A SHADE OF MYSTERY.
With many injunctions to Roose, that she was to “be a guid bairn till she got back, an no go near the soos or the wall,” Mrs Crowdie next day betook herself to the village, where she arrived in due course and went first to the office of the president to find out whether he had heard aught. Entering she spied through the net-work that surmounted the counter a man in his shirt-sleeves leaning over a desk writing, with his head turned away from her.
“Hey, man!” No response.
“Whar will I find your maister?” No response.
“Whatna ticket is this?” as her eye here fell on a card hung to the wire-netting, and she spelt out slowly, “This—is—my—busy—day. Fegs, by the look o’ him I should say it is. Hey, man!” No response, the man of the big ledger calmly continuing to write.
“Eh, puir chiel!” exclaimed Mrs Crowdie, “he maun hae a hard maister or be dull o’ hearin,” and she thereupon rattled on the counter with her umbrella.
“Oh, were you wanting me. Want to pay your church seat, eh?”
“What na kirk? St Andrew’s, say ye? Na, na, I dinna gang there. Dod! You dinna need to have a seat in ony kirk, for there are a’ kin o’ bodies that ca’ themselves preachers rinnin aboot. Says I to ane that pit maist impertinent questions to me about my saul—an us Scotch folk dinna show our hearts to every Jock and Tam—My man, ye pit me in mind o’ a finger-post, ye pint the way ye dinna gang yoursel. Ye see, I kent ocht o’ him.”
“That’s a good one,” exclaimed the man of the pen as he rubbed his left arm.
“Gin I had my way, there wad be a riddle afore every college door to try the coofs wha wad wag their heids in a poopit. I ken o’ some chuckie heads it wad hae thrown aside.”
“Not a bad idea. And what can I do for you? You’ll want an organ?”
“Me an organ! I’d suner tryst a parritch pat.”
“It’s a nice thing to have a little music, and the young ladies soon learn to play.”
“I’se ken ye noo. I saw ye at the show. Ye can blaw a horn but ye canna blaw my lug. I want to see your maister.”
“What name?”
“My name’s Mrs Crowdie; kent by her neebors as ane that pays as she buys an is due naebody.”
“Oh, yes, I have a memorandum. The boss left word you were not to trouble yourself; it would be all right.”
“I’ll gang hame we nae such assurance. I have come ane errand to see him and I wull see him.”
“We had a fine show, Mrs Crowdie?”
“Whaur’s your maister?”
“What did you think of the flowers?”
“Whaur’s yer maister?”
“Oh, it’s the boss you want.”
“Ay, an I’ll no gang till I see him.”
Calling a chubby-faced lad, he sent him in search, and the desired gentleman soon entered.
“And how are you to-day, Mrs Crowdie?”
“I’ve naething to complain o’ except o’ sin an a touch o’ the rheumatics.”
“And what can we do for you to-day?”
“Ye ken weel my errand, an I see by yer man ye’ve something ye dinna want to tell me. Wha’s bairn is she?”
“We’ll speak about that by-and-bye.”
“We’ll speak about it noo.”
“Is the little girl well?”
“The lassie’s weel an I’d be laith to part wi her did I no ken there are they wha hae a better richt to her. Noo, tell me; what hae ye learned about her folks?”
“There have been some enquiries; her people know that she is safe.”
“Wha are they? I’ll gang an see them.”
“There’s no need. You go home and you’ll hear from them.”
A good deal of conversation followed, but Mrs Crowdie could get no particular information about the parents, further than that they were satisfied she was in safe hands, and they would call or send for their child in a short time. Forced to be satisfied with this, she returned home, and when Roose threw her arms round her neck in welcome, she could not forbear the secret wish that the parents might never come. There was some mystery and she hoped that it might result thus. She watched the child pattering about during the afternoon, listened to her prattle, and helped to amuse her, and when the evening gathered, and the sun set beyond the forest, leaving the clouds burning in crimson and gold, she sat with her in her lap. Something in the peaceful scene stirred up old memories, and, with thin and quavering voice, the old woman began the 23rd psalm. To her surprise, the child chimed in, knowing both the words and the old world tune Mrs Crowdie sang them to. “Wha taught ye that, ma dawtie?” she asked, as finishing the psalm, she hugged the child in closer embrace, the moisture glistening in her eyes. “Mama,” said the child. “She maun be a guid woman, and a Presbyterian, too.” And clasping the child, Mrs Crowdie sat thinking in silence and did not move into the house until it grew chill, when she said “the bairn micht catch cauld.”