The Little Minister

“Old woman, mother!” said Gavin. But his indignation was vain. Margaret was an old woman. I made her old before her time.

“As for these terrible troubles,” he went on, “I forget them the moment I enter the garden and see you at your window. And, maybe, I keep some of the joys from you as well as the troubles.”

Words about Babbie leaped to his mouth, but with an effort he restrained them. He must not tell his mother of her until Babbie of her free will had told him all there was to tell.

“I have been a selfish woman, Gavin.”

“You selfish, mother!” Gavin said, smiling. “Tell me when you did not think of others before yourself?”

“Always, Gavin. Has it not been selfishness to hope that you would never want to bring another mistress to the manse? Do you remember how angry you used to be in Glasgow when I said that you would marry some day?”

“I remember,” Gavin said, sadly.

“Yes; you used to say, ‘Don’t speak of such a thing, mother, for the horrid thought of it is enough to drive all the Hebrew out of my head.’ Was not that lightning just now?”

“I did not see it. What a memory you have, mother, for all the boyish things I said.”

“I can’t deny,” Margaret admitted with a sigh, “that 188 I liked to hear you speak in that way, though I knew you would go back on your word. You see, you have changed already.”

“How, mother?” asked Gavin, surprised.

“You said just now that those were boyish speeches. Gavin, I can’t understand the mothers who are glad to see their sons married; though I had a dozen I believe it would be a wrench to lose one of them. It would be different with daughters. You are laughing, Gavin!”

“Yes, at your reference to daughters. Would you not have preferred me to be a girl?”

“’Deed I would not,” answered Margaret, with tremendous conviction. “Gavin, every woman on earth, be she rich or poor, good or bad, offers up one prayer about her firstborn, and that is, ‘May he be a boy!’”

“I think you are wrong, mother. The banker’s wife told me that there is nothing for which she thanks the Lord so much as that all her children are girls.”

“May she be forgiven for that, Gavin!” exclaimed Margaret; “though she maybe did right to put the best face on her humiliation. No, no, there are many kinds of women in the world, but there never was one yet that didn’t want to begin with a laddie. You can speculate about a boy so much more than about a girl. Gavin, what is it a woman thinks about the day her son is born? yes, and the day before too? She is picturing him a grown man, and a slip of a lassie taking him from her. Ay, that is where the lassies have their revenge on the mothers. I remember as if it were this morning a Harvie fishwife patting your head and asking who was your sweetheart, and I could never thole the woman again. We were at the door of the cottage, and I mind I gripped you up in my arms. You had on a tartan frock with a sash and diamond socks. When I look back, Gavin, it seems to me that you have shot up from that frock to manhood in a single hour.”

“There are not many mothers like you,” Gavin said, laying his hand fondly on Margaret’s shoulder.

“There are many better mothers, but few such sons. It is easily seen why God could not afford me another. Gavin, I am sure that was lightning.”

“I think it was; but don’t be alarmed, mother.”

“I am never frightened when you are with me.”

“And I always will be with you.”

“Ah, if you were married – ”

“Do you think,” asked Gavin, indignantly, “that it would make any difference to you?”

Margaret did not answer. She knew what a difference it would make.

“Except,” continued Gavin, with a man’s obtuseness, “that you would have a daughter as well as a son to love you and take care of you.”

Margaret could have told him that men give themselves away needlessly who marry for the sake of their mother, but all she said was —

“Gavin, I see you can speak more composedly of marrying now than you spoke a year ago. If I did not know better, I should think a Thrums young lady had got hold of you.”

It was a moment before Gavin replied; then he said, gaily —

“Really, mother, the way the best of women speak of each other is lamentable. You say I should be better married, and then you take for granted that every marriageable woman in the neighbourhood is trying to kidnap me. I am sure you did not take my father by force in that way.”

He did not see that Margaret trembled at the mention of his father. He never knew that she was many times pining to lay her head upon his breast and tell him of me. Yet I cannot but believe that she always shook when Adam Dishart was spoken of between them. I cannot think that the long-cherishing of the secret 190 which was hers and mine kept her face steady when that horror suddenly confronted her as now. Gavin would have suspected much had he ever suspected anything.

“I know,” Margaret said, courageously, “that you would be better married; but when it comes to selecting the woman I grow fearful. O Gavin!” she said, earnestly, “it is an awful thing to marry the wrong man!”

