Books: The Little Minister

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"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?"

"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 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, 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.

"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.

"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, Tamtnas," 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."

CHAPTER XXXI.

VARIOUS BODIES CONVERGING ON THE HILL.

It would be coming on for a quarter-past nine, and a misty night,
when I reached the school-house, 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
listened 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 school-house 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 school-house 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."

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 to-morrow 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.

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 under-lip, as if this was a method
of controlling his agitation, and he was opening and shutting his
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 cock-fight in the school-house.
"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 good-night 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 to-night. 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"

"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. Good-night, 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.

"Good-night, Mr. McKenzie," I said. "Good-night, 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 to-morrow 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 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.

"What do you see, man?" Hendry whispered.

"As sure as death," answered Spens, awe-struck, "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
taken 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.

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 advanced 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."

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."

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.

CHAPTER XXXII.

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!"

"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 to-morrow:
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."

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