CHAPTER III.

“Concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Preyed on her damask cheek.”--TWELFTH NIGHT.

The good Mossgray was pained for the dimness which hung about his adopted child. It was not positive sorrow--it was only a shadowy quietness as of a cloud, and very still and patient was Lilias. She was trying to live in the present only, because the future, when she tried to look upon it, made her heart sick; but it is not in the nature of humanity to do this, and her effort to confine herself to those individual hours, as one by one in their quietness they glided past her, made her only languidly indifferent to them all. For Lilias was alone: the hope in peril was her sole hope; kindly ties of kindred there were none for her, and except the old man, her guardian, to whom she looked with tenderness and reverence as to a father, but who yet was not her father, nor had part in all the associations of the past as members of one family have, she had none in the world but this one--and he!--

Where was he? was it peril or illness, or, painfullest of all, was it change, which produced this agony of silence? She tried to interdict herself from the constant speculation to which she could give no answer, but the yearning wonder and anxiety were too strong for the sorrowful heart; yet she said nothing. She could not blame him; she could not have another fancy that on his truth there lay the faintest suspicion; and with that haze of mild, subdued patience about her, she waited, and when she did think of the future time at all, thought of what lay beyond that fated, solemn day, on which tidings might and surely _must_ come, as of some dreamy, unknown chaos, strange and chill, another life.

“I dinna ken what’s come to Miss Lillie,” said Mrs Mense, with a sigh.

“She’s ower muckle made o’, that’s it,” responded the sourer Janet.

“Woman, woman!” said the housekeeper, bitterly, “have ye nae memory o’ being ance young yoursel’, and maybe having troubles in your ain heart that wadna bear telling? but I needna speak to you.”

“Na, I reckon no,” said Janet. “Me! I wad just like to hear onybody say that I ever had a trouble a’ my born days that mightna hae been visible to the haill world if it likit.”

“And that just shows how little ye ken about it,” said Mrs Mense; “if ye ever had a heart ava, it maun hae grown to bane twenty year ago. Are ye gaun to iron thae bits o’ laces for the young lady or are ye no’?--for if ye’re no’, I’ll do’t mysel’--”

“The young lady--set her up!” said the housekeeper _de facto_. “Muckle right she has to the auld Lady Mossgray’s guid lace. He’ll be gieing her the land next; there’s nae fuils like auld fuils.”

“Janet Mense,” said the old woman, “ye hae eaten the Laird’s bread mony a year, and I hae suffered ye in the house, for a’ your ill tongue, and for a’ sae little worth as ye are; but if ye daur to say anither word against Mr Adam, I’ll take ye by the shouthers and put ye forth from this door. I’ll do it with my ain hands; sae ye ken.”

Janet judged it prudent to sound a retreat. She began to spread the lace upon the table, preparatory to the process of ironing.

“The wife’s in a creel,” said Robbie Carlyle the fisherman, entering with his basket of flounders, thinly covered with a few grilse. “Wha’s she gaun to pit to the door? If it’s Effie, I’ll hae nae mair dealings wi’ ye, Mrs Mense; for Effie’s Jamie Caryl’s daughter, and Jamie’s my second cousin; sae we’ll be to ’gree again.”

“And wha’ll tire sunest o’ that, Robbie, my man?” said the housekeeper.

“Faith, I dinna ken,” said the bold fisherman, “there’s waur folk nor me, guid wife; and if I missed your custom, ye wad miss my ca’, ye ken; for I’m guid company--especially when I bring the cuddie.”

“I would like to ken, Robbie Caryl,” said Janet, “what the like o’ you has to do wi’ a cuddie.”

“The like o’ me! Ye’re a sensible woman, Jen, but ye dinna ken a’thing; it’s no to be expected. I ken few that does, by mysel’, and Mossgray, and the minister; the like o’ me! as if I wasna as ’sponsible a man as there is in the parish, and as weel entitled to hae ease to my shouthers! There’s thristles and dockens enow aboon tidemark to mainteen a dizzen cuddies, and he taks nae cleeding, puir beast; he’s cheaper than a wean.”

“Eh, Robbie!” said Mrs Mense, reproachfully, “to even the bits of innocent bairns to a brute beast!”

