“Ha, ha, Macky! had ye been your lane,Ye should never hae crackit through either wood or water again.”
“Ha, ha, Macky! had ye been your lane,Ye should never hae crackit through either wood or water again.”
“Say ye sae, fause loun,” quo’ the auld hardy veteran; “than be at your speed, for I’ll gang through that wood my lane in spite o’ your teeth, an’ a’ hell at your back.” An’ what does the carl do, but leaves his twa elders yonder, standin glowrin i’ thehowe night, an’ trodges his way back through the linn to the very farrest side o’t—said the hunder-an’-ninth psalm against him, an’ came back wi’ never a turned hair on his head. But yet for a’ that, Jeany, dinna lippen ower muckle to bygane things; there have been fairy raids i’ the Hope, an’ mony ane ill fleyed. I could tell ye sic a story of a wicked laird here!”
Jane entreated him not to tell it that night, but amuse them with it to-morrow as they journeyed. He was passive—left them his plaid—went home and got leave of absence from his master for two days, but hinted nothing of what had passed in the Hope. He was again back at the sheep-house by the time the sun arose; and, early as it was, he found Jane walking without, while little George was sleeping soundly on the hay, wrapped in the plaid. She said she had got a sound and short sleep, but awakening at dawn she had stepped out to taste the fresh mountain air, and see the sun rise. When they lifted the child hewas somewhat fretful—a thing not customary with him; but he was soon pacified, and they proceeded without delay on their journey.
Until once they had cleared the boundaries of the farm of Todburn, Barnaby was silent, and looked always around with a jealous eye, as if dreading a surprise. When his fellow-traveller asked the reasons of his anxiety, he remained silent; but as soon as they got fairly into the next glen he became as gay and talkative as ever. She deemed it to be some superstitious dread that discomposed him, but was left to guess the cause.
“Jeany,” said he, “you said you had a short and sound sleep last night—so had I. Pray, did you dream ony?”
“Not that I remember of; but I put no faith in dreams.”
“Weel, how different fock’s bodies, or their souls, or something about them maun be frae ane anither! For I’m come this length in the warld, an’ I never yet dreameda regular dream, in a sound sleep, that I didna get as plainly read to me as the A B C. I had a strange dream last night, Jeany, an’ it was about you. I am sure I’ll live to see it fulfilled; but what it means even now, I canna in the least comprehend.”
“Well, Barnaby, suppose you give us it. I have read the Book of Knowledge, and may lend you a hand at the interpretation.”
“I thought I saw ye lying in a lonesome place, an’ no ane in the wide world to help or heed ye, till there was a poor bit black mootit-like corby came down frae the hills an’ fed ye. I saw it feeding ye, an’ I thought ye war as contentit, an’ as bonny, an’ as happy as ever. But ere ever I wist, down comes there a great majestic eagle some gate frae about the e’e-bree o’ the heavens, an’ cleeks ye away up to the lowne bieldy side o’ a sunny hill, where ye had a’ braw things. An’ I dinna ken how it was, I thought ye war a she eagle sitting amangyour young, an’ I thought aye ye war a woman too, an’ I coudna separate the tane frae the tither; but the poor bit plottit forefoughen corby gaed alang w’ye, an’ ye war kind to him, an’ fed him in your turn, an’ I saw him hoppin, an’ pickin, an’ dabbin round about ye, as happy as ever I saw a beast, an’ the erne didna chase him away, but was kind to him; but somehow, or I wakened, I thought it was the confusedest thing I ever saw. Na, ye needna laugh nor smile, for we’ll baith live to see it read.”
“Believe me, Barnaby, it will never be apparent; you may force circumstances to agree with it, but these will not be obvious ones.”
“It’s needless for me to arguy wi’ you unless I can bring things hame to your ain conscience; but can ye say that ye never got a dream read?”
“Never that I noted; for I never thought of them.”
“Or, for instance, have ye never, whenyou saw a thing for the first time, had a distinct recollection of having seen it sometime afore?”
