CHAPTER LXI: MISS HORN AND THE PIPER
When Miss Horn bethought herself that night, in prospect of returning home the next day, that she had been twice in the company of the laird and had not even thought of asking him about Phemy, she reproached herself not a little; and it was with shame that she set out, immediately on her arrival, to tell Malcolm that she had seen him. No one at the House being able to inform her where he was at the moment, she went on to Duncan's cottage. There she found the piper, who could not tell her where his boy was, but gave her a hearty welcome, and offered her a cup of tea, which, as it was now late in the afternoon, Miss Horn gladly accepted. As he bustled about to prepare it, refusing all assistance from his guest, he began to open his mind to her on a subject much in his thoughts—namely, Malcolm's inexplicable aversion to Mrs Stewart.
"Ta nem of Stewart will pe a nople worrt, mem," he said.
"It's guid eneuch to ken a body by," answered Miss Horn.
"If ta poy will pe a Stewart," he went on, heedless of the indifference of her remark, "who'll pe knowing put he'll may pe of ta plood royal!"
"There didna leuk to be muckle royalty aboot auld John, honest man, wha cudna rule a wife, though he had but ane!" returned Miss Horn.
"If you'll please, mem, ton't you'll pe too sherp on ta poor man whose wife will not pe ta coot wife. If ta wife will pe ta paad wife, she will pe ta paad wife however, and ta poor man will pe hafing ta paad wife and ta paad plame of it too, and tat will pe more as 'll pe fair, mem."
"'Deed ye never said a truer word, Maister MacPhail!" assented Miss Horn. "It's a mercy 'at a lone wuman like me, wha has a maisterfu' temper o' her ain, an' nae feelin's, was never putten to the temptation o' occkypeein' sic a perilous position. I doobt gien auld John had been merried upo' me, I micht hae putten on the wrang claes some mornin' mysel', an' may be had ill gettin' o' them aff again."
The old man was silent, and Miss Horn resumed the main subject of their conversation.
"But though he michtna objec' till a father 'at he wasna jist Hector or Golia' o' Gath," she said, "ye canna wonner 'at the yoong laad no carin' to hae sic a mither."
"And what would pe ta harm with ta mother? Will she not pe a coot woman, and a coot letty more to ta bargain?"
"Ye ken what fowk says till her guideship o' her son?"
"Yes; put tat will pe ta lies of ta peoples. Ta peoples wass always telling lies."
"Weel, allooin', it 's a peety ye sudna ken, supposin' him to be hers, hoo sma' fowk hauds the chance o' his bein' a Stewart, for a' that!"
"she'll not pe comprestanding you," said Duncan, bewildered.
"He's a wise son 'at kens his ain faither!" remarked Miss Horn, with more point than originality. "The leddy never bore the best o' characters, as far 's my memory taks me,—an' that's back afore John an' her was merried ony gait. Na, na; John Stewart never took a dwaum 'cause Ma'colm MacPhail was upo' the ro'd."
Miss Horn was sufficiently enigmatical; but her meaning had at length, more through his own reflection than her exposition, dawned upon Duncan. He leaped up with a Gaelic explosion of concentrated force, and cried,
"Ta woman is not pe no mothers to Tuncan's poy!"
"Huly, huly, Mr MacPhail!" interposed Miss Horn, with good natured revenge; "it may be naething but fowk's lees, ye ken."
"Ta woman tat ta peoples will pe telling lies of her, wass not pe ta mother of her poy Malcolm. Why tidn't ta poy tell her ta why tat he wouldn't pe hafing her?"
"Ye wadna hae him spread an ill report o' his ain mither?"
"Put she'll not pe his mother, and you'll not pelieve it, mem."
"Ye canna priv that—you nor him aither."
"It will pe more as would kill her poy to haf a woman like tat to ta mother of him."
"It wad be near ban' as ill is haein' her for a wife," assented Miss Horn; "but no freely (quite)," she added.
The old man sought the door, as if for a breath of air; but as he went, he blundered, and felt about as if he had just been struck blind; ordinarily he walked in his own house at least, as if he saw every inch of the way. Presently he returned and resumed his seat.
