Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “He knew I was on the hill.”

  “He lost me in the darkness, and thought you had run away with me in your trap.”

  “Ha! So he is off to the Spittal to ask me to give you back to him.”

  “To compel you,” corrected Babbie.

  “Pooh!” said the earl nervously, “that was but mummery on the hill.”

  “It was a marriage.”

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  “With gypsies for witnesses. Their word would count for less than nothing. Babbie, I am still in time to save you.”

  “I don’t want to be saved. The marriage had witnesses no court could discredit.”

  “What witnesses?”

  “Mr. McKenzie and yourself.”

  She heard his teeth meet. When next she looked at him, there were tears in his eyes as well as in her own. It was perhaps the first time these two had ever been in close sympathy. Both were grieving for Rintoul.

  “I am so sorry,” Babbie began in a broken voice; then stopped, because they seemed such feeble words.

  “If you are sorry,” the earl answered eagerly, “it is not yet too late. McKenzie and I saw nothing. Come away with me, Babbie, if only in pity for yourself.”

  “Ah, but I don’t pity myself.”

  “Because this man has blinded you.”

  “No, he has made me see.”

  “This mummery on the hill — —”

  “Why do you call it so? I believe God approved of that marriage, as He could never have countenanced yours and mine.”

  “God! I never heard the word on your lips before.”

  “I know that.”

  “It is his teaching, doubtless?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he told you that to do to me as you have done was to be pleasing in God’s sight?”

  “No; he knows that it was so evil in God’s sight that I shall suffer for it always.”

  “But he has done no wrong, so there is no punishment for him?”

  “It is true that he has done no wrong, but his punishment will be worse, probably, than mine.”

  “YOU DARE TO LOOK ME IN THE FACE!”

  “That,” said the earl, scoffing, “is not just.”

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  “It is just. He has accepted responsibility for my sins by marrying me.”

  “And what form is his punishment to take?”

  “For marrying me he will be driven from his church and dishonored in all men’s eyes, unless — unless God is more merciful to us than we can expect.”

  Her sincerity was so obvious that the earl could no longer meet it with sarcasm.

  “It is you I pity now,” he said, looking wonderingly at her. “Do you not see that this man has deceived you? Where was his boasted purity in meeting you by stealth, as he must have been doing, and plotting to take you from me?”

  “If you knew him,” Babbie answered, “you would not need to be told that he is incapable of that. He thought me an ordinary gypsy until an hour ago.”

  “And you had so little regard for me that you waited until the eve of what was to be our marriage, and then, laughing at my shame, ran off to marry him.”

  “I am not so bad as that,” Babbie answered, and told him what had brought her to Thrums. “I had no thought but of returning to you, nor he of keeping me from you. We had said good-by at the mudhouse door — and then we heard your voice.”

  “And my voice was so horrible to you that it drove you to this?”

  “I — I love him so much.”

  What more could Babbie answer? These words told him that, if love commands, home, the friendships of a lifetime, kindnesses incalculable, are at once as naught. Nothing is so cruel as love if a rival challenges it to combat.

  “Why could you not love me, Babbie?” said the earl sadly. “I have done so much for you.”

  It was little he had done for her that was not selfish. Men are deceived curiously in such matters. When they add a new wing to their house, they do not call the 340 action virtue; but if they give to a fellow-creature for their own gratification, they demand of God a good mark for it. Babbie, however, was in no mood to make light of the earl’s gifts, and at his question she shook her head sorrowfully.

  “Is it because I am too — old?”

  This was the only time he ever spoke of his age to her.

  “Oh no, it is not that,” she replied hastily, “I love Mr. Dishart — because he loves me, I think.”

  “Have I not loved you always?”

  “Never,” Babbie answered simply. “If you had, perhaps then I should have loved you.”

  “Babbie,” he exclaimed, “if ever man loved woman, and showed it by the sacrifices he made for her, I — —”

  “No,” Babbie said, “you don’t understand what it is. Ah! I did not mean to hurt you.”

  “If I don’t know what it is, what is it?” he asked, almost humbly. “I scarcely know you now.”

  “That is it,” said Babbie.

