Inchbracken: The Story of a Fama Clamosa

  CHAPTER IX.

  _THE BABY_.

  The moorland overhanging the scene of the 'exercises' was alwaysdotted over at their conclusion, with straggling companies of theworshippers returning home. At each branching of paths they wouldseparate and change again to break up and separate further at freshjunctions, till at length the whole assemblage had dissipated itselfover the extensive tract and disappeared.

  The air freshened by a breeze was so warm and bright that it temptedto linger in friendly gossip, especially those whose week spent insome remote nook among the hills brought never a stranger to theirdoor or a scrap of news. Some of the villagers, too, chose the moor asa roundabout way home, where they would meet more acquaintances thanon the hot and dusty road, and while obtaining the air and exercise,avoid the sinfulness or disrepute of taking a walk upon the Sabbathday. Those from a distance had brought refreshments, and were nowseated in the neighbourhood of some clear spring discussing theirsimple meal of scones and cheese and hard boiled eggs.

  Seated in such a group were old Angus Kilgour, crofter, and StephenBoague, shepherd, with their respective wives and families. Boague'soffspring were three tow headed children who played noisily with acouple of dogs till their father interfered and bade them 'mind it wasthe Sabbath-day,' and called the dogs away. The young Kilgours wereolder, a big lad who carried a basket for his mother, a couple ofgirls competing, it seemed, for the favourable notice of a youthbetween them, a not unwilling captive to their charms, but stilluncertain to which he should surrender, and another daughter whosetardy arrival was delaying the family repast.

  'What hae ye in yon creel? Mistress,' cried Kilgour to his wife. 'Wecan bide nae langer for Meizie, she'll be danderin' alang wi' somelaad nae doubt and niver thinkin' o' hiz. Here wi' yer creel, Johnnie!an' gie's a bannack a' round. I'm rael hungry. An' syne we'll hae apipe, Stephen Boague, you an' me, an' here comes Peter Malloch, he's agraund chield for a crack. Hech! Peter Malloch, sit down, ye'll eat abit, an' hae ye settled yet about pettin' up the new kirk?'

  'A weel I'm thinkin' we'll hae't settled braw an' sure noo. We'se geta piece off Widdie Forester's kale-yard be like, gin we can raise thesiller. We'll hae to mak an effort to do that, as Mester Dowlas says,an' it'll be a kittle job, but pet a stiff shouther till a stey brae,as the folk says. We maun ca' a meetin' I'm thinkin', an' hae him tospeak, he's a graund man to crack the bawbees out o' folk's pouches.'

  'Ou ay!' ejaculated Stephen, 'He's a gude man, but unco worldly! He'saye cryin' about the pennies an' the sustentation fund. Nae fear o'_him_ gaun a warfare at his ain charges!'

  'An' belike ye'd cry about the pennies yersel', Stephen Boague, ginye'd naething else to lippin til.'

  'Weel, that was aye what I liket best about the auld Kirk! A' thingwas proveedet, "without money an' without price," an' that's Scripter.Juist the sincere milk of the word an' naething to pay for't!'

  'I'd think shame o' mysel', Stephen Boague,' broke in his wife, 'tospeak like that! An' ca' ye yon the word at's preached up by atKilrundle? A curran Erastian havers! Settin' up the law o' the landower the word o' God, an' the will o' the Coort o' Session abune theGeneral Assembly o' the Kirk! My certie! I'se no ca' yon the milk o'the word. It's grown sooer wi' ill keepin'! A wersh savourless gospel,for puir starved sauls, hungerin' for the truith an' gettin' naethingbut a clash o' cauld parritch!'

  A weel! gude wife, _ye_ maun hae yer say, but gin ye had to fin' thepennies ye'd maybe no be sae glib! an' but twa e'y pouch to buy thesneeshin'.'

  'Haud yer tongue, Stephen! an' fill yer pipe,' said the hospitableAngus, 'It's no expecket that the puir man's to pay the same as theweel-aff folk, out o' their abundance.'

  'An' wha's the man to say that Stephen Boague did na pay his way thebest? I'd like to ken. Na, na! It's juist anither patch on the auldbreeks, an' weel the gude wife kens whaur to clap it on! an' thesiller's saved. But a man beut to hae his grum'le.'