"Was the bairn laid mither nakit intill yer han's, Maister MacPhail?" asked Miss Horn, who had been meditating.
"Och! no; he wass his clo'es on," answered Duncan.
"Hae ye ony o' them left?" she asked again.
"Inteet not," answered Duncan. "Yes, inteet not."
"Ye lay at the Salmon, didna ye?"
"Yes, mem, and they wass coot to her."
"Wha drest the bairn till ye?"
"Och! she'll trest him herself," said Duncan, still jealous of the women who had nursed the child.
"But no aye?" suggested Miss Horn.
"Mistress Partan will pe toing a coot teal of tressing him, sometimes. Mistress Partan is a coot 'oman when she'll pe coot—fery coot when she'll pe coot."
Here Malcolm entered, and Miss Horn told him what she had seen of the laird, and gathered concerning him.
"That luiks ill for Phemy," remarked Malcolm, when she had described his forlorn condition. "She canna be wi' 'im, or he wadna be like that. Hae ye onything by w'y o' coonsel, mem?"
"I wad coonsel a word wi' the laird himsel'—gien 't be to be gotten. He mayna ken what 's happent her, but he may tell ye the last he saw o' her, an' that maun be mair nor ye ken."
"He 's taen sic a doobt o' me 'at feart it 'll be hard to come at him, an' still harder to come at speech o' 'im, for whan he 's frichtit he can hardly muv is jawbane—no to say speyk. I maun try though and du my best. Ye think he's lurkin' aboot Fife Hoose, div ye, mem?"
"He's been seen there awa' this while—aff an' on."
"Weel, I s' jist gang an' put on my fisher claes, an set oot at ance. I maun haud ower to Scaurnose first, though, to lat them ken 'at he 's been gotten sicht o'. It 'll be but sma' comfort, I doobt."
"Malcolm, my son," interjected Duncan, who had been watching for the conversation to afford him an opening, "if you'll pe meeting any one will caal you ta son of tat woman, gif him a coot plow in ta face, for you'll pe no son of hers, efen if she'll proof it—no more as hersel. If you'll pe her son, old Tuncan will pe tisown you for efer, and efermore, amen."
"What's broucht you to this, daddie?" asked Malcolm, who, ill as he liked the least allusion to the matter, could not help feeling curious, and indeed almost amused.
"Nefer you mind. Miss Horn will pe hafing coot reasons tat Mistress Stewart 'll not can pe your mother."
Malcolm turned to Miss Horn.
"I've said naething to Maister MacPhail but what I've said mair nor ance to yersel', laddie," she replied to the eager questioning of his eyes. "Gang yer wa's. The trowth maun cow the lee i' the lang rin. Aff wi' ye to Blue Peter!"
When Malcolm reached Scaurnose he found Phemy's parents in a sad state. Joseph had returned that morning from a fruitless search in a fresh direction, and reiterated disappointment seemed to have at length overcome Annie's endurance, for she had taken to her bed. Joseph was sitting before the fire on a three legged stool rocking himself to and fro in a dull agony. When he heard Malcolm's voice, he jumped to his feet, and a flash of hope shot from his eyes: but when he had heard all, he sat down again without a word, and began rocking himself as before. Mrs Mair was lying in the darkened closet, where, the door being partly open, she had been listening with all her might, and was now weeping afresh. Joseph was the first to speak: still rocking himself with hopeless oscillation, he said, in a strange muffled tone which seemed to come from somewhere else—"Gien I kent she was weel deid I wadna care. It's no like a father to be sittin' here, but whaur 'll I gang neist? The wife thinks I micht be duin' something: I kenna what to du. This last news is waur nor mane. I hae maist nae faith left. Ma'colm, man!" and with a bitter cry he started to his feet—"I maist dinna believe there's a God ava'. It disna luik like it—dis 't noo?"
There came an answering cry from the closet; Annie rushed out, half undressed, and threw her arms about her husband.
"Joseph! Joseph!" she said, in a voice hard with agony—almost more dreadful than a scream—"gien ye speyk like that, ye 'll drive me mad. Lat the lassie gang, but lea' me my God!" Joseph pushed her gently away; turned from her, fell on his knees, and moaned out—"O God, gien thoo has her, we s' neither greit nor grum'le: but dinna tak the faith frae 's."
