Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

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  “And then you came to the Spittal?”

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  “Yes; and Lord Rintoul wanted me to say I was sorry for what I had done, but I told him I need not say that, for I was sure to do it again. As you know, I have done it several times since then; and though I am a different woman since I knew you, I dare say I shall go on doing it at times all my life. You shake your head because you do not understand. It is not that I make up my mind to break out in that way; I may not have had the least desire to do it for weeks, and then suddenly, when I am out riding, or at dinner, or at a dance, the craving to be a gypsy again is so strong that I never think of resisting it; I would risk my life to gratify it. Yes, whatever my life in the future is to be, I know that must be a part of it. I used to pretend at the Spittal that I had gone to bed, and then escape by the window. I was mad with glee at those times, but I always returned before morning, except once, the last time I saw you, when I was away for nearly twenty-four hours. Lord Rintoul was so glad to see me come back then that he almost forgave me for going away. There is nothing more to tell except that on the night of the riot it was not my gypsy nature that brought me to Thrums, but a desire to save the poor weavers. I had heard Lord Rintoul and the sheriff discussing the contemplated raid. I have hidden nothing from you. In time, perhaps, I shall have suffered sufficiently for all my wickedness.”

  Gavin rose weariedly, and walked through the mudhouse looking at her.

  “This is the end of it all,” he said harshly, coming to a standstill. “I loved you, Babbie.”

  “No,” she answered, shaking her head. “You never knew me until now, and so it was not me you loved. I know what you thought I was, and I will try to be it now.”

  “If you had only told me this before,” the minister said sadly, “it might not have been too late.”

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  “I only thought you like all the other men I knew,” she replied, “until the night I came to the manse. It was only my face you admired at first.”

  “No, it was never that,” Gavin said with such conviction that her mouth opened in alarm to ask him if he did not think her pretty. She did not speak, however, and he continued, “You must have known that I loved you from the first night.”

  “No; you only amused me,” she said, like one determined to stint nothing of the truth. “Even at the well I laughed at your vows.”

  This wounded Gavin afresh, wretched as her story had made him, and he said tragically, “You have never cared for me at all.”

  “Oh, always, always,” she answered, “since I knew what love was; and it was you who taught me.”

  Even in his misery he held his head high with pride. At least she did love him.

  “And then,” Babbie said, hiding her face, “I could not tell you what I was because I knew you would loathe me. I could only go away.”

  She looked at him forlornly through her tears, and then moved toward the door. He had sunk upon a stool, his face resting on the table, and it was her intention to slip away unnoticed. But he heard the latch rise, and jumping up, said sharply, “Babbie, I cannot give you up.”

  She stood in tears, swinging the door unconsciously with her hand.

  “Don’t say that you love me still,” she cried; and then, letting her hand fall from the door, added imploringly, “Oh, Gavin, do you?”

  * * *

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  Chapter Thirty.

  THE MEETING FOR RAIN.

  Meanwhile the Auld Lichts were in church, waiting for their minister, and it was a full meeting, because nearly every well in Thrums had been scooped dry by anxious palms. Yet not all were there to ask God’s rain for themselves. Old Charles Yuill was in his pew, after dreaming thrice that he would break up with the drought; and Bell Christison had come, though her man lay dead at home, and she thought it could matter no more to her how things went in the world.

  You, who do not love that little congregation, would have said that they were waiting placidly. But probably so simple a woman as Meggy Rattray could have deceived you into believing that because her eyes were downcast she did not notice who put the threepenny-bit in the plate. A few men were unaware that the bell was working overtime, most of them farmers with their eyes on the windows, but all the women at least were wondering. They knew better, however, than to bring their thoughts to their faces, and none sought to catch another’s eye. The menfolk looked heavily at their hats in the seats in front. Even when Hendry Munn, instead of marching to the pulpit with the big Bible in his hands, came as far as the plate and signed to Peter Tosh, elder, that he was wanted in the vestry, you could not have guessed how every woman there, except Bell Christison, wished she was Peter Tosh. Peter was so taken aback that he merely gaped at Hendry, until suddenly he knew that his five daughters 253 were furious with him, when he dived for his hat and staggered to the vestry with his mouth open. His boots cheeped all the way, but no one looked up.

