Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  They came as suddenly on me as I on them, for though they had given unintentional notice of their approach, I had lost sight of the speakers in their amazing words. Only a moment did young McKenzie’s anxiety to be spokesman give me to regard Lord Rintoul. I saw that he was a thin man and tall, straight in the figure, but his head began to sink into his shoulders and not very steady on them. His teeth had grip of his underlip, as if this was a method of controlling his agitation, and he was opening and shutting his 261 hands restlessly. He had a dog with him which I was to meet again.

  “Well met, Mr. Ogilvy,” said McKenzie, who knew me slightly, having once acted as judge at a cockfight in the schoolhouse. “We were afraid we should have to rouse you.”

  “You will step inside?” I asked awkwardly, and while I spoke I was wondering how long it would be before the earl’s excitement broke out.

  “It is not necessary,” McKenzie answered hurriedly. “My friend and I (this is Mr. McClure) have been caught in the mist without a lamp, and we thought you could perhaps favor us with one.”

  “Unfortunately I have nothing of the kind,” I said, and the state of mind I was in is shown by my answering seriously.

  “Then we must wish you a goodnight and manage as best we can,” he said; and then before he could touch, with affected indifference, on the real object of their visit, the alarmed earl said angrily, “McKenzie, no more of this.”

  “No more of this delay, do you mean, McClure?” asked McKenzie, and then, turning to me said, “By the way, Mr. Ogilvy, I think this is our second meeting tonight. I met you on the road a few hours ago with your wife. Or was it your daughter?”

  “It was neither, Mr. McKenzie,” I answered, with the calmness of one not yet recovered from a shock. “It was a gypsy girl.”

  “Where is she now?” cried Rintoul feverishly; but McKenzie, speaking loudly at the same time, tried to drown his interference as one obliterates writing by writing over it.

  “A strange companion for a schoolmaster,” he said. “What became of her?”

  “I left her near Caddam Wood,” I replied, “but she is probably not there now.”

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  “Ah, they are strange creatures, these gypsies!” he said, casting a warning look at the earl. “Now I wonder where she had been bound for.”

  “There is a gypsy encampment on the hill,” I answered, though I cannot say why.

  “She is there!” exclaimed Rintoul, and was done with me.

  “I daresay,” McKenzie said indifferently. “However, it is nothing to us. Goodnight, sir.”

  The earl had started for the trap, but McKenzie’s salute reminded him of a forgotten courtesy, and, despite his agitation, he came back to apologize. I admired him for this. Then my thoughtlessness must needs mar all.

  “Goodnight, Mr. McKenzie,” I said. “Goodnight, Lord Rintoul.”

  I had addressed him by his real name. Never a turnip fell from a bumping, laden cart, and the driver more unconscious of it, than I that I had dropped that word. I re-entered the house, but had not reached my chair when McKenzie’s hand fell roughly on me, and I was swung round.

  “Mr. Ogilvy,” he said, the more savagely I doubt not because his passions had been chained so long, “you know more than you would have us think. Beware, sir, of recognising that gypsy should you ever see her again in different attire. I advise you to have forgotten this night when you waken tomorrow morning.”

  With a menacing gesture he left me, and I sank into a chair, glad to lose sight of the glowering eyes with which he had pinned me to the wall. I did not hear the trap cross the ford and renew its journey. When I looked out next, the night had fallen very dark, and the glen was so deathly in its drowsiness that I thought not even the cry of murder could tear its eyes open.

  The earl and McKenzie would be some distance still 263 from the hill when the office-bearers had scoured it in vain for their minister. The gypsies, now dancing round their fires to music that, on ordinary occasions, Lang Tammas would have stopped by using his fists to the glory of God, had seen no minister, they said, and disbelieved in the existence of the mysterious Egyptian.

  “Liars they are to trade,” Spens declared to his companions, “but now and again they speak truth, like a standing clock, and I’m beginning to think the minister’s lassie was invented in the square.”

  “Not so,” said the precentor, “for we saw her oursel’s a short year syne, and Hendry Munn there allows there’s townsfolk that hae passed her in the glen mair recently.”

