Inchbracken: The Story of a Fama Clamosa

by Robert Cleland

CHAPTER XXV.

[SOPHIA'S ANSWER].

Thursday morning was the opening of a great day in Glen Effick. The foundation stone of the new Church was to be laid, and from the most distant corners of Kilrundle parish the people came streaming in across the braes, more numerously even than for the Sunday meeting. The Session had at last come to an agreement with Widow Forester for half of her kaleyard on which to build their Church. The foundation was already dug, and every owner of a horse and cart had agreed to contribute so many days' labour towards delivering the materials on the ground. And now the work was to be inaugurated with preaching and prayer, that it might be brought to a speedy and prosperous issue. The good people having neither oil nor wine to bestow in cementing the stones, had resolved to pour forth a copious oblation of words devout and stirring, and to celebrate their triumph over Laird and Law in true democratic fashion, by a general gathering and unstinted speechification.

The hot stillness of September days had passed away, and the fresh cool brightness of October had succeeded. In low-lying hollows the first hoar-frost of the season was melting into dew before the approaching noon, and straggling flecks of cloud swam merrily overhead in the breezy sky. The crimson of the moors was withering somewhat into rusty brown, but the birch along the watercourses had ripened into sprays of gold, while the distant hills stood out against the sky in violet and blue. The trooping worshippers displayed all their Sunday bravery of apparel, but the solemnity of their Sabbath demeanour they had felt at liberty to leave behind. The children ran hither and thither shouting their loudest, while the seniors chatted cheerily as they went, carrying their dinners in heavy baskets between them, and resolved to make the most of the day's 'ploy.'

Along the village street the people trickled in a continuous stream, and by and by Ebenezer Prittie and Peter Malloch put up the shutters on their respective shops. Donald Maclachlan shut up the smithy, and Angus Eldrecht, the wheel-wright, closed his yard, and stepped off with their wives to the meeting place on the brae-side, where Mr. Dowlas and a reverend brother of the presbytery were already in the tent waiting to conduct the exercises.

Mrs. Sangster, with her daughter, was on the ground betimes, discussing with unwonted affability the terrible scandal to the elders and more prominent people near her. She occupied, of course, the beadle's special chairs, and as the time to commence the service drew near, she beckoned to her Stephen Boague and his wife, and seated them beside herself and daughter. It was a public recognition of their exemplary character she considered, which would fully reward the woman for her hospitality the day she was lost in the mist, and was quite inexpensive besides. When Mary Brown presently appeared, the good woman would fain have yielded up to her her accustomed seat under the matronly wing of the congregation's only lady; but Mrs. Sangster requested that she would not move. 'I could not countenance Mr. Brown or his family,' she said, 'under the circumstances.' So the poor woman had to remain; but she no longer felt promotion in her place of honour, and all her acquaintances looked askance, and wondered at her 'upsettin' impidence.' Mrs. Sangster was too busy with her 'spy-glass' and psalm-book to see the approach of Mary, who coloured with resentment at what, since Eppie's explanation, she now perfectly understood, and looked about for another seat. The Laird had been watching his wife's proceedings with cynical amusement, he now came forward and removed his daughter to the elder's bench, setting the chair she had been occupying beside her, and seating Mary upon it, while he took his own stand beside them.

Mrs. Sangster's spy-glass dropped upon her book; amazement and indignation paralyzed her, which was fortunate, or she might have exhibited a tantrum, even in that sacred assembly. She! that congregation's Deborah without a Barak, as a fawning preacher had once described her at family prayers, to be thus flouted before them all! And the wholesome discipline she had meant to exercise in support of the public morals to be turned round upon herself! and this, too, by her own husband! the man bound to protect, honour, and obey her! For of course he was bound so to do, whatever Saint Paul, or any other old bachelor who knew nothing about it, might say. Was she not the more advanced Christian? and in right of her higher standing in 'The Kingdom' entitled to instruct, advise, and reprove those on a lower level. Oh! how should she punish him and bring him to book? There was the difficulty. Scolding would not do. She had tried that before, and it did not succeed. He was apt to laugh in her face, and sometimes even to scold back in return, in an altogether dreadful and appalling way--for an elder--if she persisted; and then nothing, not even her unfailing Christian meekness could secure her the last word, which was her due as a lady. She thought of putting him on low diet for a while.--'And it would serve that monkey Sophia right, too, for sympathising with her father. See how contentedly she cottons up to Mary Brown!' thought she. But she did not like bad dinners herself, and it would come out if she had a sweetbread quietly in her own room. Besides, she had attempted a penitential regimen of cold mutton once before, and it had not ministered to his spiritual needs; on the contrary, he had broken out in a way that was simply dreadful, and had threatened her with a housekeeper if she could not keep a better table. Her crosses were indeed many and grievous, and she might have grown weak and hysterical in reviewing them, but that other cares and anxieties demanded her present attention. Surely there was something rubbing up against her in a familiar and unbecoming way. She turned, looked, and almost leaped into Mrs. Boague's lap. Stephen's largest collie was titillating his spine by pushing it up and down against her new plum-coloured silk gown.