“Never.”
“How wonderfu’! I have done so a thousand an’ a thousand times. I have remembered of having seen exactly the same scene, the same faces, the same looks, and heard the same words, though I knew all the while that I never had seen them in reality; and that I could only have seen them in some former vision, forgotten, or perhaps never remembered.”
She now saw clearly that dreams, visions, and apparitions, were Barnaby’s region of existence—His very thoughts and language seemed elevated whenever he entered on the subject; and it being a trait in the shepherd’s character that she had never thought of before, she resolved to encourage it, and asked for a single instance of that strange foresight alluded to.
“You’ll surely acknowledge,” said Barnaby,“that it is impossible I could ever have come up that strait swire before with a bairn on my back, an’ a young woman gaun beside me exactly like you; an’ that while in that condition, I should have met wi’ a bull an’ a cow coming out the path by themsels, an’ thought o’ yon craig for a shelter to the bairn that I was carrying; yet when that happened about an hour ago, I remembered so distinctly of having gone through it some time long before, that I knew every step that would next be taken, and every word that would next be said. It made me very thoughtful; but I can remember nothing of where or when I dreamed it, or what was the issue.
“There was another instance that I’ll never forget. The winter afore last, I gaed out wi’ my father in the morning to help him to gather the sheep; for the rime had sitten down, an’ the clouds war creepin, and we kend the drift wad be on. Weel, away we sets, but a’ the hills were wrappit i’ the clouds o’ rime as they had been rowedin a fleece o’ frosty woo, an’ we couldna see a stime; we were little better than fock gaungraepingfor sheep; an’ about twal o’clock, (I mind it weel,) just when I was in the very straitest and steepest part o’ the Shielbrae-Hope, the wind gae a swirl, an’ I lookit up an’ saw the cloud screwing up to heaven—the brow o’ the hill cleared, an’ I saw like a man cringing and hanging ower the point o’ the rock, an’ there was seven white ewes an’ a black ane gaun bleetin in a raw yont aneath him. That was a’; but the sight strak me motionless. I mindit that I had seen the very thing afore; the very clouds—the very rocks—an’ the man standing courin’ and keekin’ ower, wi’ the white rime hingin’ about his lugs like feathers; an’ I mindit that it endit ill—it endit awsomely!—for I thought it endit in death. I could speak nae mair a’ that day; for I expectit that either my father or I wad never gang hame living. He aften said to me, ‘What ails ye, callant? Are ye weel eneugh? Od, ye’re gane stupid.’We saved some sheep, an’ lost some, like mony ane, for it was a dreadfu’ afternoon; however, we wan baith safe hame. But that night, afore we gaed to bed, our neighbour, auld Robin Armstrang, was brought into our house a corp. Our fock had amaist gane out o’ their judgment; but the very features, the white rime frozen about the cauld stiff een, an’ the iceshogles hangin’ at the grey hair, war nae new sight to me: I had seen them a’ before, I kendna when. Ah, Jeany! never tell me that we haena some communication wi’ intelligences, far ayont our capacity to comprehend.”
The seriousness of Barnaby’s manner made it evident to his fellow traveller that he believed in the reality of every word he had said; there was an inconceivable sublimity in the whole idea, and she fancied herself going to reside, perhaps for a season, in the regions of imagination and romance, and she asked him if his fatherand mother had faith in dreams an’ apparitions?
“Aye, that they hae,” answered he; “ye had need to tak care how ye dispute the existence of fairies, brownies, and apparitions there; ye may as weel dispute the gospel o’ Sant Mathew. We dinna believe in a’ the gomral fantastic bogles an’ spirits that fley light-headed fock up an’ down the country, but we believe in a’ the apparitions that warn o’ death, that save life, an’ that discover guilt. I’ll tell you what we believe, ye see.