  “I only allowed,” Hendry said cautiously, “that some sic talk had shot up sudden-like in the town. Them that pretends they saw her says that she joukit quick out o’ sicht.”

  “Ay, and there’s another quirk in that,” responded the suspicious precentor.

  “I’se uphaud the minister’s sitting in the manse in his slippers by this time,” Hendry said.

  “I’m willing,” replied Whamond, “to gang back and speir, or to search Caddam next; but let the matter drop I winna, though I ken you’re a’ awid to be hame now.”

  “And naturally,” retorted Tosh, “for the nicht’s coming on as black as pick, and by the time we’re at Caddam we’ll no even see the trees.”

  Toward Caddam, nevertheless, they advanced, hearing nothing but a distant wind and the whish of their legs in the broom.

  “Whaur’s John Spens?” Hendry said suddenly.

  They turned back and found Spens rooted to the ground, as a boy becomes motionless when he thinks he is within arm’s reach of a nest and the bird sitting on the eggs.

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  “What do you see, man?” Hendry whispered.

  “As sure as death,” answered Spens, awestruck, “I felt a drap o’ rain.”

  “It’s no rain we’re here to look for,” said the precentor.

  “Peter Tosh,” cried Spens, “it was a drap! Oh, Peter! how are you looking at me so queer, Peter, when you should be thanking the Lord for the promise that’s in that drap?”

  “Come away,” Whamond said, impatiently; but Spens answered, “No till I’ve offered up a prayer for the promise that’s in that drap. Peter Tosh, you’ve forgotten to take off your bonnet.”

  “Think twice, John Spens,” gasped Tosh, “afore you pray for rain this nicht.”

  The others thought him crazy, but he went on, with a catch in his voice:

  “I felt a drap o’ rain mysel’, just afore it came on dark so hurried, and my first impulse was to wish that I could carry that drap about wi’ me and look at it. But, John Spens, when I looked up I saw sic a change running ower the sky that I thocht hell had taen the place o’ heaven, and that there was waterspouts gathering therein for the drowning o’ the world.”

  “There’s no water in hell,” the precentor said grimly.

  “Genesis ix.,” said Spens, “verses 8 to 17. Ay, but, Peter, you’ve startled me, and I’m thinking we should be stepping hame. Is that a licht?”

  “It’ll be in Nanny Webster’s,” Hendry said, after they had all regarded the light.

  “I never heard that Nanny needed a candle to licht her to her bed,” the precentor muttered.

  “She was awa to meet Sanders the day as he came out o’ the Tilliedrum gaol,” Spens remembered, “and I daresay the licht means they’re hame again.”

  “It’s well kent—” began Hendry, and would have recalled his words.

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  “Hendry Munn,” cried the precentor, “if you hae minded onything that may help us, out wi’t.”

  “I was just minding,” the kirk officer answered reluctantly, “that Nanny allows it’s Mr. Dishart that has been keeping her frae the poorhouse. You canna censure him for that, Tammas.”

  “Can I no?” retorted Whamond. “What business has he to befriend a woman that belongs to another denomination? I’ll see to the bottom o’ that this nicht. Lads, follow me to Nanny’s, and dinna be surprised if we find baith the minister and the Egyptian there.”

  They had not adva
nced many yards when Spens jumped to the side, crying, “Be wary, that’s no the wind; it’s a machine!”

  Immediately the doctor’s dogcart was close to them, with Rob Dow for its only occupant. He was driving slowly, or Whamond could not have escaped the horse’s hoofs.

  “Is that you, Rob Dow?” said the precentor sourly. “I tell you, you’ll be gaoled for stealing the doctor’s machine.”

  “The Hielandman wasna muckle hurt, Rob,” Hendry said, more good-naturedly.

  “I ken that,” replied Rob, scowling at the four of them. “What are you doing here on sic a nicht?”

  “Do you see anything strange in the nicht, Rob?” Tosh asked apprehensively.

  “It’s setting to rain,” Dow replied. “I dinna see it, but I feel it.”

  “Ay,” said Tosh, eagerly, “but will it be a saft, cowdie sweet ding-on?”