  'An' wasna yon a fine preachin' the day?' asked Peter Malloch, whobeing a deacon, felt bound to lead the conversation into an improvinggroove, especially for the good of the young, and Meizie had nowjoined the circle followed by William the footman at Inchbracken,absent on leave to visit his sick mother.

  'A grand sermon!' said Mr. Kilgour, 'an' was na he bonny about theShulamite? Tho' I'm free, to say I kenna verra weel wha she was. ButI'm misdoubtin' but she was some thochtless young hempie 'at kennedna' weel what she was after--An' hoo' he cried til her to return!'

  'That was the wanderin' sauls o' sinfu' folk,' said Peter clearing hisvoice for an extended exposition, but he got no farther, for Williamhere brought the pious abstract down to the concrete and personal bybreaking in.

  'An' saw na ye hoo young Tibbie Tirpie, sittin' awa back wi' thehindmost took to the greetin', an' down wi' her head, an' up wi' herneepkin, like's a' the minister was sayin' was for her.'

  'Hech laddie!' said Mrs. Kilgour, 'an' what for no? we hae a' wanderedfrae the truith. The word was powerfu', an' wha kens but it may haereached her heart. An' micht it no hae reached yer ain as weel,William?'

  'An' that's true! Mistress Kilgour, an' nae doubt but it wull belivewhan the Lord sees fit. But it was yersel' was speakin' about theShulamite an' winderin' gin she micht na hae been some thochtlesshempie, juist mentioned ye ken for our edification--an' it kind o'looket like's she had taen 't a' to heart. Wha kens?'

  'Whish man! Think shame! Ye maunna be lichtlyin' a lass's repute fornaething. Naething but greetin' e'y kirk. An' that diz her credit. Itwad be weel, lad, gin yer ain flinty heart wad melt as easy.'

  'Belike it wad, Mistress Boague, but I'm jalousin''--

  Here Meizie interposed to save her young man from the threateningonslaught of the matrons by a change of subject. 'Yon's a braw mucklebairn o' Jean Cameron's, an' was na Sandie the proud man whan he heldit up to the minister?'

  'A fine bairn! an' sae war the ither twa. An' didna the minister laythe vows tichtly on the fathers. Gin they stick til a' they haepromised this day, the weins will get a godly upbringin'. An' didnaour ain minister look solemn whan he held up yon bonny wee thing, tobe baptised. An' it neither grat nor skirled whan the water fall onits bit face, 'ats no the size o' a saxpence.'

  'I'm wae it didna skirl,' said Mrs. Kilgour. It's aye a gude sign. Mygude-mither wad aye be sayin' it was a sign the Deil was losin' itshauld o' the bairn.'

  'Ye've no warrant in Scriptur for that, Mistress,' said Peter. 'It's asuperstitious notion, an' I'm misdoubtin' but it's a rag o' the whooro' Babylon.'

  'A weel! I kenna mysel, but mine skirled weel. I had to rin out wi'Meisie there, or she'd hae deaved the hale kirk wi' her screighin'.An' see til her noo! for a braw sonsey lass. The pruif o' the puddin'sthe preein' o' 't. Babylon or no!'

  'An' wha's the Minister's wein ca'd after?'

  'On Miss Mary be sure! She carried her in.'

  'An' wha's acht it? That's what I want to ken, an' that's what theminister disna ken himsel',' said Mrs. Boague. 'I had a' about it fraeLuckie Howden, an' she's nane sae weel pleased that Eppie Ness hasgotten the tent o' 't, by her. An' her keppin' the minister's teapatin her corner cupboard. They micht hae leuten her turn a penny on thebairn. But ye see they're sleepin' down by at Eppie's, an' sae she'sgotten Miss Mary's lug, an' says what she likes intil't. But its juistthe way o' the warld. The puir maun aye to the wa'. But as I wassayin' the minister gaed ower til Mary yon ae dark nicht, an' themornin after he brocht hame this bit bairnie in his arms. An' hethinks the Lord gied it til him. He fand it lyin' on the sands atEffick Mouth, a' happit up in the finest o' claes, an' he thinks itmaun be a leddy's bairn washed ashore by the sea, when some big shipan' a' body intil't was lost in the storm. It's a queer tale, an it'srael gude o' thae twa young folk to tak up wi' the puir wee stray, anbe at a' chairges.'