“He’s a very decent beast,” said Robbie. “I hae kent mony a waur Christian. The bairns! I hae half a dizzen curly pows o’ them, ilk ane a greater sorrow than the tither, and I can tell ye it’s Blackie out there that has the maist cause to compleen o’ being evened to them. He’s a decent, sober, ’sponsible beast, like my ain sel’, and the little anes are evendown spirits, never out o’ mischief, if it binna when they’re tumbled in a dub; and then ane has the fash o’ fishing them out again.”

“It maun be awfu’ dangerous for bairns, that weary marsh,” said Mrs Mense, sympathetically.

“Hout, we never fash our heads about it,” said the fisherman; “they’re a’ born to plouter amang saut water: it comes natural; when they do get a fa’, the oldest anes can scramble out again, and there’s nane o’ them ower young to skirl. The wife whiles makes a fyke about it, but nane o’ them ’ll drown. You might maist say they were born in the sea; onyway, the tide was up on the very doorstane the nicht Sandy was born. It was an uncommon high tide; and the weans hae a story that he came in on the tap o’ a muckle wave. Little Mary wad maist swear she saw the bit wee beld pow o’ him in amang the foam; and the foam’s nane o’ the clearest, I can tell ye, when the Firth’s in a roar.”

“Wasna Monday nicht uncommon coarse doun-bye?” said Janet. “Did ye hear if there was ony skaith dune, Robbie?”

“Hout, woman, do ye ca’ _yon_ coarse?” answered the salt-water man. “Skaith! no, if it werena that auld careless body Willie Tamson that brought in his heavy brute o’ a boat ower the nets, and had nigh coupit her, forbye driving I kenna how mony stakes out of the shore, and garring us lose a day’s kep. The fish are aye maist plentiful when the water’s troubled; puir beasts! they haena muckle variety in their life--I’m thinking they’ll like a storm for the sake o’ change; onyway, they’re aye strong when the Firth’s champing like an ill-willy horse.”

“And are ye doing ought weel, Robbie?” said Mrs Mense.

“No to compleen o’,” answered Robbie, “it aye hauds us gaun. I’m thinking we’ll be no that ill this year; the red fish looks weel. See to that grilse; ye’ll be needing it for the Laird’s dinner the day. Did ye ever see a bonnier beast in the water or out o’t?”

After considerable bargaining, the grilse was laid aside together with store of flounders.

“For there’s nae saying,” said Robbie, “when I may be round again, and it’s better to hae a wheen ower mony than ower few--that’s philosophy--ye can ask the Laird. I’m thinking to send Peter mair; he’s a muckle callant grown, and I see nae occasion I have, to keep a doug, and bark mysel; if it wasna that it wad be an awfu’ loss to the haill countryside--I dinna ken what ye wad a’ do, wanting me.”

“Ye’ve aye a guid word o’ yoursel, Robbie Caryl,” said Janet.

“There’s ne’er a ane kens me as weel, Jen, my woman,” retorted the undaunted Robbie; “if it binna the wife; and the wife’s gift is mair for finding out folk’s faults than their guid qualities; but when I gie ower coming ye’ll find it out; see if ye dinna be gieing weary looks ilka market-day for Robbie Caryl and the cuddie.”

“We’ll wait till that time comes, Robbie,” said Mrs Mense; “but, man, hae ye nae mair news than that?”

“Hearken till her noo,” said Robbie, reflectively; “hearken till the gate o’ thae women--ne’er a thing but news in the heads o’ them. Jen, I’m awa’--hae ye ony message to your joe? I’m the canniest man gaun--I ne’er was blackfit at a courtin’ yet but it throve; and speaking about marryin’--that’s what ye ca’ _news_, I’m thinking?--the wives in the toun are thrang on the top o’ ane e’en now.”

“Wha is’t Robbie?” asked Janet and her aunt together.

“Oh, I hae gotten till the right thing noo, have I? It’s ane that’ll ne’er be in this world--it’s the minister.”

“The minister!” said Mrs Mense, “and what ill will hae ye at the winsome lad, Robbie Caryl, that ye should say he wad never be married?”

“I said nae sic thing; ye tak folk up, neebor, afore they fa’. He may hae half a hunder wives for onything I care, but I’ll just tell him ae guid word o’ counsel--he needna fash his thoom about this ane.”

