CHAPTER XXXIV.

["WOOED AN' MARRIED AN' A'."]

Joseph Smiley lived in a small cottage all by himself. It was not on the main street, but built in what should have been the back yard of a house on that thoroughfare, and was approached by a narrow passage round the end of the house in front. It was just the place for any one who desired retirement, being extremely private, which, strangely enough, seems the great desideratum of all inquisitive people. Joseph was extremely expert in spelling out the affairs of his neighbours from external signs, and it may have been owing to that, that he kept his own life so studiously in the shade, knowing so well how much may be divined from passing glimpses. He spoke of his home as 'juist the bit placey whaur he bed,' 'weel eneugh for a quiet lanesome chield like himsel', but no' fit to tak folk til,' which was scarcely doing it justice, seeing that it was perhaps the snuggest little cabin in the village; for Joseph was a Sybarite according to his lights. It was the best feather bed in the village on which he took his nightly rest, and there was a comfortably cushioned chair or two in which he might repose during the day. The cupboard contained pickles, spices, and a good many bottles; for his fare was dainty, and far different from the vigorous parritch on which he professed to subsist. Parritch may be said to have been the food of his imagination, for he continually spoke of it, but it was with something considerably more succulent that he nourished his material frame.

Yet Joseph enjoyed a high reputation for saving thrift.

This was owing to the fierceness of his principles, his tenacity in holding them, and the vigour with which he carried them out. There is nothing in the world so helpful as a clear understanding between a man and himself as to what it really is which he wants, and a consistent pertinacity in meaning to have it; and yet it seems even rarer than the self-knowledge so highly recommended. Think of the force wasted in desultory effort for the attainment of what is really not desired!

Joseph's principles might all have been resolved into one, and that was to take care of Joseph Smiley. Nothing was too good for that cherished person, so he got the lead; and as nobody else ever got anything at all, it was not more costly than an unprincipled life of impulse, and much more comfortable to the beloved object. Had his brother man been allowed to dip with him in the dish, both must have contented themselves with plain fare, but by letting the brother forage elsewhere, a smaller and choicer mess would be enough for the rest of the party.

When Joseph went out in the morning he locked his door and handed the key to Peggy Mathieson, his neighbour, whom he employed to make his bed, cook his meals, and 'do' for him generally. Peggy was a lone widow, who supplied the youth of the village with bullseyes and marbles. She was discreet and silent, asked no questions and told no tales, and knew how to make him comfortable.

On the evening of the day which had witnessed Joseph's discomfiture at Auchlippie, Peggy was engaged as usual in preparing his evening meal. The fire was lit, and the kettle set to boil, the floor swept, the tea things arranged on the table, and a neat rasher stood ready for the frying pan when he should come in. She was giving a last look around to see that all was in order before retiring to her own premises, when the door opened and Tibbie Tirpie walked in, followed by her daughter carrying a baby. Each had a basket on her arm, and both took seats, which they drew up to the hearth, and seated themselves, before either appeared to observe that any one else was present. As for Peggy, she was a woman of few words, and her employer she knew to be what in higher circles is called a peculiar person, that is one with whose affairs it is safest not to meddle, except by his particular request; therefore she stood silent waiting to be addressed.

'I wuss ye gude e'en, Peggy!' said Tibbie. 'We're juist waitin' for Joseph to come in, and we'll bide till then, e'en gin he be late; sae ye needna mind stoppin' here for hiz. We'se mak out brawly our lane!'

'Aweel, Tibbie, I'se leave ye, for my yett's steikit, an' aiblins there's bairns wantin' some o' my sma' trokes, an' wearyin' to get in.'

'An' noo, Tibbie,' said the mother when they were left alone, 'gie me the bairn, an' gang ye til yer bed. Aiblins ye'll can sleep. Ony gate steik yer eyen ticht, an' dinna cheep, what e'er may come o't; an' let's see gin I canna gar this balksome naig o' yours tak baith bridle an' saidle, ay, an' a lick or twa o' the whup as weel afore I'm through wi' him. Heest ye, lass! an' dinna staand there fummlin' wi' prins. Aff wi' yer bannet an' in wi' ye! Juist hap up weel. It's a kittle job at the best, but gin I'm to hae ye at the greetin' on my haands, forby him, I may lay by afore I begin. In wi'ye!'

Thus exhorted, the daughter lay down in the bed, and covered herself with the blankets.

'Turn round t'ey wa', Tibbie! Ye'd be for keekin' at ween yer eyen, an' greetin', (wha kens?) an' gin he catches sicht o' a sign o' saftness in ye, it's a' ower wi' you an' the bairn!'