  She gave him back his ring, and then he broke down pitifully. Doubtless there was good in him, but I saw him only once; and with nothing to contrast against it, I may not now attempt to breathe life into the dust of his senile passion. These were the last words that passed between him and Babbie:

  “There was nothing,” he said wistfully, “in this wide world that you could not have had by asking me for it. Was not that love?”

  “No,” she answered. “What right have I to everything I cry for?”

  “You should never have had a care had you married me. That is love.”

  “It is not. I want to share my husband’s cares, as I expect him to share mine.”

  “I would have humored you in everything.”

  “You always did: as if a woman’s mind were for laughing at, like a baby’s passions.”

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  “You had your passions, too, Babbie. Yet did I ever chide you for them? That was love.”

  “No, it was contempt. Oh,” she cried passionately, “what have not you men to answer for who talk of love to a woman when her face is all you know of her; and her passions, her aspirations, are for kissing to sleep, her very soul a plaything? I tell you, Lord Rintoul, and it is all the message I send back to the gentlemen at the Spittal who made love to me behind your back, that this is a poor folly, and well calculated to rouse the wrath of God.”

  Now, Jean’s ear had been to the parlor keyhole for a time, but some message she had to take to Margaret, and what she risked saying was this:

  “It’s Lord Rintoul and a party that has been catched in the rain, and he would be obliged to you if you could gie his bride shelter for the nicht.”

  Thus the distracted servant thought to keep Margaret’s mind at rest until Gavin came back.

  “Lord Rintoul!” exclaimed Margaret. “What a pity Gavin has missed him. Of course she can stay here. Did you say I had gone to bed? I should not know what to say to a lord. But ask her to come up to me after he has gone — and, Jean, is the parlor looking tidy?”

  Lord Rintoul having departed, Jean told Babbie how she had accounted to Margaret for his visit. “And she telled me to gie you dry claethes and her compliments, and would you gang up to the bedroom and see her?”

  Very slowly Babbie climbed the stairs. I suppose she is the only person who was ever afraid of Margaret. Her first knock on the bedroom door was so soft that Margaret, who was sitting up in bed, did not hear it. When Babbie entered the room, Margaret’s first thought was that there could be no other so beautiful as this, and her second was that the stranger seemed even more timid than herself. After a few minutes’ talk she laid 342 aside her primness, a weapon she had drawn in self-defence lest this fine lady should not understand the grandeur of a manse, and at a “Call me Babbie, won’t you?” she smiled.

  “That is what some other person calls you,” said Margaret archly. “Do you know that he took twenty minutes to say goodnight? My dear,” she added hastily, misinterpreting Babbie’s silence, “I should have been sorry had he take
n one second less. Every tick of the clock was a gossip, telling me how he loves you.”

  In the dim light a face that begged for pity was turned to Margaret.

  “He does love you, Babbie?” she asked, suddenly doubtful.

  Babbie turned away her face, then shook her head.

  “But you love him?”

  Again Babbie shook her head.

  “Oh, my dear,” cried Margaret, in distress, “if this is so, are you not afraid to marry him?”

  She knew now that Babbie was crying, but she did not know why Babbie could not look her in the face.

  “There may be times,” Babbie said, most woeful that she had not married Rintoul, “when it is best to marry a man though we do not love him.”

  “You are wrong, Babbie,” Margaret answered gravely; “if I know anything at all, it is that.”

  “It may be best for others.”

  “Do you mean for one other?” Margaret asked, and the girl bowed her head. “Ah, Babbie, you speak like a child.”

  “You do not understand.”

  “I do not need to be told the circumstances to know this — that if two people love each other, neither has any right to give the other up.”

  Babbie turned impulsively to cast herself on the mercy of Gavin’s mother, but no word could she say; a 343 hot tear fell from her eyes upon the coverlet, and then she looked at the door, as if to run away.

  “But I have been too inquisitive,” Margaret began; whereupon Babbie cried, “Oh no, no, no: you are very good. I have no one who cares whether I do right or wrong.”

  “Your parents — —”

  “I have had none since I was a child.”