Here in a moment had she revealed much, though far from all, and there must have been many such moments between them. But Gavin was thinking of his own affairs.

“You mean the wrong woman, don’t you, mother?” he said, and she hastened to agree. But it was the wrong man she meant.

“The difficulty, I suppose, is to hit upon the right one?” Gavin said, blithely.

“To know which is the right one in time,” answered Margaret, solemnly. “But I am saying nothing against the young ladies of Thrums, Gavin. Though I have scarcely seen them, I know there are good women among them. Jean says – ”

“I believe, mother,” Gavin interposed, reproachfully, “that you have been questioning Jean about them?”

“Just because I was afraid – I mean because I fancied – you might be taking a liking to one of them.”

“And what is Jean’s verdict?”

“She says every one of them would jump at you, like a bird at a berry.”

“But the berry cannot be divided. How would Miss Pennycuick please you, mother?”

“Gavin!” cried Margaret, in consternation, “you don’t mean to – But you are laughing at me again.”

“Then there is the banker’s daughter?”

“I can’t thole her.”

“Why, I question if you ever set eyes on her, mother.”

“Perhaps not, Gavin; but I have suspected her ever since she offered to become one of your tract distributors.”

“The doctor,” said Gavin, not ill-pleased, “was saying that either of these ladies would suit me.”

“What business has he,” asked Margaret, vindictively, “to put such thoughts into your head?”

“But he only did as you are doing. Mother, I see you will never be satisfied without selecting the woman for me yourself.”

“Ay, Gavin,” said Margaret, earnestly; “and I question if I should be satisfied even then. But I am sure I should be a better guide to you than Dr. McQueen is.”

“I am convinced of that. But I wonder what sort of woman would content you?”

“Whoever pleased you, Gavin, would content me,” Margaret ventured to maintain. “You would only take to a clever woman.”

“She must be nearly as clever as you, mother.”

“Hoots, Gavin,” said Margaret, smiling, “I’m not to be caught with chaff. I am a stupid, ignorant woman.”

“Then I must look out for a stupid, ignorant woman, for that seems to be the kind I like,” answered Gavin, of whom I may confess here something that has to be told sooner or later. It is this: he never realised that Babbie was a great deal cleverer than himself. Forgive him, you who read, if you have any tolerance for the creature, man.

“She will be terribly learned in languages,” pursued Margaret, “so that she may follow you in your studies, as I have never been able to do.”

“Your face has helped me more than Hebrew, mother,” replied Gavin. “I will give her no marks for languages.”

“At any rate,” Margaret insisted, “she must be a grand housekeeper, and very thrifty.”

“As for that,” Gavin said, faltering a little, “one can’t expect it of a mere girl.”

“I should expect it,” maintained his mother.

“No, no; but she would have you,” said Gavin, happily, “to teach her housekeeping.”

“It would be a pleasant occupation to me, that,” Margaret admitted. “And she would soon learn: she would be so proud of her position as mistress of a manse.”

“Perhaps,” Gavin said, doubtfully. He had no doubt on the subject in his college days.

“And we can take for granted,” continued his mother, “that she is a lassie of fine character.”

“Of course,” said Gavin, holding his head high, as if he thought the doctor might be watching him.

“I have thought,” Margaret went on, “that there was a great deal of wisdom in what you said at that last marriage in the manse, the one where, you remember, the best man and the bridesmaid joined hands instead of the bride and bridegroom.”

“What did I say?” asked the little minister, with misgivings.

“That there was great danger when people married out of their own rank of life.”

“Oh – ah – well, of course, that would depend on circumstances.”

“They were wise words, Gavin. There was the sermon, too, that you preached a month or two ago against marrying into other denominations. Jean told me that it greatly impressed the congregation. It is a sad sight, as you said, to see an Auld Licht lassie changing her faith because her man belongs to the U. P.’s.”

“Did I say that?”

“You did, and it so struck Jean that she told me she would rather be an old maid for life, ‘the which,’ she said, ‘is a dismal prospect,’ than marry out of the Auld Licht kirk.”

“Perhaps that was a rather narrow view I took, mother. After all, the fitting thing is that the wife should go with her husband; especially if it is he that is the Auld Licht.”