“The deil an’ his adgents, they fash nane but the gude fock; the Cameronians, an’ the prayin’ ministers, an’ sic like. Then the bogles, they are a better kind o’ spirits, they meddle wi’ nane but the guilty; the murderer, an’ the mansworn, an’ the cheater o’ the widow an’ fatherless, they do forthem. Then the fairies, they’re very harmless; they’re keener o’ fun an’ frolic than aught else; but if fock neglect kirk ordinances,they see afterthem. Then the brownie, he’s a kind o’ half-spirit half-man; he’ll drudge an’ do a’ the wark about the town for his meat, but then he’ll no work but when he likes for a’ the king’s dominions. That’s precisely what we a’ believe here awa’, auld an’ young; an’ I’ll tell ye twa or three stories that we a’ ken to be true, an’ which I wadna misbelieve for a’ that I’m worth.
“Sandy Shiel, the herd o’ the Birky-Cleuch, was standing afore his sheep ae fine day in winter. The snaw had been drifted ower the brae-head to the size of another hill, but it was blawn bare aneath; an’ there was Sandy standin’ i’ the sun afore his sheep, whistling an’ singing, and knitting his stocking. Ere ever he wist there comes a broken-leggit hare by his very foot—Every Scotsman’s keen of a hunt—Sandy flings the plaid frae him, an’ after the hare what he can streik, hallooing, and crying on his dog to kep. As he gaed o’er the brow he was close upon her, an’ had up his stickjust to knock her dead—Tut! the hare vanished in a moment! Sandy jumpit round-about an’ round about—‘What the devil’s come o’ my hare now? Is she santit? or yirdit? or flown awa’?’—Sandy lookit up into the air, but she wasna to be seen there neither. She was gane, an’ for ever! Sandy was amaist swarf’d, the cauld sweat brak on him, an’ he clew his head. ‘Now, gude faith, I hae seen muckle,’ quo’ Sandy, ‘but the like o’ that I saw never.’ Sandy trodged back, wantin’ his hare, to lift his plaid. But what think ye? The hale volume o’ snaw on the hill aboon had shot away and burried it fifty feet deep; it was nae mair seen till the month o’ May. Sandy kneeled down among the snaw and thankit his Maker; he saw brawly what the hare had been.
“I’ll tell you another that I like still better. The shepherd’s house at Glen-Tress, in Tweeddale, had ance been a farm-steading, but it was at the time this happened inhabited by an honest respectable shepherd,his wife, and six children. One evening after the sun had set, the eldest girl came running in, crying, ‘Bless me, sirs, come here—Here is the grandest lady coming to the house that ever was seen in the world.’ They all ran to the door, young and old, and they every one saw her coming at the distance of only about twenty paces—She was never more seen! But that very moment the house fell in, gable and all, with a dreadful crash; and thus a worthy family was saved from momentary destruction. Ah! I wadna hae given that man’s feelings of gratitude that night toward his Maker and Preserver, for a’ the dogmas of a thousand cauld-heartit philosophers!”
“Nor would I,” said Jane; and they walked on in deep silence.
Barnaby always carried the child one-half of the way as nearly as they could agree, but after carrying him often two miles, he would contend that it was but one; they got plenty of bread and milk atthe farm-houses and cottages as they passed, for there was no house of accommodation near the whole of their track. One time, after they had refreshed and rested themselves, Jane reminded her conductor that he had promised the evening before to entertain her on their journey with the story of the profligate laird.
