"Was the bairn laid mither nakit intill yer han's, Maister MacPhail?"

asked Miss Horn, who had been meditating.

"Och! no; he wa.s.s his clo'es on," answered Duncan.

"Hae ye ony o' them left?" she asked again.

"Inteet not," answered Duncan. "Yes, inteet not."

"Ye lay at the Salmon, didna ye?"

"Yes, mem, and they wa.s.s coot to her."

"Wha drest the bairn till ye?"

"Och! she 'll trest him herself." said Duncan, still jealous of the women who had nursed the child.

"But no aye?" suggested Miss Horn.

"Mistress Partan will pe toing a coot teal of tressing him, sometimes.

Mistress Partan is a coot 'oman when she 'll pe coot--fery coot when she 'll be coot."

Here Malcolm entered, and Miss Horn told him what she had seen of the laird, and gathered concerning him.

"That luiks ill for Phemy," remarked Malcolm, when she had described his forlorn condition. "She canna be wi' 'im, or he wadna be like that. Hae ye onything by w'y o' c.o.o.nsel, mem?"

"I wad c.o.o.nsel a word wi' the laird himsel'--gien 't be to be gotten. He mayna ken what 's happent her, but he may tell ye the last he saw o' her, an' that maun be mair nor ye ken."

"He 's taen sic a doobt o' me 'at I 'm feart it 'll be hard to come at him, an' still harder to come at speech o' 'im, for whan he 's fricht.i.t he can hardly muv is jawbane--no to say speyk. I maun try though and du my best. Ye think he's lurkin' aboot Fife Hoose, div ye, mem?"

"He's been seen there awa' this while--aff an' on."

"Weel, I s' jist gang an' put on my fisher claes, an set oot at ance. I maun haud ower to Scaurnose first, though, to lat them ken 'at he 's been gotten sicht o'. It 'll be but sma' comfort, I doobt."

"Malcolm, my son," interjected Duncan, who had been watching for the conversation to afford him an opening, "if you'll pe meeting any one will caal you ta son of tat woman, gif him a coot plow in ta face, for you 'll pe no son of hers, efen if she'll proof it-- no more as hersel. If you 'll pe her son, old Tuncan will pe tisown you for efer, and efermore, amen."

"What's broucht you to this, daddie?" asked Malcolm, who, ill as he liked the least allusion to the matter, could not help feeling curious, and indeed almost amused.

"Nefer you mind. Miss Horn will pe hafing coot reasons tat Mistress Stewart 'll not can pe your mother."

Malcolm turned to Miss Horn.

"I 've said naething to Maister MacPhail but what I 've said mair nor ance to yersel', laddie," she replied to the eager questioning of his eyes. "Gang yer wa's. The trowth maun cow the lee i' the lang rin. Aff wi' ye to Blue Peter!"

When Malcolm reached Scaurnose he found Phemy's parents in a sad state. Joseph had returned that morning from a fruitless search in a fresh direction, and reiterated disappointment seemed to have at length overcome Annie's endurance, for she had taken to her bed.

Joseph was sitting before the fire on a three legged stool rocking himself to and fro in a dull agony. When he heard Malcolm's voice, he jumped to his feet, and a flash of hope shot from his eyes: but when he had heard all, he sat down again without a word, and began rocking himself as before. Mrs Mair was lying in the darkened closet, where, the door being partly open, she had been listening with all her might, and was now weeping afresh. Joseph was the first to speak: still rocking himself with hopeless oscillation, he said, in a strange m.u.f.fled tone which seemed to come from somewhere else--"Gien I kent she was weel deid I wadna care. It 's no like a father to be sittin' here, but whaur 'll I gang neist? The wife thinks I micht be duin' something: I kenna what to du. This last news is waur nor mane. I hae maist nae faith left. Ma'colm, man!"

and with a bitter cry he started to his feet--"I maist dinna believe there's a G.o.d ava'. It disna luik like it--dis 't noo?"

There came an answering cry from the closet; Annie rushed out, half undressed, and threw her arms about her husband.

"Joseph! Joseph!" she said, in a voice hard with agony--almost more dreadful than a scream--"gien ye speyk like that, ye 'll drive me mad. Lat the la.s.sie gang, but lea' me my G.o.d!" Joseph pushed her gently away; turned from her, fell on his knees, and moaned out--"O G.o.d, gien thoo has her, we s' neither greit nor grum'le: but dinna tak the faith frae 's."

He remained on his knees silent, with his head against the chimney jamb. His wife crept away to her closet.

"Peter," said Malcolm, "I'm gaein' aff the nicht to luik for the laird, and see gien he can tell 's onything aboot her: wadna ye better come wi' me?"

To the heart of the father it was as the hope of the resurrection of the world. The same moment he was on his feet and taking down his bonnet; the next he disappeared in the closet, and Malcolm heard the tinkling of the money in the lidless teapot; then out he came with a tear on his face and a glimmer in his eyes.

The sun was down, and a bone piercing chill, incarnate in the vague mist that haunted the ground, a.s.sailed them as they left the cottage. The sea moaned drearily. A smoke seemed to ascend from the horizon halfway to the zenith, something too thin for cloud, too black for vapour; above that the stars were beginning to shine.

