The Minister's Wife

Chapter I

The death of Margaret Diarmid had been, as people say, sudden at the last. Whether the agitation of that visit had been too much for her, or if Nature at the end, having lingered so long, had succumbed in a moment to some unseen touch, it was impossible to tell. She Avas dead — that was all that could be said. Things had gone on as usual all the evening through in the dim parlour, Avhere Jean came in from time to time to see that all Avas safe, and Isabel moved softly about at the appointed hours with her cordials and her medi cines. Margaret had been lying, as her stepmother had left her, with her large, humid, Avistful eyes fixed, taking less notice of everything around than usual, looking out, as it were, into an unseen world of her OAvn. An intense quietness had fallen upon the house. The children had been sent early to bed ; and Jenny Spence, who had volunteered to assist VOL. II.

B ■> the minister's WIFE. in the watch, was comfortably installed in the big elbow-chair by the fire in the kitchen. ' We 're better without her,' Jean had Avhispered to Isabel ; ' but it 's a real pleasure to her, and she 's a connexion; and she'll no disturb Margaret.' Jean herself had taken up her position, wrapt in her cloak, just within the parlour door. It Avas usual for them, at an earlier hour than this, to remove their patient to bed. But Margaret had been so still that they had hesitated to disturb her. ' By-and-bye/ she had said to them softly, as she lay there Avith her Avhite face upturned, and her open eyes. She was not asleep ; but so quiet, so smiling, breathing so calmly. Could it be that she had taken ' a good turn ? ' Isabel, seated at the foot of the sofa, her duties over for the moment, kept her watch, praying mechanically, dozing by moments, stupified by grief and Aveariness.

Jean behind backs saAv nothing of what Avas passing. But after a time the stillness became intolerable, and weighed upon her. Her first impulse was to steal out to the kitchen and rouse Jenny Spence, and console herself Avith a melancholy talk over the fire; and then she bethought herself that it would be cruel to leave Isabel in this atmosphere, Avhich somehow ■seemed all at once so strangely chilled and silent. Listening intently, it seemed to her that she heard no breathing but her own. Margaret's hardest paroxysms would have sounded natural and con soling in place of that awful stillness. Jean's heart begau to throb in her ears, and her eyes to dazzle. It was some time before she could move. When she at last summoned her povrers and roused herself, it was all clear to her in a moment. The strange silence, the sudden chill, had been death ; but thus the long illness, which all the parish expected was to haAre a triumphant and victorious conclusion, ended softly in the silence, without sound of trumpet or demonstration of ex ceeding joy.

It Avould be impossible to say that this was not a great disappointment to Loch Diarmid. Those who had been Margaret's most warm adherents, against the others Avho condemned her for want of faith, felt themselves deceived in their most just expectations. Even Jean consented with a pang that it Avas really so, and that there Avere to be no last deathbed pæans, and cries of victory, and visions of angels, to vindicate Margaret's sanctity. ' Slipped out o' life at last like a knotless thread ; no glorify ing her Maker, as was to be looked for/ the crowd said, not disguising their disappointment. They Avould not believe that God had given her her release sleeping, as He does to His beWed. As for Isabel there was an interval, unfor tunately for her a very short interval, in which she Avas conscious of nothing.

Not that the simple, healthful girl, trained in stern Scotch self-restraint, found refuge in any swoon or fit of bodily uncon sciousness. But fatigue had so worn and be- Avildered her, and benumbed all her faculties, that she Avas incapable of any fresh sensation. The kind women took her to her bed, and the young creature, all broken and Avorn, slept the heavy sleep of sorrow, that profound, joyless slumber which pain and suffering bring to young eyes. When she woke, it was not with any fresh pang : she had carried the sense of ' what had happened ' with her throughout her sleep — but with still the same heavy, listless, benumbed sensations. Some times, when she started involuntarily at the thought that it was time for Margaret's wine, or her soup, or her medicine, her heart thus sharply pricked would rouse up, and her eyes gain relief in the measureless tears of youth.

But she did not come to herself for days, scarcely until the time of dark ness Avas over, and the procession had gone out from the cottage doors, and her sister Avas carried away from her, while she herself remained behind. Then her life sprang again out of excess of pain. I cannot give an idea of her feelings at this terrible moment Avithout coiweying to the reader, I fear, an unworthy impression of poor Isabel. It Avas not grief only, but life that sprang up AVIFE. 5 thus Avildly in her heart. Had she followed her impulses, she would have rushed out, rushed into any distraction she could find, done something, anything, it did not matter what, to relieve the terrible unrest, the feverish sense of energy that was within her. Grief, unable any longer to blunt, sharpened all her faculties. And yet she had to stay still in the darkened room, to read her Bible, as Avas thought proper at the moment, Avith her heart so plucking at her and rending her, that the mere effort to be still was agony.

