstone. Some of the villagers saw them staggering down the street, and overheard Harker abusing his companion for being drunk. Next morning, Johnstone was found lying dead by the roadside near Denbrae, between Strathkinness and St Andrews; and when Harker, who had arrived at his lodgings late on the previous night, was asked what had become of his companion, he grew confused, and could only say that he could not get him to come along, and had been obliged to leave him. On Monday, the Senatus Academicus summoned Harker before them, and, after due deliberation, passed upon him the extreme sentence of expulsion. This is a severe punishment, blighting as it does his whole future career: but a still more terrible punishment must be the reflection, that he took a poor unsophisticated youth into a public-house, deliberately set to work to make him tipsy, and then in the end left him to perish by the wayside."
As Blair read this passage, he fell back again into the Slough of Despond, and all the delight of life vanished once more. He knew that the siren, whom he now loathed and had hoped toget rid of, would fall back upon him and again cling to him; and, just as he had foreboded, in a few days came the well-known hateful scrawl, appealing in a vulgar manner to his affections. What, she went on to say, had come over him? Had he fallen in love with some milkmaid and forgotten his poor little Gracie. She had been breaking her heart, waiting for a letter from him; and all the neighbours had been noticing that she had fallen away from her clothes. Was not that a dreadful scrape Harker had got into? She was not surprised at it, knowing what a bad character he was. Though she had been obliged to be civil to him, she had always hated him. Thank goodness she would now get rid of his attentions! With a whole lot of kisses, and waiting for a letter from him, she was his own Grace.
After reading this, he gnashed his teeth with vexation and disgust, tore the letter to pieces, and threw it in the fire. He did not answer it; and he vowed that from that time he would treat her with the silent contempt she deserved.
At the end of another year, Blair was licensed to preach, and became what is called aprobationer. He had looked forward to this as the great epochof his life, the turning-point of his career, when he was to become the accredited legate of heaven, to bear the message of salvation to his perishing fellow-creatures. Could anyone have a nobler work? But, unfortunately, this sacred office was hampered by preliminary conditions which he felt to be exceedingly humiliating. He had first to get a church; and in order to get a church, he had to please that very uncertain thing called the popular taste. In this perplexing task, the great stores of learning which he had been piling up for so many years gave him little or no assistance. He sat down doggedly and constructed his sermon after the most approved conventional method. By persistent reiteration he committed it to memory, word for word. With fluttering heart and trembling knees he went up to the pulpit on Sunday and began to give it off. During this unwinding process, he did not see the congregation before him; but he was looking at the image of his manuscript; and his mind's eye was running over line after line and page after page. It was a recitation exercise, and not a living speech coming warm from the heart of the speaker and going direct to the heart of the hearers. And all the while,he did not feel that he was pleading with his fellow-creatures to accept the Word of God. He felt that he was really begging them to notice how ably he was treating the subject, how effectively he was delivering it, and what a promising young creature he was. He was, in fact, a sort of itinerant theological hawker, hawking his spiritual wares from town to town.
And as time went on, he found himself beaten in the bid for popularity by fellow-students who were far inferior to him in ability and scholarship. Sim, who could not for the life of him construe a Latin sentence, and Macfarlane Macdonald, who was never known to have a single idea in his head on any subject whatever, found no difficulty in tickling the ear of the many-headed beast, and became ordained ministers while he continued to wander about, an uncalled probationer. It soon became evident that Malcolm Blair, the most distinguished student of his time, was in danger of becoming "a stickit minister."
But this universe is constructed on the grand principle of compensation. Providence seldom inflicts a wound without supplying a soothing plaster. That want of success, which lands us in poverty and hardship, scares away our falsefriends. Miss Grace Bourhill thought herself too good to be a stickit minister's wife; and while Blair's fate hung in the balance, ceased altogether to correspond with him; and at length, to his infinite relief, he heard that she was married to a cousin of her own, a prosperous brewer in St Andrews. Freedom at last! and brought about in an unexpected way! He now gloried exceedingly in his failure as a preacher. What was the want of manse and stipend compared with the escape from that incubus which had pressed the very spirit out of him! The world now lay bright before him, and he was free to go his own way by himself. As the church did not want him, he would adopt some other calling; and he was actually preparing himself to undertake either literary or scholastic work, when he received an invitation to engage in one of the most striking enterprises of the day.
