CHAPTER XVIII.
[THE DELIVERY OF A LETTER].
It was the next day that Joseph Smiley set out to deliver the minister's letter. His instructions were to give it into the hands of Miss Sangster herself, if possible, or at least to make sure that it went direct to her, and to ask if there was any answer. This was a mission very much to Joseph's taste. Being a man of diplomatic genius, he loved to attain his purposes by a circuitous path, and to go round a corner rather than walk straight up to his object.
There was once a minister of the Free Church, of whom a brother divine declared in the bitterness of his soul,--for he had just been circumvented in a cherished scheme,--that he never tied his shoe without having some ulterior motive. If beadles may, without irreverence, be compared with ministers--the very small with the extremely great--Joseph's idiosyncracy was of a like kind. It was well known that Mrs. Sangster's was an all-pervading presence at Auchlippie; the very cat must drink her milk in the appointed time and place, or the mistress would know why; and all comers and goers and their business were bound to come within her ken. The house, the dairy, the poultry-yard, these were her domain, but fortunately they were also its limit. Queen irresponsible in these, her writ would not run in the adjoining stable and farm-yard. The master had settled that long ago. Good-natured and submissive in the house, he tolerated no petticoat influence beyond its limits; and the mistress, after one or two defeats in the attempt to extend her sway, had yielded long ago to the insuperable, and dwelt at peace in her own kingdom.
As Joseph neared Auchlippie, therefore, he crossed a field or two and made a circuit, so as to approach it from the rear, with the farm-yard to shelter him while he reconnoitred, and to retreat into in case he was seen. He likewise carried under his arm his bag of tools, so that if, later, the lady should come upon him, his errand might appear manifest enough. There was always shelving to be put up or taken down, doors that would not close, locks that would not open, and Joseph was the man to see to it all. The work was well enough, indeed Joseph preferred 'orra jobs,' as he called them, to steady work. The variety amused him, and the sight of new faces, besides gossip, drams, and sometimes a share of the kitchen dinner were among the recommendations; but the pay at Auchlippie was not altogether satisfactory. Mrs. Sangster preferred paying in kind to disbursing her silver. Joseph would return home at night with an armful of old clothes, serviceable enough, perhaps, but with the drawback attending them, that he could never tell when his accounts were to be considered square. The next time he did an 'orra job' at Auchlippie, he would be reminded of the load of things he had carried away last time, and given to understand that the present 'job' was to be looked upon as in part working out the previous haul.
For these reasons Joseph was not disposed to obtrude his services. He now went quietly into the stable yard, and fell into chat with the lad who was rubbing up the gig in which his master would shortly start for a neighbouring market. He kept his eyes well open, and it was not long before he descried a petticoat in the distance. It was certainly not Sophia. A second look showed it to be Jean Macaulay, the kitchen-maid, returning from the garden with a basketful of green stuff, and Jean, he bethought him, was a very particular friend of his own, and he might do a trifle of business for himself as well as fulfil his commission.
He vaulted lightly over a gate, and with three or four skips intercepted Jean, just where the blind wall of the dairy intercepted all view from the house.
Here with his gayest smile he caught with both his hands----not Jeanie, it was only her disengaged hand held out at arm's length; for she had seen him in time, and laughed merrily in his face, while she held her own well beyond his reach.
Joseph had missed his chance of a salute, and had to content himself with a salutation.
'Haud awa! ye caperin' antic!' she cried, 'an' behave yersel' afore folk. Yonder's Jock Spiers e'y yaird! Lay, by! An' what brings you about the town at this time o' day, my mannie?'
'What wad it be, Jean, but yer ain sonsie face? I'm aye thinkin' o' ye, whan I canna see ye! I canna lie quiet i' my lane bed, lassie, for the thocht o' ye! Sae here I am.'
'Awa, ye leein' haveril! Do you tak me for a fule, to think ye're to blaw the stour i' my e'en that gate? Lay by, now! (Joseph had become demonstrative again), or I'll gie ye a gouff i' the lug'll gar't stound the next half-hour! An' I canna be claverin' here a' day. Awa wi' ye!' and she caught up her basket.
'What ails ye, lass? Winna ye bide a wee? It's no often a body gets ye yer lane for a crack. Bide a wee!'
