Inchbracken Part 8

It was dark ere all was over, and after singing a hymn the meeting dispersed. Then Roderick remembered the errand of mercy with which he had proposed to himself to conclude his day, and set out at once for Widow Tirpie's cottage, which was about a mile from the village.

Reaching it, he found the daughter on the threshold, gazing motionless towards the western sky, where the last faint gleams of evening still struggled with the coming night. A girl of about twenty, but looking older, worn with care or illness, but with a face superior to her station, she sat like an image of regret, pale-cheeked and thin, with her great dark eyes looking out into the ebbing twilight. She rose on Roderick's approach and followed him inside.

There knelt the mother crouching on the hearth, where with distended cheeks she was endeavouring to blow two peats into a blaze, that she might boil her pot and prepare their evening meal.

Tibbie's husband had been a gamekeeper on the Inchbracken property, her daughter had been employed there as seamstress, and she herself was in some sort a client of the great house. Therefore it was a point of loyalty or policy with her to keep aloof from the Free Church, and occasionally to attend at Kilrundle, but that was not very often, the church being three miles off, and she herself, as she admitted, 'no kirk greedy.' Roderick had not therefore considered her a member of his flock, and knew little of herself or her daughter or their circ.u.mstances. She was poor, but not more so than her neighbours, or much more so now than she had always been, and she had no claim to be described as she had been by Joseph Smiley either in the matter of her poverty or her high principle. She had expected a visit from the minister, and although she had no intention of devolving on him the burden of her support, which she destined for his beadle's shoulders, still she was not averse to profiting by his bounty, and had indeed arranged her little scene so as to justify any touching appeal Joseph might have made on her behalf. She had watched Joseph from the thicket after they parted, and observed his closeting with the minister at the close of the service, and knowing Roderick's eager charity, she had thought it not improbable he might visit her that very evening, and accordingly had arranged the tableau of a scanty supper as more effective than anything she could say; besides that, being honest after her fas.h.i.+on and shrewd, she was unwilling to lie unnecessarily.

Tibbie had risen and followed the minister into the house, looking deprecatingly at her mother over his shoulder. She revolted at the idea of charity-getting, and dreaded the references to her own affairs, which her mother might be led into.

'Here Tibbie!' said the elder woman, 'tak' the stoup an' fesh some water frae the spring on the muir, the minister micht be for a drink; ye hae nae sic water down by in the Glen, sir, sae cauld an' sae caller!'

Tibbie took the stoup, well pleased to get away from whatever conversation might follow.

'I hear you are not very well off, Mrs. Tirpie,' said Roderick, 'and I have come to see if I can give you any help.'

'A' weel, sir! It's thankin' ye kindly a' the same, but I winna complain. Ye can see for yersel'--Some folk can mak oot to live whaur ithers wad starve. But I'm no beggin'.'

'I never heard that you had got relief from the parish, and I know that you have got nothing from us. You know we have a fund, though not a large one, for our poor brethren, and I think it is often quite as usefully employed when we look about for those who are bearing their lot in silence, as when we give to those who claim our help.'

'I dinna belang to yer kirk, sir, an' I hae nae claim on ye ava'; tho'

I canna but say it's whiles gye an' hard for a puir body to gar the twa ends meet. What wi' sickness, an' a' things sae dear, it's a sair fecht for puir folk, whiles, to keep saul an' body thegither. But we maun thole. Them 'at sends a' things kens what's for our gude.' And so on. A spirit of fine st.u.r.dy independence, uncomplaining poverty, and patient trust in Providence, moderately expressed, furnished out a harangue which refreshed the soul of the worthy preacher. If tares must inevitably be found among the standing corn, it is all the more refres.h.i.+ng to the disappointed husbandman to see the good seed springing up outside his enclosure, and Tibbie Tirpie bore the reputation of being a cold and worldly person with the fervid professors among whom he laboured. He felt himself privileged in being allowed to minister a.s.sistance to so much modest worth, and returned home refreshed in spirit.

When he left the cottage the night had closed in, with only the glimmering stars to light him on his way. He walked slowly homewards, musing as he went on the trials and hards.h.i.+ps of the poor, and the pious fort.i.tude and n.o.ble courage with which they so often bear them.