'Haud steady, mem! The folk 'ull see ye, an' ye're nae licht wecht forby!' whispered Mrs. Boague. 'Ne'er mind the dugs, an' they winna fash wi' you. An' de'il a yelp or snap wull they gie, sae lang as ye dinna staund on their tails.'

Touseler, finding his scratching-post withdrawn, stretched himself on the ground to sleep out the sermon, and Mrs. Sangster resumed her chair. Her tranquility was of short duration. First would come a tug at her parasol, accompanied by a strangled yelp, as a puppy having swallowed the tassel would struggle to escape, like a trout on a fish-hook; and next it would be her shawl. A dirty little finger would be found tracing the flowing lines of its elegant embroidery, or the corner would be pulled down, that the critics squatting on the sward might more conveniently scrutinize the elaborate design.

When Sophia's chair was removed it had left an open spot in the crowd, to Mrs. Sangster's left, and as nature abhors a vacuum, the unplaced material of her party had flowed in to fill it. She looked down on a confused knot of dog and child life, heads and tails, legs and arms swaying and kicking to and fro in silent happiness. Had a quadruped or a biped given tongue in the 'House of God,' there would have been whipping behind the first big boulder-stone on the home-going, and they had all felt the weight of Stephen's hand at sometime, so were wary; but so long as silence was kept, and they remained beside the shepherd and his wife, they might kick, roll, and be happy as they pleased.

Poor Mrs. Sangster's attention was fully occupied in protecting her dress from the busy fingers of the little boys and girls, and in seeing that the dogs did not make a coverlet of her skirts; and she vowed never again to 'take notice' of people from the 'lower orders,' who so little appreciated the honour she did them, and made themselves so utterly abominable with their ill-reared dogs and children. She lost all the good of their sermons as she told the reverend orators that evening at supper, and was far too concerned for what might befall her own draperies, to give much heed to the Rev. Æmelius Geddie's description of the curtains of fine linen and badger skins, blue and scarlet, prepared for the Tabernacle in the wilderness, and his tender appeal to the women of Glen Effick to go and do likewise. Mr. Dowlas described the building of Solomon's Temple, its joists of cedar covered with plates of pure gold, the chapiters, the pomegranates, and the wreathen-work, the brazen pillars and the vessels of pure gold. He interspersed these with spiritual interpretations and mystical images drawn from the Prophets, till the hearers were brought under a general vague impression of splendour and solemnity, they could not have explained wherefore; but they all agreed that it was a 'graund discoorse,' and 'very refreshing,' and that they had entered on a high, noble and arduous work, in proposing to build themselves a little meeting house; and that, though propriety forbade their saying so, the Divine Head of the Church was greatly beholden to them, and that they might look, as their certain due, for large amounts of blessing, spiritual and temporal, to requite their exertions in church-building, as well as that heroic penny-a-week to the Sustentation Fund.

Like other fine things, the sermon came to an end at last, and after psalms and benediction, it was announced that they would proceed in procession to the site of their future church, where reports of the different committees would be received, and addresses given, after which the foundation stone would be laid with prayer and praise.

The congregation then broke up, and in the confusion Sophia got the opportunity she had been desiring of a quiet word with Mary. Circumstances had befriended her wonderfully she thought, when her father had brought her away from her mother, and placed her beside Mary Brown. She had always been fond of Mary, but now she felt a sisterly drawing towards her which she had not known before. Mary was her junior by about a year, but was quicker and earlier to mature, and this had sometimes made Sophia feel a rawness in herself, and a general slowness and obtuseness by comparison, in a way approaching as near to jealousy as her somewhat stolid and easy-going disposition was capable of experiencing. But as Mary neither assumed nor probably was aware of any advantage, this feeling in great measure slept; and now, when Sophia's development had advanced as with a bound, under the stirrings of awakening emotion, the latent grudge was altogether overborne. She sat up very close to her and pressed her softly. Mary was surprised. Demonstration of the faintest kind was something new in Sophia, and altogether unexpected. Her heart was sore at the unkindness of the parishioners to her brother, and their haste to adopt unwarrantable and improbable suspicion against him; and that Mrs. Sangster; who had assumed to play the rôle of mother to her in her lonely position, should turn and publicly visit the imaginary misdeeds of her brother on her head, had been very grievous. She assumed that Sophia meant to signify her disbelief in the idle rumours afloat, and, accepting the proffered sympathy, she returned the friendly pressure with grateful warmth. The two read from the same bible and psalm-book, and sat so close that the Laird was able to find room on the bench beside his daughter, just as he was beginning to think a two hours' stand rather a heavy penalty for interfering with his wife's absurdity.