“And wha is she that’s sae grand?” said the old housekeeper, “set her up! does she think the minister’s no guid enough for onybody?”

The Reverend Robert was an immense favourite with Mrs Mense. She felt it as an injury to the Church that he should not be able to choose where it pleased him.

“I’m no speaking about grandness--she’s nae muckle lady; she’s just the mistress o’ the schule our wee Mary’s at, learning to sew and to behave hersel; but, Mrs Mense, you’re auld--ye dinna mind o’ the fancies o’ young folk. It’s you and me, Jen, that can understand how ane whiles likes ae body better than anither--and ye’ll gie me the message to your joe?”

Jen made a furious lunge at the bold Robbie with the poker she had in her hand. Her irons were not heating so well as they should have done. Janet was in a bad humour.

“Dear me, Robbie, did ye say it was the schulemistress?” said Mrs Mense with some concern; “nae doubt she’s a great friend o’ our Miss Lillie’s--but the misguided lad! He might have seen how Mr Wright, at Fairholm, made a wreck o’ himsel, wi’ marryin’ Willie Tasker’s daughter; but it’s nae use speaking--for nothing will learn thae young folk.”

“Never you heed, gudewife,” said Robbie, “there’s nae ill dune. I’ll wad ye a’ the red fish that comes into the net atween this and Sabbath that she’ll no tak’ him.”

“She’ll no tak’ him--the minister?--she’s no blate!”

“Whisht, whisht,” said the fisherman, “we needna be misca’ing folk that never did us ony ill. She’s as blate as she has ony occasion to be; but there’s anither lad in the gate, ye ken--that’s it, Jen; ye’ll mind by yoursel.”

“I wish ye wad haud the clavering tongue o’ ye,” said the indignant Janet; “_I_ ken?--I ken nane o’ your ill ways--ye needna be putting the name o’ them on me; and wha’s the ither lad?”

“Do ye think I dinna ken that ye wad never trust me wi’ that bit message, if I was telling about anither young lady’s sweetheart? Hout, woman, ye’re no gaun to get round me wi’ the like o’ that. I’m a man to be trusted here where I stand; if I wasna, Jen, I wad ne’er hae had the face to ask a woman o’ your experience to send your bit message wi’ me; but ye may ken it’s safe in my hands--never mortal shall hear tell o’t but the ane.”

The exasperated Janet threatened Robbie with her hot iron; with a broad laugh the fisherman evaded it, but he did not retreat.

“And Miss Buchanan telled ye, Robbie?” said Mrs Mense, “weel she’s no ower nice o’ her counsellors.”

“She’s nane sae wise as to tell me,” said the incorrigible Robbie, “but I have an e’e in my ain head--no to say twa, and them black anes. Ye see ae black e’e’s as guid as three blue anes ony day; for no to speak o’ the licht that ilka body can see through, I hae a gift, like the cats, to see in the dark. Na, na, Miss Buchanan has nae thocht I’m in her counsels--but for a’ that, I ken; and ye may think when I heard the wives in the toun a’ keckling about the minister--I leuch. Some o’ them had new found it out, that he was aye wandering about the townend; but he needna fash his thoom--and I’ve a guid mind to tell him mysel.”

“He’ll no be muckle heeding,” said Mrs Mense with dignity; “the like o’ him, a fine-looking lad that micht get as guid a leddy as ony in the country-side; and she’s no even that you could ca’ particular bonnie. Oh! thae young callants, how they will aye rin after their ain fancies!”

The prudential demurrings of the Reverend Robert Insches as to the eligibility of the humble schoolmistress of Fendie were perfectly justified. The parish decided that she was not eligible--that the minister would clearly throw himself away--that the dignity of the Church would be compromised; but the Reverend Robert was now out of his depths, and had lost the footing of prudence. He was not aware that his wanderings about “the townend” began to be discussed by Robbie Carlyle and his customers. The minister was very much more interested at present in consideration of what was said and done in the little, quiet, dusky parlour, than in any other apartment in Fendie, or in broad Scotland. He had lost his balance; he could no longer manage himself according to his old rules, even though the dearly beloved “position” should be put in jeopardy. The chances of his pursuit made him a little anxious sometimes, but there was no withdrawal; he must either win or fail.