  “Let the heavens open if they will,” interposed Spens recklessly. “I would swap the drought for rain, though it comes down in a sheet as in the year twelve.”

  “And like a sheet it’ll come,” replied Dow, “and the deil’ll blaw it about wi’ his biggest bellowses.”

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  Tosh shivered, but Whamond shook him roughly, saying —

  “Keep your oaths to yoursel’, Rob Dow, and tell me, hae you seen Mr. Dishart?”

  “I hinna,” Rob answered curtly, preparing to drive on.

  “Nor the lassie they call the Egyptian?”

  Rob leaped from the dogcart, crying, “What does that mean?”

  “Hands off,” said the precentor, retreating from him. “It means that Mr. Dishart neglected the prayer-meeting this nicht to philander after that heathen woman.”

  “We’re no sure o’t, Tammas,” remonstrated the kirk officer. Dow stood quite still. “I believe Rob kens it’s true,” Hendry added sadly, “or he would hae flown at your throat, Tammas Whamond, for saying these words.”

  Even this did not rouse Dow.

  “Rob doesna worship the minister as he used to do,” said Spens.

  “And what for no?” cried the precentor. “Rob Dow, is it because you’ve found out about this woman?”

  “You’re a pack o’ liars,” roared Rob, desperately, “and if you say again that ony wandering hussy has haud o’ the minister, I’ll let you see whether I can loup at throats.”

  “You’ll swear by the Book,” asked Whamond, relentlessly, “that you’ve seen neither o’ them this nicht, nor them thegither at any time?”

  “I so swear by the Book,” answered poor loyal Rob. “But what makes you look for Mr. Dishart here?” he demanded, with an uneasy look at the light in the mudhouse.

  “Go hame,” replied the precentor, “and deliver up the machine you stole, and leave this Session to do its duty. John, we maun fathom the meaning o’ that licht.”

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  Dow started, and was probably at that moment within an ace of felling Whamond.

  “I’ll come wi’ you,” he said, hunting in his mind for a better way of helping Gavin.

  They were at Nanny’s garden, but in the darkness Whamond could not find the gate. Rob climbed the paling, and was at once lost sight of. Then they saw his head obscure the window. They did not, however, hear the groan that startled Babbie.

  “There’s nobody there,” he said, coming back, “but Nanny and Sanders. You’ll mind Sanders was to be freed the day.”

  “I’ll go in and see Sanders,” said Hendry, but the precentor pulled him back, saying, “You’ll do nothing o’ the kind, Hendry Munn; you’ll come awa wi’ me now to the manse.”

  “It’s mair than me and Peter’ll do, then,” said Spens, who had been consulting with the other farmer. “We’re gaun as straucht hame as the darkness’ll let us.”

  With few more words the Session parted, Spens and Tosh setting off for their farms, and Hendry accompanying the precentor. No one will ever know where Dow went. I can fancy him, however, returning to the wood, and there drawing rein. I can fancy his mind made up to watch the mudhouse until Gavin and the gypsy separated, and then pounce upon her. I daresay his whole plot could be condensed into a sentence, “If she’s got rid o’ this nicht, we may cheat the Session yet.” But this is mere surmise. All I know is that he waited near Nanny’s house, and by and by heard another trap coming up Windyghoul. That was just before the ten o’clock bell began to ring.

  * * *

  268

  Chapter Thirty-Two.

  LEADING SWIFTLY TO THE APPALLING MARRIAGE.

  The little minister bowed his head in assent when Babbie’s cry, “Oh, Gavin, do you?” leapt in front of her unselfish wish that he should care for her no more.

  “But that matters very little now,” he said.

  She was his to do with as he willed; and, perhaps, the joy of knowing herself loved still, begot a wild hope that he would refuse to give her up. If so, these words laid it low, but even the sentence they passed upon her could not kill the self-respect that would be hers henceforth. “That matters very little now,” the man said, but to the woman it seemed to matter more than anything else in the world.