  “I hadna noticed the minister was lang in coming,” Waster Lunny told me afterward, “but Elspeth noticed it, and with a quickness that baffles me she saw I was thinking o’ other things. So she let out her foot at me. I gae a low cough to let her ken I wasna sleeping, but in a minute out goes her foot again. Ay, syne I thocht I micht hae dropped my hanky into Snecky Hobart’s pew, but no, it was in my tails. Yet her hand was on the board, and she was working her fingers in a way that I kent meant she would like to shake me. Next I looked to see if I was sitting on her frock, the which tries a woman sair, but I wasna. ‘Does she want to change Bibles wi’ me?’ I wondered; ‘or is she sliding yont a peppermint to me?’ It was neither, so I edged as far frae her as I could gang. Weel, would you credit it, I saw her body coming nearer me inch by inch, though she was looking straucht afore her, till she was within kick o’ me, and then out again goes her foot. At that, dominie, I lost patience, and I whispered, fierce-like, ‘Keep your foot to yoursel’, you limmer!’ Ay, her intent, you see, was to waken me to what was gaen on, but I couldna be expected to ken that.”

  In the vestry Hendry Munn was now holding counsel with three elders, of whom the chief was Lang Tammas.

  “The laddie I sent to the manse,” Hendry said, “canna be back this five minutes, and the question is how we’re to fill up that time. I’ll ring no langer, for the bell has been in a passion ever since a quarter-past eight. It’s as sweer to clang past the quarter as a horse to gallop by its stable.”

  “You could gang to your box and gie out a psalm, Tammas,” suggested John Spens.

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  “And would a psalm sung wi’ sic an object,” retorted the precentor, “mount higher, think you, than a bairn’s kite? I’ll insult the Almighty to screen no minister.”

  “You’re screening him better by standing whaur you are,” said the imperturbable Hendry; “for as lang as you dinna show your face they’ll think it may be you that’s missing instead o’ Mr. Dishart.”

  Indeed, Gavin’s appearance in church without the precentor would have been as surprising as Tammas’s without the minister. As certainly as the shutting of a money-box is followed by the turning of the key, did the precentor walk stiffly from the vestry to his box a toll of the bell in front of the minister. Tammas’s halfpenny rang in the plate as Gavin passed T’nowhead’s pew, and Gavin’s sixpence with the snapping-to of the precentor’s door. The two men might have been connected by a string that tightened at ten yards.

  “The congregation ken me ower weel,” Tammas said, “to believe I would keep the Lord waiting.”

  “And they are as sure o’ Mr. Dishart,” rejoined Spens, with spirit, though he feared the precentor on Sabbaths and at prayer-meetings. “You’re a hard man.”

  “I speak the blunt truth,” Whamond answered.

  “Ay,” said Spens, “and to tak’ credit for that may be like blawing that you’re ower honest to wear claethes.”

  Hendry, who had gone to the door, returned now with the information that Mr. Dishart had left the manse two hours ago to pay visits, meaning to come
to the prayer-meeting before he returned home.

  “There’s a quirk in this, Hendry,” said Tosh. “Was it Mistress Dishart the laddie saw?”

  “THE CONSULTATION OF THE ELDERS.”

  “No,” Hendry replied. “It was Jean. She canna get to the meeting because the mistress is nervous in the manse by herself; and Jean didna like to tell her 255 that he’s missing, for fear o’ alarming her. What are we to do now?”

  “He’s an unfaithful shepherd,” cried the precentor, while Hendry again went out. “I see it written on the walls.”

  “I dinna,” said Spens doggedly.

  “Because,” retorted Tammas, “having eyes you see not.”

  “Tammas, I aye thocht you was fond o’ Mr. Dishart.”

  “If my right eye were to offend me,” answered the precentor, “I would pluck it out. I suppose you think, and baith o’ you farmers too, that there’s no necessity for praying for rain the nicht? You’ll be content, will ye, if Mr. Dishart just drops in to the kirk some day, accidental-like, and offers up a bit prayer?”

