Inchbracken Part 16

'But you _ought_ to have done something. If you had behaved with becoming propriety and decorum, he never would have had the courage to write. But you never had proper spirit! Go to your room, Miss!'

Sophia withdrew in open-eyed amazement. She was not p.r.o.ne to tears, and under long habitude had become somewhat callous to strong language. Her mother's ebulition merely added an accession to the bewilderment Roderick's letter was already occasioning her. Other girls in the parish had been married, and it seemed to her, that, somehow, their bridegrooms must have spoken or written to express their wishes, else how came they to be known? and none of these had been more frequent visitors at the homes of their future brides, than had Roderick been at her father's. The imputation of unmaidenliness, then, had been only one of her mother's tantrums, things she had been used to all her life, and knew to contain more noise than mischief.

She must not return an answer to the letter--that seemed all the outburst meant, and it was rather a relief to her to think so, for, to tell the truth, she would not have known what to say. Roderick's grave and sacramental way of putting the matter, seemed to make any light and ordinary answer akin to blasphemy, and how otherwise was one to answer, where feelings were barely up to the level of commonplace? So she sat herself down with her hands in her lap, and thought afresh over her remarkable letter.

Mrs. Sangster walked up and down her room, 'frying,' as her cook would have said, with indignation, at this abandoned young man, who, steeped in iniquity, had yet dared to raise his eyes to her dovecot. She would have liked to hound him through every court of the Church, and to let loose every cur in the parish at his heels; but after what Mr.

Sangster had said about actions for libels, and the Court of Session, there was no use thinking of that. She stamped her foot in her impatience, and anon wiped her eyes, as she thought of the pathetic helplessness of her gentle and interesting s.e.x. No notice should be taken of the letter; that was as much as she could venture on. But how had it come? That was worth knowing.

Repairing to the kitchen, she learned that the minister's man who brought it was still hanging about the premises. Then thinking to pump him more conveniently, she bethought her of a new shelf for the store-room, and sent for Joseph to give him the order. He appeared, but with no great show of alacrity, and it was not till he had heard orders given for his subsequent refreshment, and had actually fingered the lady's coin, that he began to show something like interest.

'And what's the news in Glen Effick, Joseph?'

'No muckle, mem. Tarn Jamieson's coo's gotten a cauf. I'm thinkin'

that's about a'.'

'And your master the minister? No news about him?'

'Weel mem, he's lyin' sin' yester mornin', whan he cam hame frae Gortonside. But I'm thinkin' ye ken better about that nor me. Folk says ye an' him got a terrible dookin' e'y burn, up by on Findochart.

An' gin it hadna been for him ye'd ne'er hae gotten out ava, mem. An'

noo it's a' ower, the folk says he's like to dee o't.'

'Indeed, we had a most trying time, Joseph, and have much cause for thankfulness, in having escaped as we did, and I hope Mr. Brown's illness will not prove serious. But, tell me, are there no reports or rumours about him circulating in the village?'

'I kenna what ye're drivin' at, mem, I'm sure.'

'There is, then, nothing stirring down the Glen at all?'

'I ken o' naething, mem.'

'Widow Tirpie's girl has come home again I hear, and looks poorly.'

Joseph started slightly, and glanced suspiciously under his eyelids, but he answered impa.s.sively enough.

'I heard sae, mem, but I haena seen her mysel.'

'And is n.o.body's name a.s.sociated in the village with that?' Joseph, in his discomposure, missed his hammer stroke, and gave himself a severe rap on the thumb, which with a gulp he transferred to his mouth.

'I'm no sure 'at I guess what ye're drivin' at, mem.'

'And about her child?' continued Mrs. Sangster, still intent on learning something.

'I ne'er heard tell that she had ane,' said Joseph, waxing more and more uneasy.

'Do the people ever remark a likeness between her and the baby Miss Brown has adopted, for instance?'

Joseph turned round and looked Mrs. Sangster in the face; he felt relieved he was safe, but he was also astonished.

'I hae na heard ony body speakin' that gate; an' gin I micht mak sae free, mem, do you see ony yersel?'

'You are a canny man, Joseph, but I think the more of you for it. It would not do for you to be disclosing your master's secrets, but you must remember you are the servant of the church as well, and that she has the highest claim on your fidelity, and I don't mind saying to you that I see a very remarkable resemblance, notwithstanding that the eyes are of a different colour, and the hair fair instead of dark.