Jean, weeping in the kitchen, with the great family Bible opened out on the table, and with all that strange consciousness of the proprieties of bereavement which belong to her class, was comforted by the solemn quiet ; but Isabel was incapable of such conventional restraint. She walked about her room, falling on her knees, sometimes breaking forth into sobs that shook her frame, glad to feel exhausted by her Aveeping, eager to do anything that would keep her calamity at a little distance from her. The enforced idle ness of the moment, which to Jean was the solace of grief, was madness to Isabel. Hoav Avas she to bear it ? Henceforward alone in the world, haA'ing herself, and nothing better to think of; no one to consider, to be bound by, to invoke on all occasions. And at the same time life springing up already in her, all strong, and full, and fen'id, after this temporary interruption.

Her veins seemed to SAvell ; her pulses and her heart were ever throbbing, throbbing, till the sound of them filled the silent house as with a buzz of life. It has been often said, that the many plans into Avhich the survivors plunge after a death show human nature's callousness to the deepest impressions ; but in reality there may be a very different meaning in it. Sometimes it becomes one of the most pathetic forms of suffering. 'Let us do something — any thing to make this void and ache endurable,' cries the soul that loathes itself for living, and feeling still capable of life. It is like the restless tossings of fever, the writhings of a wounded creature on the aAvful sword that pierces it. So Isabel writhed and tossed, stretching out her hands wildly in her abandonment. Out of that horror and suspense of her existence it had sprung up more powerful, more alive than ever.

All her old thoughts came pouring back upon her, her half-developed hopes, the desires of her heart. Such a fulness and abundance of life possessed her, that the very air seemed to pulse and beat around. And this on Margaret's funeral day, when she should have been lying down prostrate, or seated someAvhere, silent and motionless AAdth her Bible, in the shadoAV of the darkened windoAvs ! The sense of this tumult within her, so unsuitable to all the requirements of her position, shocked and horrified the poor girl. It seemed to her, as it does to the superficial spectator, to be heartlessness and insensibility. She was not wise enough nor experienced enough to feel that it was but a sympton of the awful con vulsion that had rent her nature. Could she have turned her face to the wall and been still, and spent the silent hours in tranquil Aveeping, Isabel Avould have felt consoled by the consciousness that thus Margaret should be mourned.

But there was in her heart nothing of that incapacity of all exertion, that prostration, and Aveakness, and need of repose, which are supposed to be the characteristics of grief. Hurry, and tumult, and labour, would have been more congenial to her than rest and quiet. The room seemed to stifle her, the silence to drive her Avild. Her grief was no sentiment but a passion, boiling through all her veins. She felt like a hypocrite when she heard Jean describe her, in the terrible days Avhich followed, as 'no just able to see you yet.' When the fact Avas she could have seen anybody, and done anything, and Avelcomed any exertion, in the keenness of her misery; but grief, like all other things, owes a certain respect and homage to the world. It was about a week after the funeral Avhen Jean came in, solemnly tapping at the parlourdoor, Avhere Isabel sat alone.

She Avas arrayed in her neAv black gown, and Avith her freshest cap, and had a certain air of gravity and importance about her. She came in softly and stood by Isabel, half behind her as she sat at the table. ' Isabel, my bonnie woman,' she said, tuning her homely voice to its softest cadence, ' it 's time we Avere having a talk, you and me, about Avhat we 're to do.' 'What should we do?' said Isabel; 'but sit down and tell me what it is : it 's weary, weary to sit alone.' ' My lamb ! ' said Jean, furtively smoothing the girl's soft hair. It Avas seldom she ventured on such a proof of sympathy, for Isabel Avas proud. But she did not sit clown ; she stood with some agitation, twisting the table-cover from the table, shifting from one foot to another. At last her burden came forth with a burst. ' It 's best I should ken ; it 's a' yours now, Isabel ; and you were never that fond of me and the poor bairns.

