He flung recklessly out of the courtyard, leaving Jean looking blankly at the mud that had been holly lately. Not his act of sacrilege was distressing her, but his news. Were these berries a love token? Had God let Rob Dow say they were a gypsy’s love token, and not slain him?
That Rob spoke of the Egyptian of the riots Jean never doubted. It was known that the minister had met this woman in Nanny Webster’s house, but was it not also known that he had given her such a talking-to as she could never come above? Many could repeat the words in which he had announced to Nanny that his wealthy friends in Glasgow were to give her all she needed. They could also tell how majestic he looked when he turned the Egyptian out of the house. In short, Nanny having kept her promise of secrecy, the people had been forced to construct the scene in the mud house for themselves, and it was only their story that was known to Jean.
She decided that, so far as the gypsy was concerned, Rob had talked trash. He had seen the holly in the minister’s hand, and, being in drink, had mixed it up with the gossip about the Egyptian. But that Gavin had preserved the holly because of the donor was as obvious to Jean as that the vase in her hand was empty. Who could she be? No doubt all the single ladies in Thrums were in love with him, but that, Jean was sure, had not helped them a step forward.
To think was to Jean a waste of time. Discovering that she had been thinking, she was dismayed. There were the wet clothes in the basket looking reproachfully at her. She hastened back to Gavin’s room with the vase, but it too had eyes, and they said, “When the minister misses his holly he will question you.” Now Gavin had already smiled several times to Jean, and once he had marked passages for her in her “Pilgrim’s Progress,” with the result that she prized the marks more even than the passages. To lose his good opinion was terrible to her. In her perplexity she decided to consult wise Tammas Haggart, and hence her appeal to Margaret.
To avoid Chirsty, the humourist’s wife, Jean sought Haggart at his workshop window, which was so small that an old book sufficed for its shutter. Haggart, whom she could see distinctly at his loom, soon guessed from her knocks and signs (for he was strangely quick in the uptake) that she wanted him to open the window.
“I want to speak to you confidentially,” Jean said in a low voice. “If you saw a grand man gey fond o’ a flower, what would you think?”
“I would think, Jean,” Haggart answered, reflectively, “that he had gien siller for’t; ay, I would wonder——”
“What would you wonder?”
“I would wonder how muckle he paid.”
“But if he was a—a minister, and keepit the flower—say it was a common rose—fond-like on his chimley, what would you think?”
“I would think it was a black-burning disgrace for a minister to be fond o’ flowers.”
“I dinna haud wi’ that.”
“Jean,” said Haggart, “I allow no one to contradict me.”
“It wasna my design. But, Tammas, if a—a minister was fond o’ a particular flower—say a rose—and you destroyed it by an accident, when he wasna looking, what would you do?”
“I would gie him another rose for’t.”
“But if you didna want him to ken you had meddled wi’t on his chimley, what would you do?”
“I would put the new rose on the chimley, and he would never ken the differ.”
“That’s what I’ll do,” muttered Jean, but she said aloud—
“But it micht be that particular rose he liked?”
“Havers, Jean. To a thinking man one rose is identical wi’ another rose. But how are you speiring?”
“Just out o’ curiosity, and I maun be stepping now. Thank you kindly, Tammas, for your humour.”
“You’re welcome,” Haggart answered, and closed his window.
That day Rob Dow spent in misery, but so little were his fears selfish that he scarcely gave a thought to his conduct at the manse. For an hour he sat at his loom with his arms folded. Then he slouched out of the house, cursing little Micah, so that a neighbour cried “You drucken scoundrel!” after him. “He may be a wee drunk,” said Micah in his father’s defence, “but he’s no mortal.” Rob wandered to the Kaims in search of the Egyptian, and returned home no happier. He flung himself upon his bed and dared Micah to light the lamp. About gloaming he rose, unable to keep his mouth shut on his thoughts any longer, and staggered to the Tenements to consult Haggart. He found the humourist’s door ajar, and Wearyworld listening at it. “Out o’ the road!” cried Rob, savagely, and flung the policeman into the gutter.
“That was ill-dune, Rob Dow,” Wearyworld said, picking himself up leisurely.
“I’m thinking it was weel-dune,” snarled Rob.
“Ay,” said Wearyworld, “we needna quarrel about a difference o’ opeenion; but, Rob——”
Dow, however, had already entered the house and slammed the door.
“Ay, ay,” muttered Wearyworld, departing, “you micht hae stood still, Rob, and argued it out wi’ me.”
In less than an hour after his conversation with Jean at the window it had suddenly struck Haggart that the minister she spoke of must be Mr. Dishart. In two hours he had confided his suspicions to Chirsty. In ten minutes she had filled the house with gossips. Rob arrived to find them in full cry.
“Ay, Rob,” said Chirsty, genially, for gossip levels ranks, “you’re just in time to hear a query about the minister.”
“Rob,” said the Glen Quharity post, from whom I subsequently got the story, “Mr. Dishart has fallen in—in—what do you call the thing, Chirsty?”
Birse knew well what the thing was called, but the word is a staggerer to say in company.
“In love,” answered Chirsty, boldly.
“Now we ken what he was doing in the country yestreen,” said Snecky Hobart, “the which has been bothering us sair.”
“The manse is fu’ o’ the flowers she sends him,” said Tibbie Craik. “Jean’s at her wits’-end to ken whaur to put them a’.”
“Wha is she?”
It was Rob Dow who spoke. All saw he had been drinking, or they might have wondered at his vehemence. As it was, everybody looked at every other body, and then everybody sighed.
“Ay, wha is she?” repeated several.
“I see you ken nothing about her,” said Rob, much relieved; and he then lapsed into silence.
“We ken a’ about her,” said Snecky, “except just wha she is. Ay, that’s what we canna bottom. Maybe you could guess, Tammas?”
“Maybe I could, Sneck,” Haggart replied, cautiously; “but on that point I offer no opinion.”
“If she bides on the Kaims road,” said Tibbie Craik, “she maun be a farmer’s dochter. What say you to Bell Finlay?”
“Na; she’s U. P. But it micht be Loups o’ Malcolm’s sister. She’s promised to Muckle Haws; but no doubt she would gie him the go-by at a word frae the minister.”
“It’s mair likely,” said Chirsty, “to be the factor at the Spittal’s lassie. The factor has a grand garden, and that would account for such basketfuls o’ flowers.”
“Whaever she is,” said Birse, “I’m thinking he could hae done better.”
“I’ll be fine pleased wi’ ony o’ them,” said Tibbie, who had a magenta silk, and so was jealous of no one.
“It hasna been proved,” Haggart pointed out, “that