  “As for the rain,” Spens said, triumphantly, “I wouldna wonder though it’s here afore the minister. You canna deny, Peter Tosh, that there’s been a smell o’ rain in the air this twa hours back.”

  “John,” Peter said agitatedly, “dinna speak so confidently. I’ve kent it,” he whispered, “since the day turned; but it wants to tak’ us by surprise, lad, and so I’m no letting on.”

  “See that you dinna make an idol o’ the rain,” thundered Whamond. “Your thochts is no wi’ Him, but wi’ the clouds; and whaur your thochts are, there will your prayers stick also.”

  “If you saw my lambs,” Tosh began; and then, ashamed of himself, said, looking upward, “He holds the rain in the hollow of His hand.”

  “And He’s closing His neive ticht on’t again,” said the precentor solemnly. “Hearken to the wind rising!”

  “God help me!” cried Tosh, wringing his hands. “Is it fair, think you,” he said, passionately addressing the sky, “to show your wrath wi’ Mr. Dishart by ruining my neeps?”

  “You were richt, Tammas Whamond,” Spens said, 256 growing hard as he listened to the wind, “the sanctuary o’ the Lord has been profaned this nicht by him wha should be the chief pillar o’ the building.”

  They were lowering brows that greeted Hendry when he returned to say that Mr. Dishart had been seen last on the hill with the Glen Quharity dominie.

  “Some thinks,” said the kirk officer, “that he’s awa hunting for Rob Dow.”

  “Nothing’ll excuse him,” replied Spens, “short o’ his having fallen over the quarry.”

  Hendry’s was usually a blank face, but it must have looked troubled now, for Tosh was about to say, “Hendry, you’re keeping something back,” when the precentor said it before him.

  “Wi’ that story o’ Mr. Dishart’s murder, no many hours auld yet,” the kirk officer replied evasively, “we should be wary o’ trusting gossip.”

  “What hae you heard?”

  “It’s through the town,” Hendry answered, “that a woman was wi’ the dominie.”

  “A woman!” cried Tosh. “The woman there’s been sic talk about in connection wi’ the minister? Whaur are they now?”

  “It’s no kent, but — the dominie was seen goin’ hame by himsel’.”

  “Leaving the minister and her thegither!” cried the three men at once.

  “Hendry Munn,” Tammas said sternly, “there’s mair about this; wha is the woman?”

  “They are liars,” Hendry answered, and shut his mouth tight.

  “Gie her a name, I say,” the precentor ordered, “or, as chief elder of this kirk, supported by mair than half o’ the Session, I command you to lift your hat and go.”

  Hendry gave an appealing look to Tosh and Spens, but the precentor’s solemnity had cowed them.

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  “They say, then,” he answered sullenly, “that it’s the Egyptian. Yes, and I believe they ken.”

  The two farmers drew back from this statement incredulously; but Tammas Whamond jumped at the kirk officer’s throat, and some who were in the church that night say they heard Hendry scream. Then the precentor’s fingers relaxed their grip, and he tottered into the middle of the room.

  “Hendry,” he pleaded, holding out his arms pathetically, “tak’ back these words. Oh, man, have pity, and tak’ them back!”

  But Hendry would not, and then Lang Tammas’s mouth worked convulsively, and he sobbed, crying, “Nobody kent it, but mair than mortal son, O God, I did love the lad!”

  So seldom in a lifetime had any one seen into this man’s heart that Spens said, amazed:

  “Tammas, Tammas Whamond, it’s no like you to break down.”

  The rusty door of Whamond’s heart swung to.

  “Who broke down?” he asked fiercely. “Let no member of this Session dare to break down till his work be done.”

  “What work?” Tosh said uneasily. “We canna interfere.”

  “I would rather resign,” Spens said, but shook when Whamond hurled these words at him:

  “‘And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the plough and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.’”

  “It mayna be true,” Hendry said eagerly.

  “We’ll soon see.”

  “He would gie her up,” said Tosh.