I 'm your father's Avife/and I 'm no a lady born like you ; but I 'in one that Avould never thole to be where she Avasna wanted. Whisht ! Avhisht ! I 'm no misdoubting your kindness ; for her sake I ken you would aye be kind ; but if there was to be a change I would like best it should be now.' ' Why should there be a change?' said Isabel, Aveeping. ' Oh, is there not change enough to please you ? Would you like me to stay my lane in this still, still house and die ? But I could not die — I would go Avild; and, maybe, you would not care.' ' As if I didna care for everything belonging to ye!' cried Jean, once more timidly caressing her stepdaughter's bent head. ' If it was only that, I Avould be content to be your servant — as near your servant as Avould be becoming to the Captain's Avidow,' she added, after a momentary pause. ' But your heart's touched and tender the noo ; and if, after, you should reflect on me for taking advantage of you, or anybody else should reflect ' ' Who is there that has any right ? ' cried hasty Isabel, drying her tears with a hot and trembling hand. ' There 's but me iioav in all the world, and no one that can bid me go or come, or do this or that.

Ah, me ! ' ' My bonnie woman,' said Jean, ' there 's mony in the world would be real proud to think a' Avas their ain to do what they pleased Avith, and to be able to say as much.' Isabel answered only by a despairing gesture, and resumed tremulously the Avork upon which she had been labouring to employ herself. She Avould have buried herself in books could she have ob tained them ; but books were but few on Loch AVIFE. Diarmid, and she had been trained to think ' idleness ' a sin, and decorum stood out against her seeing any one, or eATen going out, except for the most melancholy exercise. So she had mechanically taken to her sewing, the only Avork she could lay her hands on, the worst Avork she could have had at the moment. Her brain had been growing dizzy over it Avhen Jean entered, by multiplicity of thought. ' It 's a grand thing to be free,' said Jean, her voice faltering a little ; ' free o' them you 're bound to by any bonds but Avhat God has made.

When it's nature it's different — or when it's your free choice it 's different; but you and me, Isabel, are free to meet and free to part. I 'm no saying but what it would be a sore heartbreak; but if ever there was to come a time Avhen you would reflect ' ' Oh, dinna speak,' said Isabel ; ' if it 's your will to leave me, go, and let me take my chance. If I was to go out of my senses or die on the hill side, what is that to other folk ? There is none to care if I was mad or dead to-morroAv. If you speak because you 're Avearied of me and my silly ways ' ' Oh, Isabel, my lamb ! ' cried Jean, Avith tears, ' I 'm saying I Avould be your servant if that was a'. But you maun tell me your will plain if we 're to go or stay. A 's yours. If Ave live here, the bairns and me, it's upon you; and that I canna do unless you say plain out — Bide; and let things be as they have aye been.' ' Is there anything else I could say ? ' cried Isabel; 'maybe you've forgotten already what was said to you and me — yon night?

But I will ne\Ter forget. Nothing is changed but one thing. Oh, no, I am saying wrong — the heavens and the earth are changed and all's different — all's different! — but not between you and me. And I '11 mind about Jamie/ she added, once more hotly and tremulously, drying her eyes. ' He's to be brought up for a minister, if he has a desire to it. We '11 speak to Mr. Lothian, or Mr. Galbraith, and I '11 not forget.' Jean shook her head softly behind her stepdaughter's back. ' I'm no speaking of Jamie now/ she said ; ' afore he 's old enough you '11 haA'e a man, Isabel, that may have other meanings. But I'm aye thankful to you for the thought. And a young lass is real solitary by herself. I '11 bide since you say sae, and weel content; but when the time comes that you 're married, my Avoman, Ave '11 speak of that no more.' ' The time will never come/ said Isabel, hastily. ' I have had my share of life.

I am not like a young lass now.' AVTFE. ' My bonnie lamb !' said Jean, with a tender smile, letting her hand rest on the downcast head. It was that last touch of self-pity which broke down Isabel's reserve. At her age the sufferer is so tender, so pitiful of herself! She turned sud denly round, and throAving her arms round her stepmother wept and sobbed on her homely bosom. She had been trying to live to herself, but could not succeed; and of all living creatures this woman, against whom her pride had so often re volted, was nearest to her now. She clung to her as to her last support, and Jean received her in her motherly arms. Her heart had warmed to the wayward Isabel, all through her faulty youth with a lov^e less reverent, but more familiar than that she had given to Margaret. And now a common grief united them as they had never been united before.

She held the girl close, repeating over and over those soft names of homely kindness. ' My lamb !' she said, ' my bonnie Bell ! my bonnie woman !' and bent down her head over her, not with the lavish caresses of a lighter nature, but with a strong sustaining pressure. Jean could no more have dropped a flood of kisses on the Aveeping creature supported on her bosom than she would have thrown her off and abandoned her in her grief. But she held her fast against her honest breast, standing by her in the natural paroxysm. When the sobs grew fainter, and exhaustion merci fully dulled the pain, it was she who smoothed her hair, and dried her Avet cheeks, and gave her such comfort as she could bear. ' Come ben beside the bairns/ Jean said, drying the tears from her own eyes, ' and leave this room that is so full of a' that's passed.