The daughter complied, and Tibbie, seated before the fire, brought out certain little habiliments from her basket, and proceeded to array her grandchild for the night, hanging his daylight apparel on chairs, on all the chairs she could find, and marshalling them before the fire, till that staid apartment assumed the appearance not only of a nursery, but of one for a dozen infants. Having got so far, she had leisure to survey the refreshments provided for her son-in-law.

'Od, Tibbie! ye'll be rael crouse here, woman! The best o' a' thing, an' plenty! An' here's as bonny a fry o' bacon as e'er was seen! I'se on wi' 't til the fire. It gars a body's mouth water juist to see til 't! He little thocht, honest man, it wad be his gudemother wad fry his supper for him the nicht! Ay faigs! 'An' eat her share o' 't as weel. But there's little enough for twa here,' she added, going to the cupboard where the remainder of the flitch was discovered, as well as the other little comforts and supplies with which Joseph had provided himself.

'My certie, laad! But ye live weel! An' ye'll do credit to yer gudemither or a's dune! He was aye ane o' the unco gude, an' here's the gude livin'! Whether it be holy livin' or no'.'

Another plentiful rasher was cut, the frying-pan laid on the coals, and Tibbie returned to her seat. But now, disturbed by so many gettings-up and sittings-down, the babe began to whimper.

'Whist, my bonny man! Ye'se hae yer share o' yer daddie's supper as weel as the lave!' And thereupon she emptied the contents of Joseph's milk jug into a basin. Then she cut the nice new loaf and broke some of the bread into the milk; after that a contribution was levied on the sugar basin, and lastly the singing kettle completed the gracious mess, of which the wandering heir thus unexpectedly returned to his father's halls partook with appetite. Then stretching himself out in his grandmother's arms, he fell asleep.

Joseph Smiley being a beadle, and liable to be called away at all times and seasons, worked by the piece. He was a good workman, and so could dictate in some measure his terms. He was working on the new church, and having lost so much time fruitlessly in the morning, he remained at work after the other men had left. It was nearly dark, therefore, when at last he laid aside his tools and moved homewards very much beyond his usual hour.

He had been depressed and disgusted with himself all day. How could he, a man of sense as he had always supposed, and one accustomed to play upon the weaknesses of his fellows--how had it ever come to pass that he, so clear-sighted as he thought, should have come to grief in this utterly discreditable fashion? To himself it was incomprehensible, though to the perspicuous reader plain enough. Joseph had been trying to do two things at once--to capture both Jean and her Mistress, meaning to use whichever might happen to answer best in the end; and he had missed both, as any man of his intelligence should have known would come of it. But then small successes make a man conceited, and conceit makes a man blind (Pray to be defended from small successes, my reader!) It is the single eye which hits the mark.

As Joseph walked along the main street, a subtle fragrance seemed to hover in the air, thin, bright, appetizing, but indefined.

'Hech!' he said to himself, 'somebody has a gude supper the nicht! I wuss I was there.'

As he neared the approach to his own dwelling the odour began to grow specific.

'That's bacon, an' gye an' like my ain!'

The 'close' reached, the whole air seemed greasily aromatic. 'Can Peggy be eatin' my bacon hersel'? I ne'er catched her yet at ony sic tricks; but still water's rael deep. I'se drap on her an' her no thinkin', an' hae my share o' 't, an' gin I dinna eat an' drink tea an' sugar and bread to the vailey o' a' she's stealt, I'm no Joseph Smiley!'

Joseph hurried homeward so quickly, and so full of thief-catching thoughts, that he failed to observe the gleam of the candle from his casement. Joseph always lighted his candle himself. It was therefore as if some one had struck him when he threw the door open, and the cheerful light of the fire and two candles fell on his sight. Tibbie seeing a spare candlestick and a number of candles, thought that if the candle on the table was necessary along with the fire-light for a solitary man, it would need at least one more candle to lighten his family fittingly. Wherefore she stuck a candle in the spare candlestick, and when the daylight outside had altogether faded away, she lit the two candles and heaped fresh fuel on the hearth.

Joseph stood in the doorway contemplating the scene. Had he been drinking? The candle was double. But no! He had washed down his dinner with a draft of buttermilk, and that was never known to go to anybody's head.

The air was heavy with the richness of frizzling bacon. The chairs were gathered like a palisade around the hearth, and hung all over with baby linen. Joseph's next idea was that he had mistaken the house, turned up the wrong close or entry. No! There was Peggy at her back door, ostensibly sweeping something out, but, as Joseph knew full well, in reality watching to see what he would do or say. Was she partner in some plot against him? Then he would leave her no excuse or opportunity to intervene and join forces with the enemy. He entered with as resolute a stride as he could assume, and banged the door behind him.

'Hm!' he coughed with a mighty effort, endeavouring to rally his sinking heart, where black foreboding sat heavily and blocked the lagging current of his blood, while cobwebs of misgiving seemed gathering in his throat, till the nearly stifled voice could hardly come.