Those that knew Fife more than fifty years ago must remember Miss Singleton, who worked such wonders in the way of evangelising the mining village of Coaltown. She belonged to that strongly-marked and combative class of female social reformers; and certainly she was one of the best specimens of the class. Shewas not, like some of her sisterhood, conceited, arrogant, and masculine. Though she was strong-minded, she was also strong-hearted. If she was bold and aggressive, it was in urging the claims of the oppressed, and not in exhibiting her own cleverness. Her plan for raising the sunken masses was direct and drastic. "Get rid," she said to the missionary, "of all that priestly parade and formality which have concealed so long the true living face of religion. Return to Christ's sublimely simple plan, which is founded on the two everlasting facts of the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of man. Imitate Him as far as the circumstances of the time will allow. Go down among the lapsed masses, not with man-millinery, patronising airs, and doles of blankets and soup, but with wisdom in your head and real love in your heart. Live amongst them, become one of themselves, and help them in their difficulties and sorrows." Such was the method which Miss Singleton herself had carried out; and the results were said to be marvellous.
This was the lady who now wrote to Malcolm Blair. "She had listened to his preaching," she said, "and had heard of him from some other friends, and she thought that he might be ableto assist her in her labours. She could not give him very much in the form of money, but he might be able to find some of his reward in the work itself. Should he think favourably of this proposal, would he kindly call upon her?"
After considering this matter long and carefully, Blair came to the conclusion that he could not do better than wait upon Miss Singleton. And when he had once seen her and talked with her, he could not refuse her offer. Miss Singleton's whole personality was like a pleasing revelation to him. Instead of the bold-featured, masculine-looking woman that he expected to see, he beheld a gentle and beautiful young lady, the secret of whose power lay in her feminine tact and sympathy. And when he saw her moving about among the poor, she seemed to him the very embodiment of the spirit of Christianity. Wherever there was sickness or sorrow—that was her chosen abode. There was comfort in the sound of her voice; there was healing in her very touch. Her smile was the highest reward, and her look of painful disapproval was the heaviest punishment. In her presence the coarsest miner felt ashamed ofhis conduct, and silently vowed to give up swearing and drinking.
Like the rest of those who came under Miss Singleton's influence, Blair soon caught her enthusiasm. He threw himself heart and soul into the work of evangelising Coaltown, visiting the houses of the poor miners, talking with them in a brotherly way, listening to their troubles and ailments, and helping them to help themselves. There were many experiences which filled his senses with disgust, and even sickened his very soul. But there were also many surprising results which amply atoned for all his pain. What sight could be more pleasing than to see a ragged and red-faced drunkard gradually being transformed into a well-clad and intelligent man; and what sound could be more delightful than to hear the thanks of a wife and children for a husband and father reclaimed, and a home made happy?
But the most gratifying circumstance was a change in his own nature, which may seem almost miraculous, but which has happened to others, and which can easily be explained. This new evangelising work actually remedied the defects of his theological training; and "theBack Raw" of Coaltown became a school of eloquence, and did for him what the University and Divinity Hall had been unable to do. The intimate knowledge which he there acquired of human nature filled his heart with a fuller sympathy; and this fuller sympathy let loose his power of utterance. Out of the abundance of his heart his mouth spoke. He was so eager to supply comfort and guidance that he gave no thought to his language, and his language came readily of its own accord. In preparing his Sunday discourses, there was no longer any need of slavishly writing them down and committing every word. All he had to do was to think out the subject, to arrange the details, and to trust to the inspiration of the moment for the language. The consequence was, that he drew large audiences, that his fame as a preacher soon spread abroad, and that, when he least expected such a thing, he received a call from a large dissenting congregation in the town of Easterton.
