‘I hear there was a prayer-meeting—or something—last night up at the Glebe,’ said Stapylton. ‘Was it effectual, do you know?’
‘What do you mean by effectual?’ said the minister, gravely.
‘Oh, I thought it might have had one of two effects,’ said the young man with careless contempt. ‘It might have cured the patient, you know; or at least, so they say. And they might have prayed her to death, which I should think the most likely, for my part.’
‘I did not know you were so well informed,’ said Mr. Lothian, who was in no conciliatory mood.
‘Oh, yes, I am posted up,’ said Stapylton, with a vain laugh, for which his companion could have knocked him down. ‘I think they will find it difficult to cure consumption; but the greater the difficulty the greater the miracle. It shows, at least, that they are not afraid.’
‘It shows they are not impostors, as you seem to think them,’ said the minister with some heat.
‘Oh, dear, no, not impostors,’ said Stapylton; ‘not any more than other people. We are all impostors, I suppose, more or less.’
‘Your views are too advanced for our rural minds,’ said Mr. Lothian, growing more and more angry in spite of himself. ‘We don’t understand them. Impostors are rare in this country-side.’
‘Oh, yes, I believe you,’ said Stapylton insolently. ‘Do you mean to say you put any faith in that praying crew? Did you think their shouting and bawling could do any good to that poor, consumptive creature——’
‘Is it Margaret Diarmid you are speaking of?’ said the minister; and the men paused and looked in each other’s faces. Stapylton had gone further than he meant to go. Isabel’s sister was nothing to him, though he loved Isabel in his selfish way. He had no respect for Margaret as a woman, or as a sick woman; he had no appreciation of her character. She was to him simply a poor, consumptive creature, whom he would be glad to have killed or cured out of his way. If Isabel were ever his, she should not long retain any foolish devotion to her sister. Therefore he could not understand the scorn and indignation of Mr. Lothian’s eyes.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I would not hurt her sister’s feelings by calling her so, you know. We’re all impostors, as I said. But still you know that is what the girl is, all the same.’
The minister rose from the table impatiently, and made no answer. And this was the man to whom Isabel had given her heart!
CHAPTER VI
‘I am saying nothing against Ailie,’ said Jean Campbell, ‘no a word. Our Margaret upholds her as a God-fearing lass; but maybe she was going beyond her tether when she came praying over our Margaret. No, it was of nae avail. I never expected it for my part.’
‘It maun have been want of faith,’ said one of the eager spiritual gossips who had flocked around Jean to hear the news. ‘Human nature is so full o’ short-comings. We’ve a’ looked up to her for her godly life; but the Lord will not put up with our idols. You’ve made an idol o’ Margaret Diarmid, asking her prayers; but now she’s weighed and found wanting. It’s been lack of faith.’
‘I dinna see how that can be,’ said another. ‘She’s won us a’ blessings morning and night. I’ve seen Heaven written plain in her face if ever it was written in a face in this world. Na; it must have been that they were lukewarm in their prayers.’
‘Hoots! they canna ay win,’ said a third neighbour; ‘if a’ the world was to be full of miracles where would us living folk be?’
‘But it’ll be a sair discouragement to the spread of the truth,’ said Mary White of the Mill, who had spoken first. ‘The enemy will cry out sore, like as if it was a triumph. And it’s ill for them of feeble minds to hear that Margaret Diarmid hasn’t faith to be saved, or Ailie Macfarlane lost her power.’
‘I would like to see the one that has more faith than our Margaret,’ said Jean Campbell, wounded in her tenderest point. ‘As for Ailie she’s a wonderful lass, but she’s upsetting with her prophet’s ways. If it had been the Lord’s will, would He have bided for Ailie to ask Him? Would He no have done it for our Margret that has kent Him longer and followed Him better? I’m no pretending to ken mysel—but if ever there was a saint of God it’s our Margret; and naebody need say onything else to me.’
‘There’s naebody in our parish would try,’ cried Jenny Spence, who was a connection. ‘As for Ailie Macfarlane she canna be said rightly to belong to the parish. It’s weel kent she was brought up in the Rue, and a’ her friends bide down by the Loch-end. I canna see ony reason for following after her, and thinking licht of our ain.’
‘Did you never hear, ye silly women,’ said a voice over their heads, ‘that a prophet has nae honour in his ain country? Bring in the new light, and cast out the wisdom that dwells among us: that’s ay been the world’s opinion since lang before it was divided into parishes. As for this poor lassie you make such a work about, she’s hysterical, and that’s the explanation of her cure and her prophesying; no that the creature means ill. She’s an innocent creature, so far as I can see the noo; but how lang her innocence will last if this goes on——’
‘Nae doubt you’re a fine authority, Maister Galbraith,’ said Mary, with a toss of her head; ‘you that believe in naething, neither spirit nor deevil, like the auld Sadducees. It’s grand to come and get lessons from you.’
‘I believe in more than you believe in, Mary, my woman,’ said the schoolmaster, who had interrupted the talk; ‘but I’ll no go into controversy. Jean Campbell, I’m wanting a word with you, if you’ll come inbye as you’re passing, after a’ this important business is done; you were ay good at settling the affairs of the parish—but if I were you I would leave the other world in peace till you win there.’
‘It’s much he kens about the ither world,’ said Mary White as the schoolmaster passed on. ‘Poor auld haverel, with his Latin and his poetry, that never could get a kirk, even in the auld Moderate times.’
The gossip thus came to an abrupt termination, and Jean Campbell went on her way without further pause to the schoolhouse door.
‘Weel, Jean, my woman,’ said the maister, ‘how’s a’ with ye? It’s a bonnie day.’
‘After a’ the saft weather we’ve had,’ said Jean, making the conventional answer which was expected of her. ‘And we’re a’ very weel but Margret, who’s no long for this world, Maister Galbraith, though it’s sair news to tell.’
‘No a word about that,’ said the maister, hastily, ‘and a’ the fools in the country-side living and thriving! I will not speak of what I cannot understand. It’s no about her I’m wanting you, but about bonnie Isabel.’
‘About Isabel?’ said Jean, wondering: and to herself she added, ‘Eh, if the auld fuil’s head should be turned like the lave with that bit lassie!’ a mental exclamation which was unexpectedly brought to light, as it were, by one of the Dominie’s broad sudden smiles.
‘I might be her grandfather,’ he said; ‘and whiles I feel as if I was grandfather to a’ these heedless things. You’ve had your ain ado, Jean, my woman,