He fell into a reverie, and did not perceive that two men coming down behind him had overtaken and pa.s.sed him. It was quite otherwise with them. Like the owls and other creatures which fly by night, their faculties were all awake.

'Preserve us a! Saw ye e'er the like? Slinkin' hame e'y dark, wi' his head atween 's feet, like a dug scaddet wi' puddin' brue. He ne'er turned round e'en whan we gaed by, like's he thocht shame to meet the glint o' honest folk's e'en.'

'What mean ye? Peter Malloch. Yon's the minister! or I'm sair mistaen, stappin' cannily hame. He's been readin', belike, an' prayin wi' some auld puir body 'at's ower frail to gang t'ey kirk. My certie! but he's the faithfu' servant, 'at sees the folk hae their meat i' due season.

I wuss there were mair like him. It gars a body think shame o' their ain puir fus.h.i.+onless G.o.dliness, to see the gude he's aye after. Ne'er sparin' himsel', but juist spendin,' an' spent for the gude o' ither folk. He'll hae his reward!'

'Man, Tummas, ye're a rael Nathanael! It diz a body gude to hear til ye whiles. Ye hae the charity 'at thinketh no evil, an' mony's the time I'm juist winderin' hoo ye can carry on wi't. Ye do weel to think nae ill, but hoo ye can look about ye, an' stick til't, pa.s.ses me. I dinna see either 'at we're ca'd on to let folk mak a fuil o's wi'

their sough o' G.o.dliness an them nae better than oorsels, but rather waur, seein' what they set up for. I'm thinkin' they're juist maist like whitet sepulchers ower the dead men's banes; an' naebody's ca'd on to think weel o' sic like, ye ken.'

'I see na what ye're drivin' at. But I'se lippen 'til our young minister afore ony man I hae e'er clappit my eyen on!'

'Trust not in princes nor men's sons,' as the Psalm says, 'an' the ministers are kittle cattle to tackle wi'. Saw na ye whause house yon was he cam out o', richt afore yer eyen?'

'I ken Tibbie Tirpie brawly, an' it's her bides up yonder.'

'An' what kind tak ye Tibbie to be? She's no a kirk member ava, I'm thinkin'; a bonny ane for a minister to be sitten' aside a' Sabbath forenicht!'

'I ken naething against her; but gin she be worldly or waur, she has mair need o' the minister's advice.'

'An' there's that hizzie, her dochter! Ye'll be for makin' out the minister was adveesin _her_ belike?'

'An' what for no? Gin she be young an' fu' o' daffin' she'll a' the mair need to be adveesed.'

'Young an' fu' o' daffin'! Ye're for letting her down easy. There's mair wrang nor that, I'm feared. Some folk say she's nae better nor she suld be. But there's nae gude threapin' wi' you. Ye'se think nae harm--ye'se tell me he was sympatheezin wi' her in her misfortun.'

'Whisht man! Let the la.s.sie's gude name be gin ye hae nae proof.'

'But there maun be pruif some gate seein' it's true. The gentles hae heard tell o't. An' what's mair, it's them 'at's sayin' up by at Inchbracken 'at Mister Brown's at the fundation o' the hale mischief.

Sae noo ye ken a' about it, an ye'll own yersel it's gye an' like it, to see him slinkin' up here after dark. An' ye'll mind hoo you an' me saw him bringin' hame the bairn yon mornin' early, whan the roads war that bad there wasna like to be ony body about, to see what he was after. We a' ken hoo he gaed awa for the bairn the verra nicht 'at Tibbie cam hame. Think o't! Tummas. Pet that an' that thegither, an'

syne ye'll may be hae mair charity, an' no be accuisin' me o' evil speakin'. Charity thinketh no evil, sae what for suld ye be thinkin' I wad tak awa a decent la.s.s's gude name? But gin she be na decent, an'

hae nae richt til the gude name, I see nae wrang to say sae. Let the skelpet wein skirl! What says Scripture? Is na the maugistrate for the terror o' evil doers an' the praise o' them 'at do weel? An' be na I wan in authority? The Convener o' the Deacons' Court? Tak tent, Tummas, and dinna be impuitin' yer ain sinfu' thochts til ither folk, an' them folk setten ower ye in the Lord! Speak not evil of dignities!