There 's a cheery fire, and the Avee things' faces are aye a comfort. That was her thought : and I '11 make you your cup of tea, and we '11 do our best to bear the burden for her sake.' There was a cheery fire, as Jean had said, and Isabel was cold with that chill of grief which pene trates into the very heart. The blaze and the warmth gave her a little forlorn consolation ; and so after awhile did the sound of voices other than her OAvn, and the care and service that surrounded her. Little Mary came and leaned against her, standing silent by her side with a child's speechless s)Tmpathy. And Jean talked to her, asking no ansAver. It was the first break to the stillness of death which had gathered round the lonely girl. The sound of the waves on the beach, or the rustle of the trees, would have been almost as coherent and significant.

Jean talked by instinct, for the sake of the sound, knowing that was all of which her charge was capable. The hum of external life thus once more returned to keep AVIFE. from her ears that awful constant buzz of her own confused being. It was the beginning of her new existence; the life that seemed so awful and cold and solitary Avhen she looked at it in her little parlour alone. Jean attended her to her room when it Avas time for rest, as she Avould have done had Isabel been her own child, and gave her one of those rare shy kisses, of which the homely Scotch matron Avas half ashamed in her intense reticence and self-control. ' Try and sleep, my lamb/ she said, ' I '11 come back and put out the candle.' And then she returned to her kitchen, to shut her shutters, and put the * gathering coal ' upon the fire, and make all snug for the night.

When she had ended her silent labours, Jean took her moment of in dulgence also, sitting down to think in the elboAv-chair, by the side of the dark heaped-up smouldering fire. ' Na, na,' she said to herself, ' I maunna trust to that. If Margaret had set it apart out of her share — but I'm no reflecting upon Margaret. It was a' the first wife's siller, and it 's Isabel's by right ; and I dinna doubt her bit warm hasty heart. But if she were to marry that English lad, me and mine would be little to her after ; and if she was to marry anybody else— even the minister — he would be for thinking of his ain first, and maybe a family coming. It would be real natural. Na, na ! I maunna trust to Isabel ; and, maybe, after a' it 's best for the laddie/ she said to herself, Avith a sigh. ' If the root o' the matter's in him, he '11 fight his way to it ; and if it 's no, he'll never try; and when a' 's said and done, maybe that 's the best.' But it Avas with a sigh she rose from that moment of reflection and stole back to remove the candle, and saw with affectionate pleasure that Isabel, Avorn out, had already dropped to sleep. ' The poor bairn ! ' Jean said, in her tenderness, and clambered up to the attic be side her children, with that sense of being the protector and sole guardian of so much help lessness, which fills the heart of a solitary woman with such softness and such strength.

She was but a homely soul, Avith little refine ment about her. In all the world there was scarcely one observer who, Isabel being by, in the interest of her youth, would have wasted one thought on her peasant stejj mother ; and yet Jean mounting the narrow stair leaving all in order below, spreading her motherly Avings over the child Avho was not her own, as well as over the children of her heart — making up her mind without bitterness to the inevitable misfortunes of the future, was something nobler than pretty Isabel. ' I can aye Avork and keep them in bread,' she said to herself, as she looked at her boy and her girl in their sleep.

Chapter II

The next step in Isabel's solitary new life Avas the visit of Miss Catherine, Avhose entrance Jean per mitted a few days earlier than decorum properly allowed. ' After a', she 's a connexion, and the poor bairn's best support/ she said, as she went, wiping her hands on her apron, to open the door to the visitor. ' Oh, ay, Miss Catherine ! come your ways ben ; she '11 be glad of a kind word. She's no suffered that much in her health — God be thankit ! But Avhiles my heart breaks to see her in that Aveary parlour her lane, and nothing to wile her from her ain thoughts.' ' I had not the courage to come sooner/ said Miss Catherine. ' But, Jean, Ave must not leave her to her own thoughts.' ' Whiles I Avish she Avas but a common lass,' said Jean, ' that had to work, sair heart or glad. Work's aye a comfort — but sitting pingling Avi' a seam!

The minister sent some nonsense books; but I hadna the heart to take them to her. A vol. n. i n c AVIFE. chapter now and then, or maybe a page o' a good book — that's a' a feeling person can be expected to be fit for. I wonder at the minister. Was I to take in fuil stories and novels and siclike to my poor lamb?' ' They might have Aviled her from her thoughts, as you say/ said Miss Catherine. ' And now I '11 go in. Wae 's me ! I Ve looked on two Margaret Diarmids dead in this house, and me older than the eldest of them, and living to this day.' ' It 's for the comfort of the poor folk,' said Jean, putting her apron to her eyes. And then she opened the parlour-door. ' Isabel, my bonnie woman, here's Miss Catherine come to see you/ said she, with a watery smile. There could be but one way of meeting for the two.