He remained on his knees silent, with his head against the chimney jamb. His wife crept away to her closet.
"Peter," said Malcolm, " gaein' aff the nicht to luik for the laird, and see gien he can tell 's onything aboot her: wadna ye better come wi' me?"
To the heart of the father it was as the hope of the resurrection of the world. The same moment he was on his feet and taking down his bonnet; the next he disappeared in the closet, and Malcolm heard the tinkling of the money in the lidless teapot; then out he came with a tear on his face and a glimmer in his eyes.
The sun was down, and a bone piercing chill, incarnate in the vague mist that haunted the ground, assailed them as they left the cottage. The sea moaned drearily. A smoke seemed to ascend from the horizon halfway to the zenith, something too thin for cloud, too black for vapour; above that the stars were beginning to shine. Joseph shivered and struck his hands against his shoulders.
"Care 's cauldrife," he said, and strode on.
Almost in silence they walked together to the county town, put up at a little inn near the river, and at once began to make inquiries. Not a few persons had seen the laird at different times, but none knew where he slept or chiefly haunted. There was nothing for it but to set out in the morning, and stray hither and thither, on the chance of somewhere finding him.
CHAPTER LXII: THE CUTTLE FISH AND THE CRAB
Although the better portion of the original assembly had forsaken the Baillies' Barn, there was still a regular gathering in it as before, and if possible even a greater manifestation of zeal for the conversion of sinners. True, it might not be clear to an outsider that they always made a difference between being converted and joining their company, so ready were they to mix up the two in their utterances; and the result's of what they counted conversion were sometimes such as the opponents of their proceedings would have had them: the arrogant became yet more arrogant, and the greedy more greedy; the tongues of the talkative went yet faster, and the gad abouts were yet seldomer at home, while there was such a superabundance of private judgment that it overflowed the cisterns of their own concerns, and invaded the walled gardens of other people's motives: yet, notwithstanding, the good people got good, if the other sort got evil; for the meek shall inherit the earth, even when the priest ascends the throne of Augustus. No worst thing ever done in the name of Christianity, no vilest corruption of the Church, can destroy the eternal fact that the core of it is in the heart of Jesus. Branches innumerable may have to be lopped off and cast into the fire, yet the word I am the vine remaineth.
The demagogues had gloried in the expulsion of such men as Jeames Gentle and Blue Peter, and were soon rejoiced by the return of Bow o' meal—after a season of backsliding to the fleshpots of Egypt, as they called the services of the parish church—to the bosom of the Barn, where he soon was again one of the chief amongst them. Meantime the circles of their emanating influence continued to spread, until at length they reached the lower classes of the upper town, of whom a few began to go to Barn. Amongst them, for reasons best known to herself, though they might be surmised by such as really knew her, was Mrs Catanach. I do not know that she ever professed repentance and conversion, but for a while she attended pretty often. Possibly business considerations had something to do with it. Assuredly the young preacher, though he still continued to exhort, did so with failing strength, and it was plain to see that he was going rapidly: the exercise of the second of her twin callings might be required. She could not, however, have been drawn by any large expectations as to the honorarium. Still, she would gain what she prized even more—a position for the moment at the heart of affairs, with its excelling chances of hearing and overhearing. Never had lover of old books half the delight in fitting together a rare volume from scattered portions picked up in his travels, than Mrs Catanach found in vitalizing stray remarks, arranging odds and ends of news, and cementing the many fragments, with the help of the babblings of gossip, into a plausible whole; intellectually considered, her special pursuit was inasmuch the nobler as the faculties it brought into exercise were more delicate and various; and if her devotion to the minutia of biography had no high end in view, it never caused her to lose sight of what ends she had, by involving her in opinions, prejudices, or disputes: however she might break out at times, her general policy was to avoid quarrelling. There was a strong natural antagonism between her and the Partaness, but she had never shown the least dislike to her, and that although Mrs Findlay had never lost an opportunity of manifesting hers to the midwife. Indeed, having gained a pretext by her ministrations to Lizzy when overcome by the suggestions of the dog sermon, Mrs Catanach had assayed an approach to her mother, and not without success. After the discovery of the physical cause of Lizzy's ailment, however, Mrs Findlay had sought, by might of rude resolve, to break loose from the encroaching acquaintanceship, but had found, as yet, that the hard shelled crab was not a match for the glutinous cuttlefish.