It's against a' Scripter--an' I may sae as weel, in a' luve and faithfulness, seein I hae a kin' o' charge o' ye, an' may hae to gie account, ye're juist a wee pridefu' whiles, an' ower set in yer ain notions, for a humble private member o' the kirk. Think o't, Tummas, an' lay't to heart!'

Tummas was silenced, fairly overthrown and carried away by the torrent of words, and every meek stirring of self-a.s.sertion completely devoured out. He had meant to defend his pastor from what he thought were improbable and poorly supported suspicions; but he was meek and diffident, and accustomed to be over-borne by his arrogant companion, so he held his peace, content to cherish unuttered the a.s.surance that there was some mistake, and to leave time to disabuse others of their misconceptions.

CHAPTER XI.

_AN EXCURSION_.

Mrs. Sangster decided that Mr. Wallowby ought to see something of the country during his stay. An excursion was planned, and to introduce some appearance of novelty into the party, the Rev. Roderick was summoned to join the expedition.

It was an early September morning when they started from Auchlippie.

Peter drove the phaeton, and his friend sat beside him on the box.

Inside were the ladies and the minister, in his quality of priest, or one of the third s.e.x, which, as though not either male or female, possesses all the claims to deference of both, and owes the duties of neither. Roderick sat in the back seat beside his hostess, while the two young ladies faced him. The two gentlemen on the box looked back from time to time with some remark which was gaily responded to by the ladies, and Roderick occasionally joined in with a quiet jest. The presence of Sophia filled his mind with happiness too deep for merriment, and there she sat before him in full view.

Sophia being a placid person abounding in the beauty of repose, had worked her spell upon him more by looks, which he had interpreted into sympathy, and what he chose to imagine the beauty of her virgin soul, than by anything she had ever said. Looking in her eyes he had dreamt of all that was loveliest and then fancied he saw it there. Another Narcissus, he had gazed in their crystal depths, and, mistaking his own reflection for the spirit of the flood, had fallen in love with it.

It made little matter to him that they were in the midst of a merry company, he could sun himself in the presence that was so much of his own creating all the same, and save that he was more silent than at other times, no one could have observed any departure from his usual bearing. Sophia was aware of his mute observance, and thought it 'very nice,' she was used to it, and it required from her no irksome effort in response, which, as her thinking part was neither imaginative nor emotional, and somewhat sluggish besides, was comfortable. The contrast between Roderick's quiet and the lively loquacity of Mr.

Wallowby, told all in favour of the former; for although Mary and her mother with their greater readiness relieved her from the necessity of reply, it was mortifying thus to realize her own slowness, and she found the constant smiling and laughter over jests whose point she had missed, fatiguing to her facial muscles, and at last she took refuge in a private chat with Roderick as to whether he thought the day would keep fine and such like weighty matters.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Loch Gorton and Inchbracken. Page 79.]

They drove across the upland moors and the ridge dividing Glen Effick from the neighbouring valley of the Gorton, and down Gorton side to where it spreads into the lake of the same name. At that point it is crossed by a bridge, the road pa.s.sing an old posting inn which looks down the loch, and is backed by Craig Findochart, the highest mountain of the district, and the goal of the day's expedition.

Loch Gorton is a basin among the hills, deep and narrow at its upper end, but broadening and shallowing towards its base. It fills the mouth of a valley whose precipitous slopes crowd down upon the water at its head, but draw back in lessening and ever-widening undulations from the lower end. Near the outlet is the broad low island of Inchbracken, connected with the mainland by a narrow neck of land.

Here in the old time stood the castle of the Drysdales, commanding the isthmus, which they cut across and commanded by a drawbridge. The moat is filled up now, and the square old keep, ivy-grown and ruinous, has sunk into a mere picturesque feature in the shrubbery of the modern mansion.

Leaving their phaeton at the Bridge of Gorton Inn, the party secured a guide, and proceeded to ascend the hill. A steep footpath led across several enclosed fields, and brought them through a stretch of oak copsewood to a track of open pasture, whence they could look down on the lake spread out at their feet, while the great purple mountain reared its steep shoulders above them, swelling in broad sweeps of heath backward and upward to the beetling crags far up, thrusting their jagged outlines into the sky, and shutting out the climber from the distant summit.