“That’s an awfu’ story,” said Barnaby, “but it is soon tauld. It was the Laird o’ Errickhaw; he that biggit his house amang the widow’s corn, and never had a day to do weel in it. It isna yet a full age sin’ the foundation-stane was laid, an’ for a’ the grandeur that was about it, there’s nae man at this day can tell where the foundation has been, if he didna ken afore. He was married to a very proud precise lady, come o’ high kin, but they greed aye weel eneugh till bonny Molly Grieve came to the house to serve. Molly was as light-hearted as a kid, an’ as blithe as a laverock, but she soon altered. She first grew serious, then sad, and unco pale at times; an’ they whilescame on her greetin by hersel. It was ower weel seen how matters stood, an’ there was nae mair peace about the house. At length it was spread ower a’ the parish that the lady had gotten Molly a fine genteel service in Edinburgh, an’ up comes hurkle-backit Charley Johnston, the laird’s auld companion in wickedness, wi’ a saddle an’ a pad to take her away. When they set her on ahint him, Molly shook hands wi’ a’ the servants, but couldna speak, for she little kend when she would see them again. But, instead o’ taking her away i’ the fair day-light, i’ the ee o’ God an’ man, he took her away just when the lave war gaun to their beds: an’ instead o’ gaeing the road to Edinburgh, they war seen riding ower the Cacra-cross at twal o’clock at night. Bonny Molly Grieve was never seen again, nor heard of mair in this world! But there war some banes found about the Alemoor Loch that the doctors said had belanged to a woman. There was some yellow hair, too,on the scull, that was unco like Molly’s, but nae body could say.
“Then there was a fine strapping lass came in her place, a farmer’s daughter, that had mony a lad running after her, but it wasna a year and a half till a service was to provide in Edinburgh for her too. Up came hurkle-backit Charley to take her away, but no gin they should a’ hae sutten down on their knees wad she gae wi’ him; she grat an’ pray’d, an’ they fleeched an’ flait; but she stayed in the parish in spite o’ their teeth, and shamed them a’. She had a son, but Charley got him to take to the nursing, far away some gate, an’ there was nae body ony mair fashed wi’ him.
“It wad be endless to tell ye ower a’ their wickedness, for it can hardly be believed. Charley had mony sic job to do, baith at hame and at a distance. They grew baith odious in the country, for they turned aye the langer the waur, and took less pains to hide it; till ae night that thelaird was walking at the back o’ his garden, in the moon-light. It was thought he was waiting for a woman he had some tryste with, but that was conjecture, for he never said sae. At length he saw ane coming towards him, and hasted to meet her, but just as he approached, she held up her hand at him, as it war to check him, or make him note who she was; and when he lookit in her face, and saw what it was like, he uttered a loud cry, and fell senseless on the ground. Some fock heard the noise, and ran to the place, and fand him lying streekit in a deep dry seuch at the back of the garden. They carried him in, and he soon came to himself; but after that he was never like the same man, but rather like ane dementit. He durst never mair sleep by himsel while he lived; but that wasna lang, for he took to drinking, and drank, and swore, and blasphemed, and said dreadfu’ things that folk didna understand. At length, he drank sae muckle ae night out o’ desperation, that the blue lowe came burning out at his mouth, and he died onhis ain hearth-stane, at a time o’ life when he should scarcely have been at his prime.
“But it wasna sae wi’ Charley! He wore out a lang and hardened life; and, at the last, when death came, he coudna die. For a day and two nights they watched him, thinking every moment would be the last, but always a few minutes after the breath had left his lips, the feeble cries of infants arose from behind the bed, and wakened him up again. The family were horrified; but his sons and daughters were men and women, and for their ain sakes they durstna let ane come to hear his confessions. At last, on the third day at two in the morning, he died clean away. They watched an hour in great dread, and then streekit him, and put the dead-claes on him, but they hadna weel done before there were cries, as if a woman had been drowning, came from behind the bed, and the voice cried, “O, Charley, spare my life!—Spare my life! For your own soul’s sake and mine, spare my life!” On which the corpse again sat up in the bed, pawled wi’ its hands, andstared round wi’ its dead face. The family could stand it nae langer, but fled the house, and rade and ran for ministers, but before any of them got there, Charley was gane. They sought a’ the house, and in behind the bed, and could find naething; but that same day he was found about a mile frae his ain house, up in the howe o’ the Baileylee-linn, a’ torn limb frae limb, an’ the dead-claes beside him. There war twa corbies seen flying o’er the muir that day, carrying something atween them, an’ fock suspectit it was Charley’s soul, for it was heard makin’ a loud maen as they flew o’er Alemoor. At the same time it was reportit, that there was to be seen every morning at two a clock, a naked woman torfelling on the Alemoor loch, wi’ her hands tied behind her back, and a heavy stane at her neck. It’s an awsome story. I never dare tell it but in the middle o’ the day, and even then it gars a’ my flesh creep; but the hale country has heard it, and God only kens whether it be true or no. It has been a warning to mony ane.”