'Whisht man! whisht!' hissed Tibbie in her loudest whisper, from the hearth where she sat, and throwing up a warning hand. 'Ye'll waaken yer wife! Hsh! She's beddet! an' she's sleepin'.

'Tibbie Tirpie!' The exclamation hovered feebly about Joseph's lips, like the thin grey smoke that hangs over a hill of burnt whins, when food for fire has been exhausted, and nothing remains but black and hopeless desolation. The bag of tools slipped from his nerveless fingers with a clatter.

'Ca' canny! Joseph! or ye'll waaken yer bairn! Yer supper's juist ready, sae set ye down.'

"An' wha bade ye come here, an' mak my
supper, gudewife?" Page 271.

'An' wha bade ye come here? an' mak my supper, gudewife?'

'Hoot, toot, Joseph! Say naething! It's nae fash ava! Think ye yer gude-mither wadna do faar mair nor that for ye? Juist bide or ye see!'

Here the baby, aroused by the talking, opened its eyes, and the grand-mother began to shake and addle him after the usual manner of nurses.

'Bonny man! An' did his daddie waaken him?'

'He's gotten yer ain glint o' the e'e, Joseph! Ye pawkie rascal! I'se tell ye he's the gleg ane like his faither afore him.'

'Lay by, gudewife! an' get ye hame! you an' a' belangin' to ye! Ye hae carried on eneugh for ae nicht, an' I'se hae nae din here!'

Tibbie made no reply. She merely regarded the speaker with a shrug of amusement, mingled with a dash of humorous pity, while she lifted the frying-pan from the coals and deposited the bacon done to a nicety on the dish. She then began to place the second rasher which she had cut in the pan; but this was more than Joseph could endure.

'Let alane o' my baacon, ye auld jad!' he cried, 'an' get ye gane! you an' a' yer tribe.'

Then followed a silence of some duration, for Tibbie did not seem to think the last observation worthy of notice. At length, however, she spoke again.

'Are ye for nae baacon the nicht, than, Joseph? I'm thinkin' I cud eat maist a' 'at's fried mysel'. An' I wadna say but Tibbie micht be for tryin' juist a bittie, whan she waakens out o' her first sleep.'

'Tibbie! say ye?' gasped Joseph, looking around. His eyes fell on the disordered bed, and there they fastened, widening and rolling as though they beheld a ghost.

'Gudesakes! Pity me! gin there's no' a wummin' i' my very bed! To the de'il wi' the weemin', say I! gin ye gang na to them, they'se come efter ye! Sae there's nae haudin' awa frae them!'

'Deed no! Joseph! an' that's sae. Whan it's a likely bit chappie, like yersel'. They're no that plenty, ye see. But keep up yer heart, laad! Atween yer wife an' yer gude-mither, ye'll be clear o' the lave. Ye needna misdoubt o' that.'

'But set ye doon an' eat yer supper, or it grows cauld,' she continued, at the same time selecting a piece of the bacon from the dish and putting it in her mouth with manifest relish.

'Lay by! ye auld wutch. An' awa wi' ye!' cried Joseph, roused into vigour by the raid on his provisions. 'I'se pet ye out gin ye winna gang!'

'No ye winna! Joseph. Ye hae mair sense nor raise a din whan it's yersel' wad get the dirdom o't.'

'Gang quiet then, an' gang smart!''

'An' wad ye? Honest noo! wad ye raelly pet 's a' out e'y the dark this nicht? There's yer ain wee bairn no sax month auld. An' him juist in his wee sark, an' a' his coats hingin' afore the fire! Wad ye noo?

'Deed then, Luckie, an' I wad!' cried Joseph, gathering courage at the tone of remonstrance he thought he detected in the old woman's voice. 'An' it's no afore my fire but intil't, the duds o' yer dochter's brat sall gang, ay! an' her ain as weel! gin ye tak na them out o' here. The shameless limmer! to lay hersel' down in a decent man's bed, an' never "wi' yer leave?"' He even got so far as to begin tossing the child's clothing together in a heap, when the old woman, snatching a brand from the hearth, struck him across the hand with the red hot end, making him desist with a scream of pain. He glared at her for an instant as if about to rush on her, then wavered and turned round as if about to call for help.

'Noo! set ye doon, Joseph Smiley! an hear sense. Gin ye gang yaupin' an' skirlin' out there, ye'se raise a din wull do far mair scaith to yersel', nor it can til hiz. An' gin ye aince raise 't, ye'll ne'er can lay't again! sae keep ye a calm sough, an' let me hae my say.'