  'It's a verra queer tale,' said Peter Malloch.

  'A verra queer tale, nae doubt,' repeated William. 'The gentles wascrackin' ower't ae fore nicht, ower their denner u
p by at Inchbracken,an' a curious story they made out o't, but ye hae na juist the hingo't as _they_ had it, Mistress Boague. Odd sak! my heart fairly lap i'my mouth to hear them, an' I a' but cowpet the dish wi' the wine sasson my Leddy's saitin gown. Gin it hadna been for the look Mester Smiththe butler gied me, I'd hae let it fa', that's sure, an' syne I michthae hanged mysel', for it's ne'er inside the dinin'-room door I'd haebeen leuten again. The General wad hae ordered me out himsel'. He'llstand nae flousterin' frae the attendance I'se tell ye.'

  'But ye hae na telled us what the gentles said yet, William. Belike yewar that frichtet ye hae forgotten't a'.'

  'I'se no forget it in a hurry. But I canna sae weel rehearse't, atweenwhat they said, an' what they garred a body think, tho' aiblins theymayna hae puiten their tongue til't. For it's no a thing a body daursay afore her leddyship. But Mistress Briggs, my leddy's woman kens a'about it, an' it was her telled Miss Finlayson. She kens what's beenado wi' Tibbie Tirpie this lang while back. An' she was comin' owerfrae Inverlyon e'y mail coach that dark nicht the minister gaed forthe bairn, an' wha suld the driver put in aside her but Tibbie Tirpie?He said it was a sair nicht for a lassie to travel her lane across themuir, sae he juist in wi' her an' stieket the door. An' deil a wordshe spak to Mistress Briggs the hale road, juist pu'd the plaid owerher face an' grat an' sabbet a' the time. Mistress Briggs, ye see, isverra genteel an' parteeklar, an' was for complainin', about folkbein' puiten in aside her, an' sae she telled Miss Finlayson whan shecam hame, an' the day, ye see, it cam a' back on me, when I seenTibbie greetin' an' carryin' on e'y kirk. An' whan she gaed slinkin'hame afore the weins were brocht into baptise, thinks I to mysel',aiblins Miss Finlayson's no that far wrang!'

  'I see na muckle in yer story, William,' said Angus, 'but I think thegentles micht hae better to do, nor prankin' wi' the gude name o' apuir lass 'at ne'er wranged them. An' ye're ill-aff for a job yersel'to be carryin' their clashes about the country side.'

  'But ye hae na heard me out yet. It was that same dark nicht theminister gaed ower til Inverlyon. An' next mornin' he brings hame thebairn. An' wha suld he meet on the brae-head, think ye, but CaptainDrysdale, (the auld captain). An' the captain speers "wha's acht thebairn," an' the minister he durstna tell, an' he looket terribleblate. An' the captain he leugh, an' the minister he grew mad, an' thecaptain he says--says he, "keep up yer heart," or, "dinna be owerdown-cast, it's nae great matter, gin it be a bairn--it's a verra sma'ane"--an' that's the captain's ain words.'

  'Preserve us a'!' ejaculated Mrs. Boague, 'Diz the sin grow heavierwi' the wecht o' the bairn? Fau'se doctrine I'se wager! But that comeso' sittin' under a moderate minister! There's saul's bluid lyin' atthe door o' that prophet o' Baaul, up by at Kilrundle.'

  'But wha wad hae thocht the like o' Roderick Brown?' said Angus, 'an'I maun hae pruif or I can tak it in. I hae kenned him man an' laddiesin afore he kenned himsel', an' I kenned auld Doctor Brown weel,--an'a gude man he was--an' I canna thole to think he cud gang sae farastray.'