Our fair wanderer asked for no more ghost stories. The last had sufficed her,—it having been even more shocking than the former ones were delightful; so they travelled on, conversing about common or casual events, save that she gave him a short sketch of her history, whereof to inform his parents, with strong injunctions of secrecy. They came in view of his father’s cottage before sunset. It was situated in the very wildest and most romantic glen in the shire of Peebles, at the confluence of two rough but clear mountain streams, that ran one on each side of the house andkail-yard, and mingled their waters immediately below these. The valley was level, green, and beautiful, but the hills on each side high, steep, and romantic; and while they cast their long black shadows aslant the glen, the beams of the sun were shed over these like streamers in the middle air. It was a scene of tranquillity and repose, if not indeed the abode of the genii and fairies. Jane’s heart danced within her when her eye turned to the varied scenery of themountains, but again sunk when it fell on the cottage at which she was going to seek a retreat. She dreaded her reception, knowing how equivocal her appearance there must be; but she longed and thirsted for such a retreat, and as she was not destitute of money, she determined to proffer more for her board than she could well afford to pay, rather than be refused. Barnaby also spoke less as they advanced up the glen, and seemed struggling with a kind of dryness about his tongue, which would not suffer him to pronounce the words aright. Two fine shaggy healthy-looking collies came barking down the glen to meet them, and at a timid distance behind them, a half-grown puppy, making more noise than them both. He was at one time coming brattling forward, and barking fiercely, as if going to attack them, and at another, running yelping away from them with his tail between his legs. Little George laughed as he had been tickled at him. When the dogs came near, and saw that it was their old fire-side acquaintance and friend, they coured at hisfeet, and whimpered for joy; they even licked his fair companion’s hand, and capered around her, as if glad to see any friend of Barnaby’s. The whelp, perceiving that matters were amicably made up, likewise ventured near; and though he had never seen any of them before, claimed acquaintance with all, and was so kind and officious that he wist not what to do; but at last he fell on the expedient of bearing up the corner of Jane’s mantle in his mouth, which he did all the way to the house.—George was perfectly delighted.
“I think,” said Jane, “the kindness of these creatures betokens a hearty welcome within!”
“Ay, that it does,” answered Barnaby; “a dog that is brought up with a man in a wild place, is always of the very same disposition with himself.”
Strangers seldom approached that sequestered spot—passengers never. They observed, while yet at a good distance, Barnaby’s mother standing amid her burly boys at the end of the cottage, watching their approach,and they heard her calling distinctly to her husband, “Aigh! Geordie, yon’s our ain Barny, I ken by auld Help’s motions; but wha she is that he’s bringing wi’ him, is ayont my comprehension.”
She hurried away in to put her fire-side in some order, and nought was then to be seen but two or three bare-headed boys, with their hair the colour of peat-ashes, setting their heads always now and then by the corner of the house, and vanishing again in a twinkling. The old shepherd was sitting on his divot-seat, without the door, mending a shoe. Barnaby strode up to him. “How are ye the night, father?”
“No that ill, Barny lad—is that you? How are ye yoursel?” said a decent-looking middle-aged man, scratching his head at the same time with the awl, and fixing his eyes, not on his son, but the companion that he had brought with him. When he saw her so young, so beautiful, and the child in her arms, the enquiring look that he cast on his son was unutterable. Silencereigned for the space of a minute. Barnaby made holes in the ground with his staff—the old shepherd began again to sew his shoe, and little George prattled to his mamma, “It’s a vely good bonny halp, mamma; Geoge nevel saw sic a good halp.”