The belt of pasture past, climbing began in earnest. The s.h.a.ggy heather was knee deep in many places, and every here and there the rocky knuckles of the mountain projected through the peaty soil.

The party began to straggle. Mary, sound of wind and limb, light-footed and active, was in front with the guide. Peter and Wallowby toiled closely behind, the latter showing the first signs of distress in shortening breath, and handkerchief applied occasionally to his brow. Mrs. Sangster followed in steady mechanical fas.h.i.+on. Her fifty odd summers had no doubt impaired the elasticity of her frame, but had left behind a fund of tough endurance and st.u.r.dy will, which did very well in its stead. Sophia and Roderick brought up the rear, the coolest and calmest of the party. Her fine physique made the exertion both light and pleasant, and her tranquil soul supplied a wellspring of inward coolness, which even hill-climbing was unable to overheat, while Roderick by her side among the suns.h.i.+ne and the ever-widening view, walked on air, held forth at will, and dreamed aloud in words overflowingly; while his placid companion smiled and looked at him out of her beautiful eyes, listening, and sometimes understanding what he said. The path became steeper after a while, and Mrs. Sangster stopped to take breath, looking around the while for the others.

Mary and the young men were perched upon a rock high over her head, and when she looked down Roderick and Sophia came calmly following her. It seemed too much that Mary should monopolize not only Peter (though that was well enough), but also the wealthy party from Manchester, who had been sent by Providence, as she still thought, to open a larger sphere of usefulness to her daughter; meaning really, if self-delusion would ever let us speak plainly to ourselves, a carriage and pair and a handsome establishment. The ice between the two had been hard to break, what better way could there be to thaw it, than the small difficulties and adventures of a mountain ramble? And here the stupid girl was letting her opportunity escape, and trifling it away with a young man whom she could beckon to her side any day, and could always fall back upon if more ambitious aims did not succeed. A more worldly or a more single-minded mamma would no doubt have spoken plainly to her daughter, and so might have influenced that not very perspicuous person more effectually, but Mrs. Sangster had the misfortune to be looking two ways at once, or like the boatman in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, she looked one way while she pulled the other.

She loved and appreciated the good things of the world, as thoroughly as any one, but at the same time she was wont to say, and to really think that she thought they were a snare, or dross, in comparison with higher interests. She could not bring her tongue to frame such advice to her daughter as would in any way derogate from true religion, or the old-fas.h.i.+oned 'true, true love,' she had thought and sang of in her own youth. She could only suggest and influence in a half-ashamed sort of way. But she was disappointed and mortified that a daughter of hers should be so wanting in common sense. After all the advantages of her upbringing, how came it that she should fail of that well-regulated mind, which, seeing both sides of a question, can both say what is 'nice' in regard to the higher, and at the same time follow the more profitable. The thing requires a little casuistry, but it must be of the unspoken kind. It cannot be decently uttered, so each must work it out alone in those secret chambers of the brain, where not the prying eye of conscience even may intrude. Any one would feel annoyed at a carefully and expensively-educated daughter throwing herself away, and all the proud hopes that have been formed for her, on a poor match; yet openly to preach the mercenary would be infamy.

So felt Mrs. Sangster, and she was greatly disturbed; for hers was virtue of the uncomfortable, rather than of the heroic kind,--it could not make her choose the better way, but it would reproach her if she followed the worse. As for Sophia, her mother wronged her if she suspected her of unwisely preferring the good to the profitable. She was only dull. Money and all it could buy would, she felt, be delightful to have, but she did not feel equal to winning it. Roderick had looked and succ.u.mbed to her beauty, and it would be very pleasant if Mr. Wallowby would do likewise; it would be grand,--and no personal preference should prevent her making her fortune; but if Mr. Wallowby was only to be captured by something she was to do, she resigned the idea at once; she felt she could do nothing, and the very idea of doing anything to win his regard made her ashamed, which was what might have been expected. If people will bring up their girls to be high-minded and good, they have no right to expect scheming and meanness from them after they are grown.

'Oh, Mr. Roderick,' said Mrs. Sangster, 'I fear I must ask you to take pity on an old woman. This climbing is hot work, with the sun beating down so on my old back. I can bear the weight of my shawl no longer.

If there was only a breeze! But the air seems stagnant, and my old limbs are not what they once were.'