  “It is the more reason why I should be your friend,” Margaret said, taking the girl’s hand.

  “You do not know what you are saying. You cannot be my friend.”

  “Yes, dear, I love you already. You have a good face, Babbie, as well as a beautiful one.”

  Babbie could remain in the room no longer. She bade Margaret goodnight and bent forward to kiss her; then drew back, like a Judas ashamed.

  “Why did you not kiss me?” Margaret asked in surprise, but poor Babbie walked out of the room without answering.

  * * *

  Of what occurred at the manse on the following day until I reached it, I need tell little more. When Babbie was tending Sam’l Farquharson’s child in the Tenements she learned of the flood in Glen Quharity, and that the greater part of the congregation had set off to the assistance of the farmers; but fearful as this made her for Gavin’s safety, she kept the new anxiety from his mother. Deceived by another story of Jean’s, Margaret was the one happy person in the house.

  “I believe you had only a lover’s quarrel with Lord Rintoul last night,” she said to Babbie in the afternoon. “Ah, you see I can guess what is taking you to the window so often. You must not think him long in coming for you. I can assure you that the rain which keeps my son from me must be sufficiently severe to separate even true lovers. Take an old woman’s example, 344 Babbie. If I thought the minister’s absence alarming, I should be in anguish; but as it is, my mind is so much at ease that, see, I can thread my needle.”

  It was in less than an hour after Margaret spoke thus tranquilly to Babbie that the precentor got into the manse.

  * * *

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  Chapter Forty-Two.

  MARGARET, THE PRECENTOR, AND GOD BETWEEN.

  Unless Andrew Luke, who went to Canada, be still above ground, I am now the only survivor of the few to whom Lang Tammas told what passed in the manse parlor after the door closed on him and Margaret. With the years the others lost the details, but before I forget them the man who has been struck by lightning will look at his arm without remembering what shrivelled it. There even came a time when the scene seemed more vivid to me than to the precentor, though that was only after he began to break up.

  “She was never the kind o’ woman,” Whamond said, “that a body need be nane feared at. You can see she is o’ the timid sort. I couldna hae selected a woman easier to speak bold out to, though I had ha’en my pick o’ them.”

  He was a gaunt man, sour and hard, and he often paused in his story with a puzzled look on his forbidding face.

  “But, man, she was so michty windy o’ him. If he had wanted to put a knife into her, I believe that woman would just hae telled him to take care no to cut his hands. Ay, and what innocent-like she was! If she had heard enough, afore I saw her, to make her uneasy, I could hae begun at once; but here she was, shaking my hand and smiling to me, so that aye when I tried to speak I gaed through ither. Nobody can despise me for it, I tell you, mair than I despise mysel’.

  “I thocht to mysel’, ‘Let her hae her smile out, Tammas 346 Whamond; it’s her hinmost.’ Syne wi’ shame at my cowardliness, I tried to yoke to my duty as chief elder o’ the kirk, and I said to her, as thrawn as I could speak, ‘Dinna thank me; I’ve done nothing for you.’

  “‘I ken it wasna for me you did it,’ she said, ‘but for him; but, oh, Mr. Whamond, will that make me think the less o’ you? He’s my all,’ she says, wi’ that smile back in her face, and a look mixed up wi’t that said as plain, ‘and I need no more.’ I thocht o’ saying that some builds their house upon the sand, but — dagont, dominie, it’s a solemn thing the pride mithers has in their laddies. I mind aince my ain mither — what the devil are you glowering at, Andrew Luke? Do you think I’m greeting?

  “‘You’ll sit down, Mr. Whamond,’ she says next.

  “‘No, I winna,’ I said, angry-like. ‘I didna come here to sit.’

  “I could see she thocht I was shy at being in the manse parlor; ay, and I thocht she was pleased at me looking shy. Weel, she took my hat out o’ my hand, and she put it on the chair at the door, whaur there’s aye an auld chair in grand houses for the servant to sit on at family exercise.

  “‘You’re a man, Mr. Whamond,’ says she, ‘that the minister delights to honor, and so you’ll oblige me by sitting in his own armchair.’”