'I canna bide, man, ey noo! Gin the mistress comes ben an' dizna find the pat on the fire; I'se get my kale through the reek, I'se warrant ye!'
'Here, than, Jean! Here's a letter frae the minister to Miss Sophia. An' ye maun gie't to naebody but her ain-sel'. I'se be hingin' round here-awa, an' ye maun fesh back the answer belive. Winna ye, noo, lass?'
'We'll see,' said Jean moving off; 'she was bakin' pies whan I gaed out, gin she hae na gaen butt the house, I'se gie her't. Ye'll be here whan I come out? For I'll no can bide lang.' And folding the letter in her apron she hastened into the house.
Sophia was still in the kitchen, giving the last ornamental touches to her pies, when the letter was brought her.
'From Glen Effick, eh? A note from Mary Brown I suppose. And an answer is wanted? very well.' She slipped it into her pocket, and retired to her room to read it at her leisure.
No one could have been more surprised than was Sophia at the contents of that letter, and the earnestness and solemnity with which they were expressed. She had never received a love-letter in her life, and had some indistinct idea from what her mother had occasionally said, that the subject was scarcely a proper one in real life. It was something that was to be read about in books, especially in poetry books and tales, but of these she had not read many. Her mother considered them relaxing to the mind, except when they were of a theological cast, and refrained from such frivolities as love scenes; the biographies of serious people, in fact, had been the staple of her reading.
She had been accustomed to look forward to a time when she would be married, but the aspect in which the change of state had chiefly presented itself to her mind had been the being mistress of a house of her own. From the time Mr. Wallowby had been expected to visit them, her mother had spoken to her of the possibility of his wishing to marry her, and of the wealthy and distinguished position she would in that case be called on to fill. She had thought of it as something that would be very nice if it took place, though also rather formidable, and wondered if it would feel very strange and uncomfortable at first; but it had never presented itself to her as a thing which she was to make any effort to gain, or that it was a matter in regard to which she would be called on to exercise any independent choice. Her parents had arranged everything for her hitherto, and knew what was best and most proper. They had sent her to school, and decided what she was to study there, and she had studied it accordingly. In the proper time they would arrange for her being married, and it would be for her to fill as she best could the position they might decide on as best for her.
And yet Sophia was not a person without character or full average'intelligence, as no doubt some day would be made manifest enough, when at length her individuality should waken up and assert itself. It was only that she had lived in retirement, and been 'very carefully brought up,' that is to say, in an especially narrow and artificial groove, that she was slow and quiescent herself, and had an unusually energetic and masterful mother.
As regarded Roderick, she liked him very much for a friend, better than her own brother Peter, because he was kinder and more attentive to her, and better than his sister Mary, the only other person she had known equally long, because she was 'only a girl;' but that Roderick should feel for her anything so different from this tepid friendship, was something beyond her comprehension. She read the letter again, a third time, and even a fourth, utterly bewildered by its earnestness, and finally unable to make anything of it all, she carried it to her mother.
Mrs. Sangster opened her eyes in surprise. Had a letter reached an inmate of her castle without her knowledge? Had her daughter received one without its passing under her censorship? What were things coming to? She took the letter and put on her glasses.
'From? Roderick Brown! as I'm a christian woman! And what? I do declare--a love-letter! Oh----!!' Many indignant thoughts swept wildly through her soul, many words hurried to her lips. 'The serpent!' But at the sound of her own voice, she paused. Her daughter knew nothing, no one had ever dared to sully her pure ear with such a tale; and should her mother's be the hand to rend the veil of innocency, and let in the sad knowledge that there is evil in the world? She could not. And yet she must say something, if only to cover her discomposure.
'And has it come to this, that a daughter of mine has actually received a love-letter! You! Sophia Sangster! what kind of conduct do you practise, that a libert---- a----young man feels encouraged to write you a love letter, and make you a proposal? Where has been your maidenliness? Your common sense of propriety? When I was a young woman, no man breathing would have presumed to write about love to me!'
'Mamma! I have done nothing. The letter is as great a surprise to me as it can be to you!'
'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 prone 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 sex. 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 impassively enough.
'I heard sae, mem, but I haena seen her mysel.'
'And is nobody's name associated 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 nobody 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?'
'God 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.'