'Mary!' whispered Sophia, when the assemblage was breaking up, 'I want you to tell your brother that I received his letter. Whoever told him that I am engaged is altogether mistaken. Nobody ever asked me to--be engaged, and there is no one who could have any right to do so. I would have answered his letter, but mamma forbade me; she even says I must not come and see you, while some report or other, I don't know what it is, is going about. So I have been waiting for an opportunity to speak to you. Mamma says papa does not believe the report, so--' here the words died away and the colour deepened on her cheeks--'but papa does not know of his letter to me.' Mary leant forward to bestow a kiss, but Sophia started back under a sharp prod from the parasol of her mother, who was eagerly reaching over the shoulders of the intervening crowd.

'Sophia Sangster! what are you lingering there for? Don't you see everybody is on the move? Come to your mother's side, your proper place, this moment.'

It was not a happy half-hour for Sophia that followed. The maternal plumage was sadly ruffled, and in the 'preening' that ensued to readjust the feathers mental as well as physical (for the silk gown was rumpled as much as the self-complacency was disturbed), not a few stray pecks fell to her portion. That her husband should have carried away her own girl from her side was almost intolerable; only, till she could devise a way to punish him which she had not yet discovered, she must bear that; but the girl had acquiesced without sign of reluctance or remonstrance, had consented to be separated from her own mother with perfect equanimity, and in spite of all that had passed, had seemed entirely comfortable beside Mary Brown, notwithstanding the maternal taboo. She had had little leisure for observation. Her gown, her shawl, the children, the sheep-dogs had made constant demands on her attention, and when she looked for succour to the shepherd and his wife, they were drinking in the sumptuous splendours of Solomon's temple, and had no thought for the turbulent little Bethel at their feet. Once however she had found time to glance across and was disgusted to see Sophia and Mary singing amicably from one book and evidently on the best of terms.

'You're a saft feckless tawpie, Sophia Sangster!' she enunciated with much emphasis, as she and her daughter were carried along in the stream of the procession. 'It seems to me sometimes that you have no more sense than a sookin' turkey!' Mrs. Sangster rather prided herself on her English, which she considered equal to that of any body on her side of London or Inverness. These were the two seats of perfect speech she considered; but failing them Auchlippie could hold its own against Edinburgh, St. Andrews, or anywhere else, and was decidedly a better model than her son Peter since he had adopted a Lancashire brogue. Nevertheless when she became 'excited' (i.e. angry), she admitted that she had to fall back on the pith and vigour of her native Doric with its unlimited capacity for picturesque vituperation.

'It's not from me you take your fushionless gates! That comes o' the donnart Sangster bluid in you, I'm thinking. But what possessed you to take up publicly like yon with Mary Brown, when you know I want you to steer clear of her just now? When the Presbytery has taken the matter up, it will be proper enough to bestow patronage and show sympathy for the poor girl; but meanwhile we have a testimony to bear, and it will not do to countenance evil doers or their families.'

'Mamma, I don't know what you are talking about.'

'Of course not. It's no subject for a young girl to know anything about; but you must not think in your ignorance to set yourself above the advice and opinion of your mother, who knows all about it.'

Sophia said no more. To speak was but to stir the fire of her mother's wrath. She held her peace, and left the flame to burn itself out, or smother in its own smoke and ashes. She simply did not attend, and when her mother, stopping for breath, turned to survey, as it were, the field of battle, or at least to view the result of her onslaught as depicted in the girl's face, she was smiling to a bare-footed urchin who trotted by her side, Stephen Boague's youngest, who had taken a fancy to the gay apparel of Mrs. Sangster, and still kept it in view.