Though this call gratified him exceedingly for several reasons, and chiefly because it vindicated his character as a preacher, and took him out of the black list of stickit ministers, yet he hesitated before he accepted it. He found himself bound to Coaltown by a feeling almost stronger than life itself. In spite of its dismalness and poverty, it had become to him an enchanted ground. There was a presence which brightened the landscape; there was a voice which diffused a holy calm through the air; and this presence and this voice belonged to Miss Singleton. She was the daybreak that had arisen upon his night of despondency, and had filled the world with light and melody; and to part from her was to go back into darkness again. And when he spoke about his dilemma to herself, he found that she was just as much affected as he was. With tears in her eyes, she confessed that she would miss him very much.
However, just when he was on the point of asking why they should part, and why they should not continue to work together as husband and wife, she rallied both herself and him to a sense of duty. This call, she said, had brought a great opportunity of applying the system to the degraded classes of a large town, which might never occur again. It was an epoch in his life: it might be an epoch in the history of Christianity. He must, therefore, throw all other considerations aside, and accept it. Meanwhile at least, theymust deny themselves all other pleasures. Self-denial was necessary to their spiritual life. It was the manna which kept them alive in this wilderness of a world.
Malcolm Blair, accordingly, had no other alternative than to accept the call; and at the end of a few weeks had to tear himself away from Coaltown. His only consolation (and it was a great one, filling his soul with the highest hopes) was that Miss Singleton had shown that she was most tenderly attached to him.
The 27th of April was set apart for his ordination by the Presbytery in the dissenting church of Easterton. It was a day that was doomed to be memorable to him for ever. At the beginning of the ceremony he was in a melancholy mood. He had been overworking himself, had fainted more than once, and felt weak and nervous. As he sat under the pulpit, looking out upon the crowded pews, he saw nothing in the faces of his new congregation save staring curiosity; and away to the right was a dark countenance full of settled hate. He knew who it was. It was the Rev. Ewan Murdoch, who had been his fellow-student at St Andrews, and had been known as "Dark Murdoch," and who had been one of theunsuccessful candidates for the pulpit of the present congregation.
"If I have a mortal enemy," said the new minister to himself, "there he sits, one of those wretched beings who look upon the success of a fellow-creature as an unpardonable injury."
Towards the conclusion of the service, however, Malcolm passed into a better mood. The preacher's sermon on the text, "Fellow-workers with God," spoke words of encouragement that went to his heart. The first line of the concluding psalm was, "Unto the upright light doth rise," and no sooner was it read than an outburst of sunshine flooded the building. Then, when the congregation in a long line passed before him to give him the right hand of fellowship, there was warmth in every smile and in every grip. And amongst them, what should he see but the face of Miss Singleton! He was so delighted that he compared her to an angel bringing with her the atmosphere of heaven.
"Miss Smeaton and I," said she, "came this morning. We must make some calls in the town, and then we shall drop in at the manse to have a cup of tea and a long chat."
He left the church full of hope and happiness.As he walked up the High Street, it was with a springy step, so that the gossips standing on the stairheads remarked what a pleasant-looking, active man he was. And when he entered the manse garden at Highfield, he thought that he had never seen a more charming place. The house stood on a site commanding an extensive view of the Firth of Forth, with the castle and spires of Edinburgh distinct against the horizon; and the garden in front, with its green gooseberry bushes and apple trees, sloped towards the sunny south. There, too, in the doorway of his new abode, stood his mother, now in widow's weeds, who had brought herself and her furniture to make a home for him. Truly he thought, "the lines had fallen to him in pleasant places." And after a comfortable lunch, they had a long confidential talk, in which he told about Miss Singleton's intended visit, and gave a glowing account of Miss Singleton herself, and hinted that he intended to ask her to be his wife.
"Then, oh! happiness," he said, "for us three to live in this paradise together! What a blessed helper she will be in my work, and what a kind housekeeper and guardian you will make! It is a prospect almost too good for this world."
They were still talking when the servant came in to say that two ladies were in the drawing-room wishing to see the minister. Malcolm started up, radiant with joy.