“I don’t hold with narrowness myself, Gavin,” Margaret said, with an effort, “and admit that there are many respectable persons in the other denominations. But though a weaver might take a wife from another kirk without much scandal, an Auld Licht minister’s madam must be Auld Licht born and bred. The congregation would expect no less. I doubt if they would be sure of her if she came from some other Auld Licht kirk. ’Deed, though she came from our own kirk, I’m thinking the session would want to catechise her. Ay, and if all you tell me of Lang Tammas be true (for, as you know, I never spoke to him), I warrant he would catechise the session.”

“I would brook no interference from my session,” said Gavin, knitting his brows, “and I do not consider it necessary that a minister’s wife should have been brought up in his denomination. Of course she would join it. We must make allowance, mother, for the thousands of young women who live in places where there is no Auld Licht kirk.”

“You can pity them, Gavin,” said Margaret, “without marrying them. A minister has his congregation to think of.”

“So the doctor says,” interposed her son.

“Then it was just like his presumption!” cried Margaret. “A minister should marry to please himself.”

“Decidedly he should,” Gavin agreed, eagerly, “and the bounden duty of the congregation is to respect and honour his choice. If they forget that duty, his is to remind them of it.”

“Ah, well, Gavin,” said Margaret, confidently, “your congregation are so fond of you that your choice would doubtless be theirs. Jean tells me that even Lang 194 Tammas, though he is so obstinate, has a love for you passing the love of woman. These were her words. Jean is more sentimental than you might think.”

“I wish he would show his love,” said Gavin, “by contradicting me less frequently.”

“You have Rob Dow to weigh against him.”

“No; I cannot make out what has come over Rob lately. He is drinking heavily again, and avoiding me. The lightning is becoming very vivid.”

“Yes, and I hear no thunder. There is another thing, Gavin. I am one of those that like to sit at home, but if you had a wife she would visit the congregation. A truly religious wife would be a great help to you.”

“Religious,” Gavin repeated slowly. “Yes, but some people are religious without speaking of it. If a woman is good she is religious. A good woman who has been, let us say, foolishly brought up, only needs to be shown the right way to tread it. Mother, I question if any man, minister or layman, ever yet fell in love because the woman was thrifty, or clever, or went to church twice on Sabbath.”

“I believe that is true,” Margaret said, “and I would not have it otherwise. But it is an awful thing, Gavin, as you said from the pulpit two weeks ago, to worship only at a beautiful face.”

“You think too much about what I say in the pulpit, mother,” Gavin said, with a sigh, “though of course a man who fell in love merely with a face would be a contemptible creature. Yet I see that women do not understand how beauty affects a man.”

“Yes, yes, my boy – oh, indeed, they do,” said Margaret, who on some matters knew far more than her son.

Twelve o’clock struck, and she rose to go to bed, alarmed lest she should not waken early in the morning. “But I am afraid I shan’t sleep,” she said, “if that lightning continues.”

“It is harmless,” Gavin answered, going to the window. He started back next moment, and crying, “Don’t look out, mother,” hastily pulled down the blind.

“Why, Gavin,” Margaret said in fear, “you look as if it had struck you.”

“Oh, no,” Gavin answered, with a forced laugh, and he lit her lamp for her.

But it had struck him, though it was not lightning. It was the flashing of a lantern against the window to attract his attention, and the holder of the lantern was Babbie.

“Good-night, mother.”

“Good-night, Gavin. Don’t sit up any later.”

Chapter Twenty-Two.

LOVERS

Only something terrible, Gavin thought, could have brought Babbie to him at such an hour; yet when he left his mother’s room it was to stand motionless on the stair, waiting for a silence in the manse that would not come. A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man woke in the night.

Now Margaret slept. Two hours earlier, Jean, sitting on the salt-bucket, had read the chapter with which she always sent herself to bed. In honour of the little minister she had begun her Bible afresh when he came to Thrums, and was progressing through it, a chapter at night, sighing, perhaps, on washing days at a long chapter, such as Exodus twelfth, but never making two of it. The kitchen wag-at-the-wall clock was telling every room in the house that she had neglected to shut her door. As Gavin felt his way down the dark stair, awakening it into protest at every step, he had a glimpse of the pendulum’s shadow running back and forward on the hearth; he started back from another shadow on the lobby wall, and then seeing it start too, knew it for his own. He opened the door and passed out unobserved; it was as if the sounds and shadows that filled the manse were too occupied with their game to mind an interloper.