That's what makes it so remarkable! The features are all different, there is nothing that can be set aside as a mere accidental coincidence, and yet the likeness is so manifest to me! Do you really mean that n.o.body in the village has noticed it?'

'Deed, mem, an' I hae na juist heard quite sae muckle as that. But ye see we're plenn folk down by, an' maun look til our betters for guidance, whiles?'

'Very true. But what are they saying about it all?'

'I hae telled ye a' I ken, mem, an' that's naething.'

'And what do you think yourself, then, of all these rumours and suspicions that are flying about? Can it really be possible that Mr.

Brown is the father of that infant, do you think?'

'G.o.d forbid, mem, that our young minister suld hae sae far fa'en frae grace! I wad houp for the best! But it's an auld an' true sayin', that there's aye water whaur the stirk's drooned, an we ken oursels there's nae reek but whaur there's burnin'.'

But come now, Joseph, is not Mr. Brown constantly going to see those women after dark? And does he not give them a great deal of money?'

'He's been there, mem, I ken, but he gangs to a' body; it's his wark.

An' he's gien them siller, but he's aye doin' that as weel, whan he thinks folk want it. I see na weel 'at that need tell against him.

Hooever, as ye say yersel', the suspeecion wad na licht, athout some grund. It's a bad job.'

CHAPTER XIX.

_SUBORNATION OF PERJURY_.

It was late in the afternoon when Joseph started homewards. He had spent a cheerful day, and was in the best of spirits. The servants at Auchlippie had been most hospitable, and his friend Jean a.s.siduous in replenis.h.i.+ng his cog from the kitchen beer-barrel; she had been gay and saucy in the extreme, and her dexterity with tongue and fist, whenever he went beyond the permitted limit, had excited his sincere respect and admiration.

'A clever c.u.mmer 'at can haud her ain wi' the next ane! An' hech, but she's gleg!' was Joseph's admiring soliloquy, as he tramped down the road.

'She's gotten a pose e'y bank, an' her granny's a bien auld body, wi'

naebody else to leave her gear til,' he continued, 'wha kens?' but here the soliloquy died into deeper reflection, and he tramped along in meditative silence. How comfortable and respected he might be, established in the granny's croft, as master, with Jean to minister to him and keep things brisk, with an occasional pa.s.sage of wordy warfare. But the shadow of Tibbie rose in his mind and blocked the path. She would forbid the banns and involve his schemes in utter confusion, unless she could be quieted.

He thought over his conversation with Mrs. Sangster. Oh! If Tibbie had only been there to hear it too! Some idea might have struck her, that would have induced her to loosen her hold on him, and try for higher game. We can but judge others by ourselves, and he knew that with himself an arithmetical consideration was the weightiest that could be presented, and that a pretext by which pounds might be extorted unjustly, would seem more attractive than an honest claim which could only be realized in s.h.i.+llings and pence. If she would only slacken her hold on him for a very little while, he thought he could manage that she should never renew it again.

So reflecting, he reached home. It was Sat.u.r.day evening, and there were the usual preparations to make on the braeside for the services of the morrow, and thither he now repaired.

The evening's shadows were gathering round the tent, and creeping up the brae--sad and transparent like ghosts of the good resolutions begotten there last Sunday, and since then smothered and trampled to death in the hurry and busy turmoil of the world's life; or so they might have appeared had any pious and pensive soul been there to witness them, but there were none such. Only Tibbie Tirpie rose from the tent or pulpit steps, to confront Joseph as he approached key in hand.

'Tibbie? Hoo's a' wi' ye, woman? A sicht o' ye's gude for sair e'eri.'

It's lang sin' we hae forgathered.'

'Juist sin' last Sawbith! An' ye hae na dune as ye said ye wad, yet--sae the langer time the mair shame to ye.'

'Ye canna weel say that noo, Tibbie! come! I said I wad speak t'ey minister for ye, an' there's naebody e'y clachan but kens he gied ye siller. Was na that keepin' tryst?'

'What kind o' a gowk do ye tak me for, Joseph Smiley? Think ye ye'r to slip through my fingers that gate? Ye ken brawly it's no the minister's siller I'm seekin', it's yours, an yersel' alang wi't. An'

that I'se hae, an gin ye winna richt my la.s.sie by fair means, I'se gang to Mester Sangster an' the minister an' shame ye, an that'll be the last o' yer bederals.h.i.+p, an' the end o' ye a' thegither round Glen Effick. Think ye I'll let ye aff o' the scathe, when my puir Tib has to thole the scorn?'