"Bring them in here," he cried. "Now, mother, you will see my dearest 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, andwas 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, hadnever 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 saywe, 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 tomymother."
"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 Iknowit; 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 asI'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 hadgreat 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, butit 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 bestBear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His stateIs 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 largefield 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." Eventhe 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, eachrigor 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, fromDave, 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, andit 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 youfor the family doctor, and wants you to prescribe."
"Then," said Mr Tosh, "I shall prescribe a little morebark."
"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. Ishould 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, andsuggested 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 theharvest 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."
Talk about vivisection! There are human beings who are vivisected by their fellow-creatures, sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously. That day at dinner, Miss Winnie Laverock was one of these hapless victims. The operators were Miss Thomasina Stocks and Mr Tosh; and Miss Jaap, with her bold black eyes, was a keen and gratified spectator of the operation.
First, Miss Stocks insisted upon leading back the conversation to the incident in the harvest field, and again and again expressed her astonishment at Winnie's sudden faintness. "What was it made you ill, I wonder? Was it the heat, do you think? For, you know, you were so well and bright a minute before."
Then Mr Tosh, in turn, after his headlong, haphazard manner, took up the subject. He had, he said, been instituting inquiries about that ruffianwho insulted Miss Laverock and made her ill. The fellow, it seemed, called himself Riley, for the nonce at least. Whether it was his real name was very doubtful. Blackguards kept several names, just as decent folks kept several changes of garments, and as soon as one became too soiled, they put on another. Riley was the inseparable pal of Black Morgan, who had the words "burglar" and "garrotter" written on his countenance—yes, written in the Devil's own handwriting. Altogether, this Riley was a bad lot; and those keen eyes and greedy hands must have been inherited from a long line of thieves. He was some desperate criminal in disguise. What if he should turn out to be Crouch, the Glasgow murderer, that they were searching for everywhere?
Under this ruthless talk, poor Miss Laverock sat wincing and quivering and answering at random. At length her host interfered for her relief; and oh! how she thanked him inwardly from the bottom of her heart. Mr Stocks was, what I may be allowed to call, a natural Christian—one who had an instinctive sympathy and consideration for the sufferings of his fellow-creatures. Without the slightest fuss he adroitlydiverted the conversation, by asking if they had heard of the last escapade of Rory Brand, the converted shoemaker: and then he told a most ludicrous incident,—how Rory had been at July Fair on an evangelising mission; how, when he was returning in the gloaming, near Inverarden, he had met a shabby old man, apparently a tramp; how he had addressed him at once as a lost sheep, exhorting him to give up his wandering and lawless life; how he had pressed upon him a tract entitled "Hoary Sinner, Stop!" and how this hoary sinner had turned out to be the saintly Dr Gowans, an ex-Moderator, and Convener of the Church's Missionary Society. In this way the attention of the company was diverted from Miss Laverock, and during the remainder of the dinner she was left in comparative peace.
But after she had retired from the table to her own room, she could not rest. She must see this infatuated young man, and ascertain the reason of his extraordinary condition, and implore him to spare her. The proceeding was dangerous, but at all hazards it must be done. So, without more consideration, she put on her hat and went out.
When Miss Laverock passed through thefarmyard, the shearers had emptied their large basins of oatmeal porridge, and were lapped in that most delicious of all luxuries—rest after a long day of hard labour. On the heap of fragrant grass at the stable door reclined three or four Highlanders, passing the snuff-mull, and exchanging their rather stinted sentiments in their native Gaelic. On a seat improvised by the laying of a plank on two upright stones, sat some pawky Aberdonians enveloped in a small cloud of tobacco fumes. And outside on the road, under a tree, was a group of women, mending their linen as they rested their weary limbs on the cool green turf. On another occasion, Winnie's quick sympathy would have enabled her to appreciate this picture of honest well-earned content. But now, her eyes were searching right and left for one figure; and there he was, seated on a stone opposite the garden gate, and attended by his evil genius, Black Morgan. As she passed him, she gave him a glance, which he understood, for he rose and followed her; and when she had walked a short distance, she turned round, and the two stood face to face, ready for an explanation.