  “Peter Tosh,” answered Whamond sternly, “I call upon you to dismiss the congregation.”

  “Should we no rather haud the meeting oursel’s?”

  “We have other work afore us,” replied the precentor.

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  “But what can I say?” Tosh asked nervously. “Should I offer up a prayer?”

  “I warn you all,” broke in Hendry, “that though the congregation is sitting there quietly, they’ll be tigers for the meaning o’ this as soon as they’re in the street.”

  “Let no ontruth be telled them,” said the precentor. “Peter Tosh, do your duty. John Spens, remain wi’ me.”

  The church emptied silently, but a buzz of excitement arose outside. Many persons tried to enter the vestry, but were ordered away, and when Tosh joined his fellow-elders the people were collecting in animated groups in the square, or scattering through the wynds for news.

  “And now,” said the precentor, “I call upon the three o’ you to come wi’ me. Hendry Munn, you gang first.”

  “I maun bide ahint,” Hendry said, with a sudden fear, “to lock up the kirk.”

  “I’ll lock up the kirk,” Whamond answered harshly.

  “You maun gie me the keys, though,” entreated the kirk officer.

  “I’ll take care o’ the keys,” said Whamond.

  “I maun hae them,” Hendry said, “to open the kirk on Sabbath.”

  The precentor locked the doors, and buttoned up the keys in his trousers pockets.

  “Wha kens,” he said, in a voice of steel, “that the kirk’ll be open next Sabbath?”

  “Hae some mercy on him, Tammas,” Spens implored. “He’s no twa-and-twenty.”

  “Wha kens,” continued the precentor, “but that the next time this kirk is opened will be to preach it toom?”

  “What road do we tak’?”

  “The road to the hill, whaur he was seen last.”

  * * *

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  Chapter Thirty-One.

  VARIOUS BODIES CONVERGING ON THE HILL.

  It would be coming on for a quarter-past nine, and a misty night, when I reached the schoolhouse, and I was so weary of mind and body that I sat down without taking off my bonnet. I had left the door open, and I remember listlessly watching the wind making a target of my candle, but never taking a sufficiently big breath to do more than frighten it. From this lethargy I was roused by the sound of wheels.

  In the daytime our glen road leads to many parts, but in the night only to the doctor’s. Then the gallop of a horse makes farmers start up in bed and cry, “Who’s ill?” I went to my door and list
ened to the trap coming swiftly down the lonely glen, but I could not see it, for there was a trailing scarf of mist between the schoolhouse and the road. Presently I heard the swish of the wheels in water, and so learned that they were crossing the ford to come to me. I had been unstrung by the events of the evening, and fear at once pressed thick upon me that this might be a sequel to them, as indeed it was.

  While still out of sight the trap stopped, and I heard some one jump from it. Then came this conversation, as distinct as though it had been spoken into my ear:

  “Can you see the schoolhouse now, McKenzie?”

  “I am groping for it, Rintoul. The mist seems to have made off with the path.”

  “Where are you, McKenzie? I have lost sight of you.”

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  It was but a ribbon of mist, and as these words were spoken McKenzie broke through it. I saw him, though to him I was only a stone at my door.

  “I have found the house, Rintoul,” he shouted, “and there is a light in it, so that the fellow has doubtless returned.”

  “Then wait a moment for me.”

  “Stay where you are, Rintoul, I entreat you, and leave him to me. He may recognize you.”

  “No, no, McKenzie, I am sure he never saw me before. I insist on accompanying you.”

  “Your excitement, Rintoul, will betray you. Let me go alone. I can question him without rousing his suspicions. Remember, she is only a gypsy to him.”

  “He will learn nothing from me. I am quite calm now.”

  “Rintoul, I warn you your manner will betray you, and tomorrow it will be roared through the countryside that your bride ran away from the Spittal in a gypsy dress, and had to be brought back by force.”

  The altercation may have lasted another minute, but the suddenness with which I learned Babbie’s secret had left my ears incapable of learning more. I daresay the two men started when they found me at my door, but they did not remember, as few do remember who have the noisy day to forget it in, how far the voice carries in the night.