  'It hings thegither tho',' said Peter Malloch, 'an' I'm sairmisdoubtin' but things are na a' thegither as they suld be. An' thatminds me, as I was gaun til Inverlyon no lang syne, we lichted fraethe coach gaun doon the brae, an' wha suld be comin' up but MesterBrown. It maun hae been that verra day, for he had a bundle in's arms,an' says my neighbour to me, laughin'-like, it micht be a bairn, thati' the minister's arms. An' as for him he wadna forgather, like he mayhae been blate, but juist gaed by wi' hardly the time o' day to throwtil a dug. An' me the Convener o' the Deacons' Coort! I ance thochthim a gude young man, but he's verra pridefu'. An' he winna be guidetby them 'ats aulder an' mair experienced nor himsel'. An' pride ye kencomes afore destruction, an' a hauchty speerit afore a fa'. So saysscripter. Pride's deadly sin, ye ken, an' wan sin brings on anither.I'm sair misdoubtin' but there may be some fundation. But it'sterrible to think on. A minister o' the Free Protestin' Kirk o'Scotland, and _our_ minister--hiz 'at's corned out o' Egyp', leavin'kirk and steeple an' a' ahint us, intil the leeteral wilderness, wi'naething but a bit umbrelly belike to keep aff the ren an' the snaw.Hiz wha's praise is in all the churches, as Mester Dowlas tells us,for our persecuitions--to think _our_ minister suld gae wrang! Mycertie, we's cast out the unclean thing frae amang us, to perish likeanither Aachan without the camp!'

  'An' him sae young! an' sae gude to the puir folk!' said Mrs. Kilgour.'I'se no believe the like o' him or ony ither minister, till it'spruived on him.'

  'Ministers are but men, woman,' sighed Mrs. Boague, 'an' the flesh isweak. I'm misdoubtin' but it's an ower true tale.'

  The subject of this discussion concluded his Gaelic sermon in duecourse, all unconscious of the havoc that was being made of hisreputation. Ere he left the tent he was addressed by the assiduousJoseph, who described to him the case of Widow Tirpie, reduced to sadstraits and threatened with destitution as the consequence of the longand severe illness of her daughter. Like others whose charity takesthe form of urging their neighbours to give, Joseph used his very bestskill to rouse his master's sympathy, and grew both picturesque andpathetic in describing these paragons of honest independence andvirtuous poverty;--the empty meal girnel, the daughter weakened bysickness, perhaps sinking into a decline and unable to work, and themother depriving herself of such necessary food as still remained tonourish her child, and stave off a little longer the inevitable daywhen they must come on the parish. The eloquence was so far useless,in that Roderick would in any case have done what he could for any onein want, but he was surprised as well as rejoiced to have discerned atlast so fervid a charity in one he had hitherto regarded as cold andworldly. He made no doubt that Joseph's deeds had been guided by thesame warm sympathy as his words, and while promising to see the widowthat evening or the next day, he made him a present to reimburse himfor any imprudent outlay into which his feelings might have led him.Joseph accepted it, and when, later in the evening he added it to the'pose' which awaited his next journey to Inverlyon and the SavingsBank, he chuckled over the good young man's simplicity and his ownshrewdness.

  When Roderick arrived at home he found Mary at liberty at last. PeterSangster and Mr. Wallowby had both accompanied her from church withEppie Ness and the baby, and had even lingered on for some time,despite the manifest displeasure of Mrs. Sangster, as she drove awaywith Sophia and Mr. Dowlas; but the young men had set themselves towatch each other, and see each that the other made no advance inMary's favour to his own detriment. Neither would withdraw and leavethe other in possession of the field--rivalry having made both fancythemselves more interested than either would have been but for thecompetition.

  Peter believed he had a prior claim owing to his previousacquaintance, which he had meant to strengthen during his presentvisit to the North, though perhaps on a more condescending footingthan he saw he need now attempt. He had thought to maintain anintimacy without committing himself, and eventually, in the uncertainfuture, if it suited, to come forward with his proposal, and beaccepted of course. Like a timid bather standing breast-high in thewater, he found himself pushed from his shelf of standing ground intodeep water, where he must strike out at once or go under. He wasaggrieved that his guest should so deliberately and immediately sethimself to cut him out, and he thought, too, that his sister was beingslighted most ungraciously.