On the evening of the Sunday following the events related in the last chapter, Mrs Catanach had, not without difficulty, persuaded Mrs Findlay to accompany her to the Baillies' Barn, with the promise of a wonderful sermon from a new preacher—a ploughman on an inland farm. That she had an object in desiring her company that night, may seem probable from the conversation which arose as they plodded their way thither along the sands.
"I h'ard a queer tale aboot Meg Horn at Duff Harbour the ither day," said the midwife, speaking thus disrespectfully both to ease her own heart and to call forth the feelings of her companion, who also, she knew, disliked Miss Horn.
"Ay! an' what micht that be?"
"But she's maybe a freen' o' yours, Mrs Findlay? Some fowk likes her, though I canna say ane o' them."
"Freen' o' mine!" exclaimed the Partaness. "We gree like twa bills (bulls) i' the same park!"
"I wadna wonner!—for they tellt me 'at saw her fechtin' i' the High Street wi' a muckle loon, near han' as big 's hersel'! an' haith, but Meg had the best o' 't, an' flang him intil the gutter, an' maist fellt him! An' that's Meg Horn!"
"She had been at the drink! But I never h'ard it laid till her afore."
"Didna ye than? Weel, no sayin' onything—that's what I h'ard."
"Ow, it 's like eneuch! She was bulliraggin' at me nae langer ago nor thestreen; but I doobt I sent her awa' wi' a flech (flea) in her lug!"
"Whaten a craw had she to pluck wi' you, no?"
"Ow fegs! ye wad hae ta'en her for a thief catcher, and me for the thief! She wad threpe (insist) 'at I bude to hae keepit some o' the duds 'at happit Ma'colm MacPhail the reprobat, whan first he cam to the Seaton—a puir scraichin' brat, as reid 's a bilet lobster. Wae 's me 'at ever he was creatit! It jist drives me horn daft to think 'at ever he got the breast o' me. 'At he sud sair (serve) me sae! But I s' hae a grip o' 'im yet, or my name 's no—what they ca' me."
"It's the w'y o' the warl', Mistress Findlay. What cud ye expec' o' ane born in sin an' broucht furth in ineequity?"—a stock phrase of Mrs Catanach's, glancing at her profession, and embracing nearly the whole of her belief.
"It's a true word. The mair 's the peety he sud hae hed the milk o' an honest wuman upo' the tap o' that!"
"But what cud the auld runt be efter? What was her business wi' 't? She never did onything for the bairn."
"Na, no she! She never had the chance, guid or ill—Ow! doobtless it wad be anent what they ca' the eedentryfeein' o' im to the leddy o' Gersefell. She had sent her. She micht hae waled (chosen) a mair welcome messenger, an' sent her a better eeran! But she made little o' me."
"Ye had naething o' the kin', I s' wad."
"Never a threid. There was a twal hunner shift upo' the bairn, rowt roon 'im like deid claes:—gien 't had been but the Lord's wull! It gart me wonner at the time, for that wasna hoo a bairn 'at had been caret for sud be cled."
"Was there name or mark upo' 't?" asked cuttlefish.
"Nane; there was but the place whaur the reid ingrain had been pykit oot," answered crab.
"An what cam o' the shift?"
"Ow, I jist made it doon for a bit sark to the bairn whan he grew to be rinnin' aboot. 'At ever I sud hae ta'en steik in claith for sic a deil's buckie! To ane 'at was a mither till 'im! The Lord haud me ohn gane mad whan I think o' 't!"
"An' syne for Lizzy!—" began Mrs Catanach, prefacing fresh remark.
But at her name the mother flew into such a rage that, fearful of scandal, seeing it was the Sabbath and they were on their way to public worship, her companion would have exerted all her powers of oiliest persuasion to appease her. But if there was one thing Mrs Catanach did not understand it was the heart of a mother.