  Throughout the remainder of this interview until the end came, Gavin never faltered. His duty and hers lay so plainly before him that there could be no straying from it. Did Babbie think him strangely calm? At the Glen Quharity gathering I once saw Rob Angus lift a boulder with such apparent ease that its weight was discredited, until the cry arose that the effort had dislocated his arm. Perhaps Gavin’s quietness deceived the Egyptian similarly. Had he stamped, she might have understood better what he suffered, standing there on the hot embers of his passion.

  “We must try to make amends now,” he said gravely, “for the wrong we have done.”

  “The wrong I have done,” she said, correcting him. “You will make it harder for me if you blame yourself. How vile I was in those days!”

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  “Those days,” she called them, they seemed so far away.

  “Do not cry, Babbie,” Gavin replied, gently. “He knew what you were, and why, and He pities you. ‘For His anger endureth but a moment: in His favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”

  “Not to me.”

  “Yes, to you,” he answered. “Babbie, you will return to the Spittal now, and tell Lord Rintoul everything.”

  “If you wish it.”

  “Not because I wish it, but because it is right. He must be told that you do not love him.”

  “I never pretended to him that I did,” Babbie said, looking up. “Oh,” she added, with emphasis, “he knows that. He thinks me incapable of caring for any one.”

  “And that is why he must be told of me,” Gavin replied. “You are no longer the woman you were, Babbie, and you know it, and I know it, but he does not know it. He shall know it before he decides whether he is to marry you.”

  Babbie looked at Gavin, and wondered he did not see that this decision lay with him.

  “Nevertheless,” she said, “the wedding will take place tomorrow; if it did not, Lord Rintoul would be the scorn of his friends.”

  “If it does,” the minister answered, “he will be the scorn of himself. Babbie, there is a chance.”

  “There is no chance,” she told him. “I shall be back at the Spittal without any one’s knowing of my absence, and when I begin to tell him of you, he will tremble, lest it means my refusal to marry him; when he knows it does not, he will wonder only why I told him anything.”

  “He will ask you to take time — —”

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  “No, he will ask me to put on my wedding-dress. You must not think anything else possible.”

  “So be it, then,” Gavin said firmly.

  “Yes, it will be better so,” Babbie answered, and then, seeing him misunderstand her meaning, exclaimed reproachfully, “I was not thinking of myself. In the time to come, whatever be my lot, I shall have the one consolation, that this is best for you. Think of your mother.”

  “She
will love you,” Gavin said, “when I tell her of you.”

  “Yes,” said Babbie, wringing her hands; “she will almost love me, but for what? For not marrying you. That is the only reason any one in Thrums will have for wishing me well.”

  “No others,” Gavin answered, “will ever know why I remained unmarried.”

  “Will you never marry?” Babbie asked, exultingly. “Ah!” she cried, ashamed, “but you must.”

  “Never.”

  Well, many a man and many a woman has made that vow in similar circumstances, and not all have kept it. But shall we who are old smile cynically at the brief and burning passion of the young? “The day,” you say, “will come when—” Good sir, hold your peace. Their agony was great and now is dead, and, maybe, they have forgotten where it lies buried; but dare you answer lightly when I ask you which of these things is saddest?

  Babbie believed his “Never,” and, doubtless, thought no worse of him for it; but she saw no way of comforting him save by disparagement of herself.

  “You must think of your congregation,” she said. “A minister with a gypsy wife — —”

  “Would have knocked them about with a flail,” Gavin interposed, showing his teeth at the thought of the precentor, “until they did her reverence.”

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  She shook her head, and told him of her meeting with Micah Dow. It silenced him; not, however, on account of its pathos, as she thought, but because it interpreted the riddle of Rob’s behavior.

  “Nevertheless,” he said ultimately, “my duty is not to do what is right in my people’s eyes, but what seems right in my own.”

  Babbie had not heard him.

  “I saw a face at the window just now,” she whispered, drawing closer to him.

  “There was no face there; the very thought of Rob Dow raises him before you,” Gavin answered reassuringly, though Rob was nearer at that moment than either of them thought.

  “I must go away at once,” she said, still with her eyes on the window. “No, no, you shall not come or stay with me; it is you who are in danger.”