It wasna muckle,' she continued, ''at I kenned o' you an' Tibbie's on-gaein's, whan I spak to ye first, an' I spak ye fair, an' ye ken what cam o' 't--juist naething ava, sae noo I hae fand out a'thing, an' I hae ta'en advice, an' ye beut to yield, or I can gar ye. I'll pruive yer contrac' an' promise o' mairriage by auld Forsyth 'at I ance named to ye afore, an' hoo ye garred puir Tibbie swear no' to let on, sae lang as Jess Clapperton be'd a single woman, for fear she suld hae ye up afore the shirra for breach o' promise, an' get a' yer siller frae ye for daamage. Weel she's waddet noo, sae the steek's aff Tibbie's mouth, an' sae she's gane an' brocht hame yer bairn, an' ye beut to tak them hame til ye, or I'se gar ye! ye dirty tinkler's tyke! Ye wad hae gotten them to set the puir lass on the cuttie stule, alang o' the minister's bairn, an' ye kennin' the very contrar yer ain sel'! But, my certie! gin scaith or scorn e'er fa's on her, it's ye sall stand aside her, an' tak yer share! An' Jean Macaulay wad be the first to fling the rotten eggs at ye--ye leein' brock! Didna I hear ye evenin' my dochter t'ey cuttie stule afore Jean, wi' my ain lugs, an' garrin' auld Elspeth lauch? Od! but I'd hae liket to pu' the ill scrapit tongue out o' yer leein' head! An' what's mair, I'se do't yet, gin ye tak na tent. But there's nae gude, ye an' me to gang fechtin'. We ken ane anither by noo--yer character's gane, and yer name o' godliness in Glen Effick, an' ye'se be peuten out o' the beadleship, gin ye mak a fash--an' the shirra wad gar ye tak her after a'. Sae juist ye tak thocht in time, an' say naething ava! Ye hae na sped sae waur as mony anither birkie laad, 'at wad before tryin' on his gemms. For Tibbie's a decent lass an' a bonny, tho' it's me 'at says't, (an' ne'er a word wad there hae been o' her, gin it hadna been for that auld rinketer Briggs, my leddy's wumman up by), an' she liket ye rael weel ance, an' she may again, gin ye're juist ordnar gude til her.'

Joseph sat and listened with a lengthening visage, and his finger in his mouth. He felt very foolish. A scandal would ruin him in Glen Effick, and after the scene of the morning he had nothing to hope from the good opinion of his whilom patroness Mrs. Sangster, or his late sweetheart Jean Macaulay. He would become the common talk, and no girl worth anything would have a word to say to him. He felt like some gay butterfly caught by the heel in a cobweb of gossamer. Why flutter his pretty wings any more? They would only get broken for nothing. He would never fly again! The admiring flowers would spread their rosy bosoms all in vain, and breathe their fragrant sighs. Poor, poor Lothario! His day was done. He was caught at last. And there like a dreadful spider sat Tibbie, his (to be) mother-in-law, regarding him with red-rimmed eyes, and opening her mouth to devour--well, if not him, at least his bacon. As he looked, she selected another tempting slice (it was cooling now), and her jaws closed on it with a snap, followed by a snort of relish.

'Aweel, Tibbie! Ye can gang hame for the nicht, you an' yer dochter. I wad like to think ower't, an' sleep on't.'

'Fient a stap her or me sall gang out ower yer door, Joseph Smiley, afore Sawbith! We micht na get in sae chancey next time. O' Sawbith she'll gang linket wi' ye t'ey Kirk, an' I'se walk ahint ye, carryin' yer bairn. Sae ye maun speak t'ey minister the morn, an' speir him to baptise't. An' sae ye'll can explain a' thing t'ey minister yersel', afore they hae time to raise clashes. Ye can juist tell the tale about Jess Clapperton, 'at ye made a fule o' puir Tib wi'. I wad na say but it micht do for the minister very weel, an' ye ken hoo to put legs an' arms til't as weel as the next ane. Ye was ne'er at a loss for a lee in yer life, Josey, my man, I'm thinkin'! Losh keep me! I'm thinkin' I've begood to like ye a'ready! It'll be yer ain fau't gin I be na the gude mither to ye, forby the gude-mither. Set ye doon noo, an' tak yer supper. I'm fear'd it's cauld for ye, an' ye'll hae to drink yer tea wantin' the milk. Wee Josey drank that a while syne. It's a' e'y family! An' syne, I'm fear'd ye'll hae to sleep e'y fluir for the nicht; for me an' the bairn's gaun in aside Tibbie.'

Joseph groaned in spirit, and ate his supper in silent despair. Not one kick of resistance was left in his miserable soul, and he submitted to his fate as meekly as Sindbad, after some experience of the old man of the sea, found it best to do.

Tibbie devoted her attention to the entertainment of the young heir, who seemed to enjoy his return to the paternal hall, and rode on her knee crowing in the highest spirits, to the enlivening strains of--

'Wooed sn' married an' a','

which his grandam lilted to him, with just a suspicion of malice in her humorous triumph.