“Is that you?” he said to a bush, for the garden was 197 in semi-darkness. Then the lantern’s flash met him, and he saw the Egyptian in the summer-seat.

“At last!” she said, reproachfully. “Evidently a lantern is a poor door-bell.”

“What is it?” Gavin asked, in suppressed excitement, for the least he expected to hear was that she was again being pursued for her share in the riot. The tremor in his voice surprised her into silence, and he thought she faltered because what she had to tell him was so woeful. So, in the darkness of the summer-seat, he kissed her, and she might have known that with that kiss the little minister was hers forever.

Now Babbie had been kissed before, but never thus, and she turned from Gavin, and would have liked to be alone, for she had begun to know what love was, and the flash that revealed it to her laid bare her own shame, so that her impulse was to hide herself from her lover. But of all this Gavin was unconscious, and he repeated his question. The lantern was swaying in her hand, and when she turned fearfully to him its light fell on his face, and she saw how alarmed he was.

“I am going away back to Nanny’s,” she said suddenly, and rose cowed, but he took her hand and held her.

“Babbie,” he said, huskily, “tell me what has happened to bring you here at this hour.”

She sought to pull her hand from him, but could not.

“How you are trembling!” he whispered. “Babbie,” he cried, “something terrible has happened to you, but do not fear. Tell me what it is, and then – then I will take you to my mother: yes, I will take you now.”

The Egyptian would have given all she had in the world to be able to fly from him then, that he might never know her as she was, but it could not be, and so she spoke out remorselessly. If her voice had become hard, it was a new-born scorn of herself that made it so.

“You are needlessly alarmed,” she said; “I am not 198 at all the kind of person who deserves sympathy or expects it. There is nothing wrong. I am staying with Nanny over-night, and only came to Thrums to amuse myself. I chased your policeman down the Roods with my lantern, and then came here to amuse myself with you. That is all.”

“It was nothing but a love of mischief that brought you here?” Gavin asked, sternly, after an unpleasant pause.

“Nothing,” the Egyptian answered, recklessly.

“I could not have believed this of you,” the minister said; “I am ashamed of you.”

“I thought,” Babbie retorted, trying to speak lightly until she could get away from him, “that you would be glad to see me. Your last words in Caddam seemed to justify that idea.”

“I am very sorry to see you,” he answered, reproachfully.

“Then I will go away at once,” she said, stepping out of the summer-seat.

“Yes,” he replied, “you must go at once.”

“Then I won’t,” she said, turning back defiantly. “I know what you are to say: that the Thrums people would be shocked if they knew I was here; as if I cared what the Thrums people think of me.”

“I care what they think of you,” Gavin said, as if that were decisive, “and I tell you I will not allow you to repeat this freak.”

“You ‘will not allow me,’” echoed Babbie, almost enjoying herself, despite her sudden loss of self-respect.

“I will not,” Gavin said, resolutely. “Henceforth you must do as I think fit.”

“Since when have you taken command of me?” demanded Babbie.

“Since a minute ago,” Gavin replied, “when you let me kiss you.”

“Let you!” exclaimed Babbie, now justly incensed. “You did it yourself. I was very angry.”

“No, you were not.”

“I am not allowed to say that even?” asked the Egyptian. “Tell me something I may say, then, and I will repeat it after you.”

“I have something to say to you,” Gavin told her, after a moment’s reflection; “yes, and there is something I should like to hear you repeat after me, but not to-night.”

“I don’t want to hear what it is,” Babbie said, quickly, but she knew what it was, and even then, despite the new pain at her heart, her bosom swelled with pride because this man still loved her. Now she wanted to run away with his love for her before he could take it from her, and then realising that this parting must be forever, a great desire filled her to hear him put that kiss into words, and she said, faltering:

“You can tell me what it is if you like.”

“Not to-night,” said Gavin.

“To-night, if at all,” the gypsy almost entreated.

“To-morrow, at Nanny’s,” answered Gavin, decisively: and this time he remembered without dismay that the morrow was the Sabbath.

In the fairy tale the beast suddenly drops his skin and is a prince, and I believed it seemed to Babbie that some such change had come over this man, her plaything.