"Hoots, Mistress Findlay! Fowk 'll hear ye. Haud yer tongue, I beg. She may dee i' the strae for me. I s' never put han' to the savin' o' her, or her bairn aither," said the midwife, thinking thus to pacify her.
Then, like the eruption following mere volcanic unrest, out brake the sore hearted woman's wrath. And now at length the crustacean was too much for the mollusk. She raved and scolded and abused Mrs Catanach, till at last she was driven to that final resource—the airs of an injured woman. She turned and walked back to the upper town, while Mrs Findlay went on to take what share she might in the worship of the congregation.
Mrs Mair had that evening gone once more to the Baillies' Barn in her husband's absence; for the words of unbelief he had uttered in the Job-like agony of his soul, had haunted the heart of his spouse, until she too felt as if she could hardly believe in a God. Few know what a poor thing their faith is till the trial comes. And in the weakness consequent on protracted suffering, she had begun to fancy that the loss of Phemy was a punishment upon them for deserting the conventicle. Also the schoolmaster was under an interdict, and that looked like a judgment too! She must find some prop for the faith that was now shaking like a reed in the wind. So to the Baillies' Barn she had gone.
The tempest which had convulsed Mrs Findlay's atmosphere, had swept its vapours with it as it passed away; and when she entered the cavern, it was with an unwonted inclination to be friendly all round. As fate would have it, she unwittingly took her place by Mrs Mair, whom she had not seen since she gave Lizzy shelter. When she discovered who her neighbour was, she started away, and stared; but she had had enough of quarrelling for the evening, and besides had not had time to bar her door against the angel Pity, who suddenly stepped across the threshhold of her heart with the sight of Mrs Mair's pale thin cheeks and tear reddened eyes. As suddenly, however, an indwelling demon of her own house, whose name was Envy, arose from the ashes of her hearth to meet the white robed visitant: Phemy, poor little harmless thing, was safe enough! who would harm a hair of her? but Lizzy! And this woman had taken in the fugitive from honest chastisement! She would yet have sought another seat but the congregation rose to sing; and her neighbour's offer of the use in common of her psalm book, was enough to quiet for the moment the gaseous brain of the turbulent woman. She accepted the kindness, and, the singing over, did not refuse to look on the same holy page with her daughter's friend, while the ploughman read, with fitting simplicity, the parable of the Prodigal Son. It touched something in both, but a different something in each. Strange to say, neither applied it to her own case, but each to her neighbour's. As the reader uttered the words "was lost and is found" and ceased, each turned to the other with a whisper. Mrs Mair persisted in hers; and the other, which was odd enough, yielded and listened.
"Wad the tale haud wi' lassies as weel 's laddies, Mistress Findlay, div ye think?" said Mrs Mair.
"Ow, surely!" was the response; "it maun du that. There no respec' o' persons wi' him. there's no a doobt but yer Phemy 'ill come hame to ye safe an' soon'."
"I was thinkin' aboot Lizzy," said the other, a little astonished; and then the prayer began, and they had to be silent.
The sermon of the ploughman was both dull and sensible,—an excellent variety where few of the sermons were either; but it made little impression on Mrs Findlay or Mrs Mair.
As they left the cave together in the crowd of issuing worshippers, Mrs Mair whispered again:
"I wad invete ye ower, but ye wad be wantin' Lizzy hame, an' I can ill spare the comfort o' her the noo," she said, with the cunning of a dove.
"An' what comes o' me?" rejoined Mrs Findlay, her claws out in a moment where her personal consequence was touched. "Ye wadna surely tak her frae me a' at ance!" pleaded Mrs Mair. "Ye micht lat her bide—jist till Phemy comes hame; an' syne—" But there she broke down; and the tempest of sobs that followed quite overcame the heart of Mrs Findlay. She was, in truth, a woman like another; only being of the crustacean order, she had not yet swallowed her skeleton, as all of us have to do more or less, sooner or later, the idea of that scaffolding being that it should be out of sight. With the best commonplaces at her command she sought to comfort her companion; walked with her to the foot of the red path; found her much more to her mind than Mrs Catanach: seemed inclined to go with her all the way, but suddenly stopped, bade her goodnight, and left her.