  Gavin never quite delighted to honor the precentor, of whom he was always a little afraid, and perhaps Margaret knew it. But you must not think less of her for wanting to gratify her son’s chief elder. She thought, too, that he had just done her a service. I never yet knew a good woman who did not enjoy flattering men she liked.

  “I saw my chance at that,” Whamond went on, “and I says to her sternly, ‘In worldly position,’ I says, ‘I’m a common man, and it’s no for the like o’ sic to sit in a minister’s chair; but it has been God’s will,’ I says, ‘to 347 wrap around me the mantle o’ chief elder o’ the kirk, and if the minister falls awa frae grace, it becomes my duty to take his place.’

  “If she had been looking at me, she maun hae grown feared at that, and syne I could hae gone on though my ilka word was a knockdown blow. But she was picking some things aff the chair to let me down on’t.

  “‘It’s a pair o’ mittens I’m working for the minister,’ she says, and she handed them to me. Ay, I tried no to take them, but — Oh, lads, it’s queer to think how saft I was.

  “‘He’s no to ken about them till they’re finished,’ she says, terrible fond-like.

  “The words came to my mouth, ‘They’ll never be finished,’ and I could hae cursed mysel’ for no saying them. I dinna ken how it was, but there was something pitiful in seeing her take up the mittens and begin working cheerily at one, and me kenning all the time that they would never be finished. I watched her fingers, and I said to mysel’, ‘Another stitch, and that maun be your last.’ I said that to mysel’ till I thocht it was the needle that said it, and I wondered at her no hearing.

  “In the tail o’ the day I says, ‘You needna bother; he’ll never wear them,’ and they sounded sic words o’ doom that I rose up off the chair. Ay, but she took me up wrang, and she said, ‘I see you have noticed how careless o’ his ain comforts he is, and that in his zeal he forgets to put on his mittens, though they may be in his pocket a’ the t
ime. Ay,’ says she, confident-like, ‘but he winna forget these mittens, Mr. Whamond, and I’ll tell you the reason: it’s because they’re his mother’s work.’

  “I stamped my foot, and she gae me an apologetic look, and she says, ‘I canna help boasting about his being so fond o’ me.’

  “Ay, but here was me saying to mysel’, ‘Do your 348 duty, Tammas Whamond; you sluggard, do your duty,’ and without lifting my een frae her fingers I said sternly, ‘The chances are,’ I said, ‘that these mittens will never be worn by the hands they are worked for.’

  “‘You mean,’ says she, ‘that he’ll gie them awa to some ill-off body, as he gies near a’ thing he has? Ay, but there’s one thing he never parts wi’, and that’s my work. There’s a young lady in the manse the now,’ says she, ‘that offered to finish the mittens for me, but he would value them less if I let ony other body put a stitch into them.’

  “I thocht to mysel’, ‘Tammas Whamond, the Lord has opened a door to you, and you’ll be disgraced forever if you dinna walk straucht in.’ So I rose again, and I says, boldly this time, ‘Whaur’s that young leddy? I hae something to say to her that canna be kept waiting.’

  “‘She’s up the stair,’ she says, surprised, ‘but you canna ken her, Mr. Whamond, for she just came last nicht.’

  “‘I ken mair o’ her than you think,’ says I; ‘I ken what brocht her here, and ken wha she thinks she is to be married to, and I’ve come to tell her that she’ll never get him.’

  “‘How no?’ she said, amazed like.

  “‘Because,’ said I, wi’ my teeth thegither, ‘he is already married.’

  “Lads, I stood waiting to see her fall, and when she didna fall I just waited langer, thinking she was slow in taking it a’ in.

  “‘I see you ken wha she is,’ she said, looking at me, ‘and yet I canna credit your news.’

  “‘They’re true,’ I cries.

  “‘Even if they are,’ says she, considering, ‘it may be the best thing that could happen to baith o’ them.’

  “I sank back in the chair in fair bewilderment, for I didna ken at that time, as we a’ ken now, that she was 349 thinking o’ the earl when I was thinking o’ her son. Dominie, it looked to me as if the Lord had opened a door to me, and syne shut it in my face.