Joseph shivered and struck his hands against his shoulders.

"Care 's cauldrife," he said, and strode on.

Almost in silence they walked together to the county town, put up at a little inn near the river, and at once began to make inquiries.

Not a few persons had seen the laird at different times, but none knew where he slept or chiefly haunted. There was nothing for it but to set out in the morning, and stray hither and thither, on the chance of somewhere finding him.

CHAPTER LXII: THE CUTTLE FISH AND THE CRAB

Although the better portion of the original a.s.sembly had forsaken the Baillies' Barn, there was still a regular gathering in it as before, and if possible even a greater manifestation of zeal for the conversion of sinners. True, it might not be clear to an outsider that they always made a difference between being converted and joining their company, so ready were they to mix up the two in their utterances; and the result's of what they counted conversion were sometimes such as the opponents of their proceedings would have had them: the arrogant became yet more arrogant, and the greedy more greedy; the tongues of the talkative went yet faster, and the gad abouts were yet seldomer at home, while there was such a superabundance of private judgment that it overflowed the cisterns of their own concerns, and invaded the walled gardens of other people's motives: yet, notwithstanding, the good people got good, if the other sort got evil; for the meek shall inherit the earth, even when the priest ascends the throne of Augustus. No worst thing ever done in the name of Christianity, no vilest corruption of the Church, can destroy the eternal fact that the core of it is in the heart of Jesus. Branches innumerable may have to be lopped off and cast into the fire, yet the word I am the vine remaineth.

The demagogues had gloried in the expulsion of such men as Jeames Gentle and Blue Peter, and were soon rejoiced by the return of Bow o' meal--after a season of backsliding to the fleshpots of Egypt, as they called the services of the parish church--to the bosom of the Barn, where he soon was again one of the chief amongst them.

Meantime the circles of their emanating influence continued to spread, until at length they reached the lower cla.s.ses of the upper town, of whom a few began to go to Barn. Amongst them, for reasons best known to herself, though they might be surmised by such as really knew her, was Mrs Catanach. I do not know that she ever professed repentance and conversion, but for a while she attended pretty often. Possibly business considerations had something to do with it. a.s.suredly the young preacher, though he still continued to exhort, did so with failing strength, and it was plain to see that he was going rapidly: the exercise of the second of her twin callings might be required. She could not, however, have been drawn by any large expectations as to the honorarium. Still, she would gain what she prized even more--a position for the moment at the heart of affairs, with its excelling chances of hearing and overhearing.

Never had lover of old books half the delight in fitting together a rare volume from scattered portions picked up in his travels, than Mrs Catanach found in vitalizing stray remarks, arranging odds and ends of news, and cementing the many fragments, with the help of the babblings of gossip, into a plausible whole; intellectually considered, her special pursuit was inasmuch the n.o.bler as the faculties it brought into exercise were more delicate and various; and if her devotion to the minutia of biography had no high end in view, it never caused her to lose sight of what ends she had, by involving her in opinions, prejudices, or disputes: however she might break out at times, her general policy was to avoid quarrelling.

There was a strong natural antagonism between her and the Partaness, but she had never shown the least dislike to her, and that although Mrs Findlay had never lost an opportunity of manifesting hers to the midwife. Indeed, having gained a pretext by her ministrations to Lizzy when overcome by the suggestions of the dog sermon, Mrs Catanach had a.s.sayed an approach to her mother, and not without success. After the discovery of the physical cause of Lizzy's ailment, however, Mrs Findlay had sought, by might of rude resolve, to break loose from the encroaching acquaintanceship, but had found, as yet, that the hard sh.e.l.led crab was not a match for the glutinous cuttlefish.

On the evening of the Sunday following the events related in the last chapter, Mrs Catanach had, not without difficulty, persuaded Mrs Findlay to accompany her to the Baillies' Barn, with the promise of a wonderful sermon from a new preacher--a ploughman on an inland farm. That she had an object in desiring her company that night, may seem probable from the conversation which arose as they plodded their way thither along the sands.

"I h'ard a queer tale aboot Meg Horn at Duff Harbour the ither day," said the midwife, speaking thus disrespectfully both to ease her own heart and to call forth the feelings of her companion, who also, she knew, disliked Miss Horn.

"Ay! an' what micht that be?"

"But she's maybe a freen' o' yours, Mrs Findlay? Some fowk likes her, though I canna say I'm ane o' them."

"Freen' o' mine!" exclaimed the Partaness. "We gree like twa bills (bulls) i' the same park!"

"I wadna wonner!--for they tellt me 'at saw her fechtin' i' the High Street wi' a muckle loon, near han' as big 's hersel'! an'

haith, but Meg had the best o' 't, an' flang him intil the gutter, an' maist fellt him! An' that's Meg Horn!"

"She had been at the drink! But I never h'ard it laid till her afore."

"Didna ye than? Weel, I'm no sayin' onything--that's what I h'ard."

"Ow, it's like eneuch! She was bulliraggin' at me nae langer ago nor thestreen; but I doobt I sent her awa' wi' a flech (flea) in her lug!"

"Whaten a craw had she to pluck wi' you, no?"