'Let that de'il's buckie alone, Sophia Sangster, and attend to me! It has been pulling the fringes of my shawl for the past two hours, and made it smell of peat-reek and moss-water so that I shall never be able to put it on again.'

The meeting was held in the field adjoining the excavation made for the church's foundation. Mr. Sangster was in the chair and supported on either hand by a minister, and there were chairs in front for Mrs. Sangster, her daughter, and Miss Brown, to which the matron, somewhat mollified by this observance, was ushered, when she very quickly appropriated the remaining seat for her shawl, so that there might be no vacant place for any one else. She might have spared herself the trouble. Mary was not in the crowd, and if she had been, would not have desired to sit beside her.

At the close of the religious exercises, Mary had hastened home to her brother, from whom she had already been longer away than at any previous time since he was taken ill. She would not have attended the meeting at all, but for his desire that she should; and she was glad to return home at the earliest moment, for since she had learned its proneness to think evil without cause, she loathed Glen Effick utterly and all its affairs. Her brother had been drowsing, but he woke up at her entrance, and asked to hear what had been done.

'Just the usual thing. Mr. Geddes preached about the Tabernacle, and Mr. Dowlas about Solomon's Temple.'

'Ah! I can imagine it; very pretty and flowery, no doubt. But I think when so many were collected they might have had something more useful and more likely to do good to the poor people. "A dish of metaphor," as my good father used to say, "is light feeding for hungry souls."'

'They did not think so, I assure you; they seemed quite delighted; though I confess I rather wearied over the inventory of the golden vessels, and I saw Sophia Sangster yawn once at any rate.'

'Was Sophia there?'

'Oh yes. And by the way she sent a most particular message to you; or at least she seemed particularly anxious that you should receive it.'

'Ah!' said Roderick, raising himself, 'tell me quick.'

'I declare, Roddie, you look quite excited! She asked me to tell you she had received your letter--You rogue! What have you been writing to her? I remember now how restless you were one morning till you had got Joseph sent off to Auchlippie! But I, simple soul, supposed it was Session business with the Laird. To think I should be so obtuse with a little comedy going on under my very nose! But, ah me! It has been more like tragedy of late, you have been so ill, and we have both been so lonely.'

'But, to return to your comedy, or at least to Sophia, what more?'

'She said she had got your letter! Was not that enough? She did not say it was a sonnet to her eyebrows--but I suspect, she blushed so prettily--yet, now I think of it, it was not a sonnet you sent, for I was to tell you that she is not engaged--that there is no one who has a right to ask her to be engaged. You must have been jealous, Roddie! Who was it? And she said she would have written, but her mother forbade her.'

'Oh that tiresome Duchess! What ridiculous fancy has she got in her head now, I wonder? I feel quite ashamed when I recall the black thoughts I have been nourishing against that poor harmless cockney or whatever he is, Mr. Wallowby; all along of some absurd scheme of hers, which rushed to her lips in her agitation that day on the hill. Poor Duchess! She must have a bee in her bonnet; but she is a sad worry.'

'She is far worse that that!--hard, evil-minded, worldly.'

'Hush, Mary! "Judge not," et cetera. But proceed!'

'Sophia told me that her mother says there is some rumour afloat which must be cleared up before she can have communication with us; and, in fact, the tiresome old thing did her best, not only to cut me to-day, but to keep Soph away too; but the Laird, honest man, was too many for her.'

'You do not mean to say that that abominable Duchess was publicly rude to you? I could not stand that! Though she may do or say to me as she likes (and she generally does;) for I do not suppose any sensible man could seriously mind her.'

'Oh no! The Laird came to the rescue like a man and a gentleman, as he always does; and, in fact, if the Duchess had behaved herself, and Soph and I had been under her wing, I do not believe the poor oppressed child would have had courage or opportunity to send you your message, sir, so do not be harbouring bad thoughts of the poor Duchess! Ah! ah! And by the way, there is more message yet! Sophia says her father does not believe the rumours which her mother has been so ready to accept; and--but she blushed and stammered and I could not make sense of it, for you see I was not in your confidence, Mr. Prudence--but, if I were an old woman and understood about those sort of things, it sounded suspiciously like bidding you carry your tale to 'Papa!' Ha! Have I found you out, old gentleman? I suppose I may go for a governess now; I may be losing my place as house-keeper any day!' And she laughed merrily while Roderick coloured and looked confused, but intensely happy.

When the Doctor came to visit his patient that afternoon, he was astonished at the improvement in his condition, and quite confirmed in his belief as to the wisdom of his own prescriptions, and general course of treatment.