  As for Mr. Wallowby, he thought nothing about it. He was rich andgood-looking, or at least his whiskers were cut according to the mostapproved pattern of the time, and he was accustomed to have ladiesmake themselves agreeable to him. He speedily decided that Sophia wasrather heavy, and he imagined from the first moment he saw her, thatMary would be more amusing, and therefore strove to improve theacquaintance. It is probable that would have been all but for Peter'sairs of proprietorship in the girl and his too obvious endeavours tomake him (Wallowby) interest himself in the young lady of the house asher due. This was more than man or lady-killer could stand, and theresult was keen rivalry and strained diplomatic relations, which didnot promise increased cordiality for the morrow, whe
n they were toshoot in each other's company.

  As for Mary, being indifferent to both, she probably preferred takingthem together. Each kept the other on his mettle, which preventeddulness, and she could not but be amused with the cross looks shedetected now and then passing between them. Still one may have toomuch of anything, and she was not sorry when a clatter of plates anddishes in Eppie's part of the house was accepted by the visitors as awarning to depart.

  Roderick came in very shortly after. Mary met him with slippers anddressing-gown, and drew forward his father's old leather chair fromits corner, to receive his weary frame, and recruit his strength forthe Bible-class and other activities still to be gone through. Shethen brought the baby, and seated herself with it in a low chair nearhim.

  'Did you ever see such lovely eyes, Roderick?'

  Of course Roderick never had.

  'Or such a dainty little mouth?'

  Again such a mouth was never seen before, nor such intelligence, norsuch a dear divine little image ever before. It was the firstrevelation of babyhood that had appeared in their lives, and theyworshipped and wondered and reverently served, as every good soulmust, before the mystery of a dawning spirit.

  'It is strange,' said Roderick, after a while, 'that no enquiry shouldhave come from any one about this little Mary of ours. I shallcertainly not be sorry if no one comes to claim her. She is more thanwelcome to all that I can give her; but those she belongs to can haveno idea what a precious little darling she is, or they would havereclaimed her ere now. My letter was printed conspicuously enough inthe _Witness_, but it has led to nothing, not one enquiry. You willhave noticed in the paper that Lord Briarhill and Mrs. Steele went toInverlyon and identified a daughter-in-law, the wife of their son,Major Steele in India, in one of the bodies washed ashore from thewreck of the 'Maid of Cashmere,' which must be the ship I saw perishthat fearful night. To tell you the truth I have been expecting aletter from his Lordship ever since, claiming the baby; for thedrowned lady I saw, and who I make no doubt was baby's mother, wasjust what one might suppose Major Steele's wife to be like. When youwrite to our uncle you might mention the circumstance, and also askhim if there is any other step I should take to find relations for thelittle one. I am sure I had better not write him myself, till he coolsdown upon the church question, and that will take years, I fear. Sopray write, dear, during the week.'

  News was not diffused so freely five and thirty years ago as it isnow. The mails, excepting between Edinburgh and Glasgow, were stillcarried by mail coaches, but people having never known anythingbetter, were quite satisfied, nay proud of the free intercommunicationbetween different parts of the kingdom, and newspapers were issuedonly once or twice a week. Further, Roderick's newspaper was oneaddressed to an ecclesiastical rather than a commercial or sea-faringpublic, and therefore his communication about the child was lesslikely to be noticed than it would have been in some other journal.However, in this instance a different mode of advertising would havemattered little. Lord Briarhill was not aware that a child accompaniedhis daughter-in-law, and it was not till many weeks later, that helearned from a letter received by a mail long overdue that a baby hadbeen born a fortnight before she sailed, and had been carried withher. By that time the circumstance of a child having been picked upalive, had quite escaped his lordship's memory, if indeed he had everbeen informed of it. Mrs. Major Steele, too, belonged to a family inthe Indian Civil Service, she had been born in India herself, andthere her father and near relatives resided, so that, excepting theold judge, there was no one in Scotland interested in the matter.

  Mary's letter was not written, owing to an invitation from Mrs.Sangster to spend the week at Auchlippie, and help to entertain thevisitors. The conversation was forgotten by brother and sister alike,and affairs drifted on in their own way.