Isabel stood up for an instant with a nervous attempt at composure, and then dropped weeping into her old friend's extended arms : and there Avas first the inevitable attempt at consolation, tender words and encouragements. ' It 's well with her — it 's better for her. We must not mourn, for her sake.' ' And noAV tell me, my dear,' said Miss Cathe rine, when poor Isabel had wept herself into quietness, 'how you've settled with Jean? You are young, and it will be a strange life for you here by yourself. Is it settled that everything is to go on as it has been ? ' 'Why should there be any change?' said Isabel. ' It is her house as long as it is mine. Is she not the nearest I haA-e left? — and, oh, she 's kind ! though I have neA-er been good to her all my life.' ' She is not a drop's blood to you,' said Miss Catherine, with some warmth. 'Isabel, I'm not one to bid you run away from grief; it's a vain thing to do ; but you 're young, and you have a sufficiency, and Avhy should you be burdened Avith the second family?

I had nothing to say against it in the past. Jean was aye kind, poor woman. But I cannot bear to think of you staying here in this room after all that 's come and gone.' Miss Catherine cast her eyes round the little sombre parlour. The sun was in the west, behind the house, so that no brightness came in to enliven it. Even the glimpse out upon the wistful pale stillness of the Loch, was saddening rather than gladsome, and she shiA-ered a little as she laid her hand on the arm of the sofa on which Margaret had died. 'I like it the better,' cried Isabel, quickly. ' Where should I stay but here ? where she can aye come back in her mind, and think upon me, even sitting up yonder among them all! If I were to go to a strange place she might not know- ' 'Oh, Isabel, you were ahvays fanciful. A blessed spirit, if it 's permitted, can go anyAvhere, you may be sure, and know the place wherever you are,' cried Miss Catherine, scarce less fanciful in the sobriety of her thoughts. ' Ah ! but it would not be like home,' cried the girl. ' She has but to think and she'll see me — even when she has her gold harp in her hand and singing yonder.

Just a thought and she '11 know the very room I am sitting in, the light in the window, the bonnie Loch she was aye so fond of. She could not come to me so quick if I was in another place.' ' My dear, Ave must not make idols of those that are gone/ said Miss Catherine with tears in her eyes, ' or like the Papists, worshipping their saints. We must mind there is but One that hears Avhen we cry, and He can never fail.' Isabel made no answer. She took up her Avork with trembling fingers, and made an effort to go on with it, Avhile the visitor, for her part, had enough to do to master the sob in her voice. ' You are so young/ she said ; ' you cannot knoAv what you want, or what is best for you. I know a poor gentlewoman in Edinburgh, Isabel, that Avould be very kind to you. A change Avould be good, though you cannot think it now.

Making and mending is grand work for the mother of a family, but for a young creature alone, it is not to be thought of as au occupation. And there are things you might learn that would fit you for your life to come. How can you tell what your life will be? Your blood, my dear, is as good by the mother's side as mine ; and if you saw a little of the Avorld — You 're a proud thing, Isabel, you '11 not allow you want anything ; but the change would do you good, and the novelty would divert your mind ' ' As if I Avas asking to be diverted!' said Isabel. ' Oh ! Miss Catherine, if it 's like that you think of me! I am seeking no change. My life, the best of it, is past. What have I to think about but how to be quiet and do my duty, and consider my latter end ?' ' Oh, bairn ! that you should be such a bairn !' said Miss Catherine; 'if it Avere not for what you 've gone through, I could find it in my heart to he angry.

TAventy years after this you '11 not be so sure that your life is past, nor think so much about your latter end. What is likely is that you have a long life before you; and by-and-bye you '11 marry, as most women do. I don't say noAV — you 're thinking of nothing of the kind now ; but when due time has past, and you have shown the respect you ought. — You may think me heartless to speak so, but I 'm not heartless, Isabel.' ' I cannot understand Avhat you are saying/ AVIFE. said Isabel. ' Oh, let me be ! I am at home, and among my ain folk. I neither want change nor diversion — nor to be married — nor a new life! If there is one thing I would like, it Avould be to work late and early and take care of the house. But I am too old to learn lessons now, and I am not old enough to be aways thinking about myself.' Miss Catherine gave a sigh of vexation.