As I write, the old couple are before me, one on each side of the hearth—he, in a brown suit with a cloth cap covering his grey hair, and with a most intelligent countenance—she, a tidy little body, with clean-cut features and with coloured ribbons in her cap—he, recalling with unction some bygone event—she, interpolating occasionally to add some little detail to complete the narrative—and both radiant with pleasure, as if the light of other days were warming their hearts and brightening their faces.
"What a blessing," he would say, "is a good memory—one of the most precious gifts of God."
After the fashion of old people, they often repeated the stories which they had told me on former occasions; but I did not object, as I was thus enabled to realise them more thoroughly.
Some of the scenes and incidents which I acquired in this way, I now proceed to give as truthfully and clearly as I can.
After a long dearth of news, an event happened to revive the interest of the gossips of Sandyriggs. That snug, substantial villa, Townhead Lodge, which stood within a garden, large and sloping to the south, had got at last a tenant, a Mr Callendar, whose family consisted of a wife, a son, and two daughters. And what was most interesting, there was a mystery about them all! Where they had come from, what was the source of their income, and why they kept themselves apart, no one knew.
The father drove a gig of his own and was often from home. The mother was a recluse, and rarely ventured beyond her own walls. But the one who attracted the most notice was the elder daughter, who was frequently seen in the streets of the town attended by her brother. She was a mere girl of sixteen or seventeen, but she was exceedingly beautiful. Regarding her special charms, I never could learn much, except that she had a straight and lissome figure, dark hair, clear blue eyes, and a modest and winning expression, and above all that she had a sort of glamour about her which bewitched everyone who looked at her. The family altogether seemed so distinguished, and at the same so mysterious, that the gossips of the town were all agog to know more about them. But how was this knowledge to be got? The newcomers were evidently bent on keeping themselves aloof, and having as little to do as possible with the natives. There was difficulty even in approaching them.
The one who overcame this difficulty was the late minister's sister, Miss MacGuffog, or, as she was familiarly called, "Miss Phemie." During the lifetime of her brother, who was a bachelor, she had taken a motherly interest in all the parishioners, and went out and in among them like a blood relation. After her brother's death, she kept up the practice. Uncharitable people sneered at her as a busybody; but they might have spared their sneers. They might have known that a busybody is not necessarily bad. It was not selfish curiosity, but kindly interest that was her motive. She was not a scandalmonger, but a sympathetic friend. Having a high idea of everything connected with her brother's parish, she was prepared to find good everywhere, and generally found it. As a matter of course, it had been her custom to call upon strangers in order to give them a hearty welcome. In this way she came to know all that was to be known about the Callendars; and as she held it to be selfish and unneighbourly to keep anything to herself, she freely communicated her information to the town gossips who met over afternoon tea.