“Your lantern is shining on my mother’s window,” were the words that woke her from this discovery, and then she found herself yielding the lantern to him. She became conscious vaguely that a corresponding change was taking place in herself.

“You spoke of taking me to your mother,” she said, bitterly.

“Yes,” he answered at once, “to-morrow”; but she shook her head, knowing that to-morrow he would be wiser.

“Give me the lantern,” she said, in a low voice, “I am going back to Nanny’s now.”

“Yes,” he said, “we must set out now, but I can carry the lantern.”

“You are not coming with me!” she exclaimed, shaking herself free of his hand.

“I am coming,” he replied, calmly, though he was not calm. “Take my arm, Babbie.”

She made a last effort to free herself from bondage, crying passionately, “I will not let you come.”

“When I say I am coming,” Gavin answered between his teeth, “I mean that I am coming, and so let that be an end of this folly. Take my arm.”

“I think I hate you,” she said, retreating from him.

“Take my arm,” he repeated, and, though her breast was rising rebelliously, she did as he ordered, and so he escorted her from the garden. At the foot of the field she stopped, and thought to frighten him by saying, “What would the people say if they saw you with me now?”

“It does not much matter what they would say,” he answered, still keeping his teeth together as if doubtful of their courage. “As for what they would do, that is certain; they would put me out of my church.”

“And it is dear to you?”

“Dearer than life.”

“You told me long ago that your mother’s heart would break if – ”

“Yes, I am sure it would.”

They had begun to climb the fields, but she stopped him with a jerk.

“Go back, Mr. Dishart,” she implored, clutching his arm with both hands. “You make me very unhappy for no purpose. Oh, why should you risk so much for me?”

“I cannot have you wandering here alone at midnight,” Gavin answered, gently.

“That is nothing to me,” she said, eagerly, but no longer resenting his air of proprietorship.

“You will never do it again if I can prevent it.”

“But you cannot,” she said, sadly. “Oh, yes, you can, Mr. Dishart. If you will turn back now I shall promise never to do anything again without first asking myself whether it would seem right to you. I know I acted very wrongly to-night.”

“Only thoughtlessly,” he said.

“Then have pity on me,” she besought him, “and go back. If I have only been thoughtless, how can you punish me thus? Mr. Dishart,” she entreated, her voice breaking, “if you were to suffer for this folly of mine, do you think I could live?”

“We are in God’s hands, dear,” he answered, firmly, and he again drew her arm to him. So they climbed the first field, and were almost at the hill before either spoke again.

“Stop,” Babbie whispered, crouching as she spoke; “I see some one crossing the hill.”

“I have seen him for some time,” Gavin answered, quietly; “but I am doing no wrong, and I will not hide.”

The Egyptian had to walk on with him, and I suppose she did not think the less of him for that. Yet she said, warningly —

“If he sees you, all Thrums will be in an uproar before morning.”

“I cannot help that,” Gavin replied. “It is the will of God.”

“To ruin you for my sins?”

“If He thinks fit.”

The figure drew nearer, and with every step Babbie’s distress doubled.

“We are walking straight to him,” she whispered. “I implore you to wait here until he passes, if not for your own sake, for your mother’s.”

At that he wavered, and she heard his teeth sliding against each other, as if he could no longer clench them.

“But, no,” he said moving on again, “I will not be a skulker from any man. If it be God’s wish that I should suffer for this, I must suffer.”

“Oh, why,” cried Babbie, beating her hands together in grief, “should you suffer for me?”

“You are mine,” Gavin answered. Babbie gasped. “And if you act foolishly,” he continued, “it is right that I should bear the brunt of it. No, I will not let you go on alone; you are not fit to be alone. You need some one to watch over you and care for you and love you, and, if need be, to suffer with you.”

“Turn back, dear, before he sees us.”

“He has seen us.”

Yes, I had seen them, for the figure on the hill was no other than the dominie of Glen Quharity. The park gate clicked as it swung to, and I looked up and saw Gavin and the Egyptian. My eyes should have found them sooner, but it was to gaze upon Margaret’s home, while no one saw me, that I had trudged into Thrums so late, and by that time, I suppose, my eyes were of little service for seeing through. Yet, when I knew that of these two people suddenly beside me on the hill one was the little minister and the other a strange woman, I fell back from their side with dread before I could step forward and cry “Gavin!”