“An’ how hae ye been sin’ we saw ye, Barny?”
“Gaylys!”
“I think ye hae brought twa young strangers wi’ ye?”
“I wat have I.”
“Whar fell ye in wi’ them?”
“I want to speak a word to you, father.”
The old shepherd flung down his work, and followed his son round the corner of the house. It was not two minutes till he came back. Jane had sat down on the sod-seat.
“This is a pleasant evening,” said he, addressing her.
“It is a very sweet evening,” was the reply.
“Ye’ll be weary; ye had bettergang inan’ rest ye.”
She thanked him, and was preparing to go.
“It’s a muckle matter,” continued he, “whan fock can depend on their ain. My Barny never deceived me a’ his life, an’ you are as welcome here as heart can mak ye. The flower in May is nae welcomer than ye are to this bit shieling, and your share of a’ that’s in it. Come your ways in, my bonny woman, an’ think nae shame. Ye shall never be lookit on as either a beggar or borrower here, but just ane o’ oursels.” So saying he took her hand in both his, and led her into the house.
“Wife, here’s a young stranger our son has brought to bide a while wi’ ye; mak her welcome i’ the mean time, an’ ye’ll be better acquaintit by and by.”
“In troth I sal e’en do sae. Come awa in by to the muckle chair—Whar is he himsel, the muckle duddy feltered gouk?”
“Ah, he’s coming, poor fellow—he’s takin apipeto himsel at the house-end—there’s a shower i’ the heads wi’ Barny—his heart can stand naething—it is as saftas a snaw-ba’, an’ far mair easily thawed, but it is aye in the right place for a’ that.”
It was a happy evening; the conversation was interesting, and kept up till a late hour; and when the old couple learned from Jane of the benevolent disinterested part that their son had acted, their eyes glowed with delight, and their hearts waxed kinder and kinder. Before they retired to rest, the old shepherd performed family worship, with a glow of devotional warmth which Jane had never before witnessed in man. The psalm that he sung, the portion of Scripture that he read, and the prayer that he addressed to the throne of Grace, savoured all of charity and benevolence to our fellow-creatures. The whole economy of the family was of that simple and primitive cast, that the dwellers in a large city never dream of as existing. There was to be seen contentment without affluence or ambition, benevolence without ostentation, and piety without hypocrisy; but at the same time such a mixture of gaiety, goodsense, and superstitious ideas, blent together in the same minds, as was altogether inscrutable. It was a new state of existence to our fair stranger, and she resolved with avidity to improve it to the best advantage.
But we must now leave her in her new habitation, and return with Barnaby to the families of Earlhall and Todburn. Lindsey went up the water every day fishing, as he had done formerly, but was astonished at observing, from day to day, that his fair Wool-gatherer’s cottage was locked, and no smoke issuing from it. At first he imagined that she might have gone on a visit, but at length began to suspect that some alteration had taken place in her circumstances; and the anxiety that he felt to have some intelligence, whether that change was favourable or the reverse, was such that he himself wondered at it. He could not account for it even to his own mind. It was certainlythe childthat so much interestedhim, else hecould notaccount for it. Lindsey might easily have solved the difficulty had he acquiesced freely in the sentiments of his own heart, and acknowledged to himself that he was in love. But no!—all his reasoning, as he threw the line across the stream and brought it back again, went to disprove that. “That I can be in love with the girl is out of the question—there is no danger of such an event; for, in the first place, I would not wrong her, or abuse her affections, for the whole world; and in the next, I have a certain rank and estimation to uphold in society. I am a proprietor to a large extent—a freeholder of the county—come of a good family, at least by the father’s side, and that I should fall in love with and marry a poor vagrant Wool-gatherer, with a”——! He was going to pronounce a word, but it stuck, not in his throat, but in the very utmost perceptible avenues that lead to the heart. “It is a very fine child, however,—I wish I hadhim under my protection, then his mother might come and see him; but I care not for that, provided I had the child. I’ll have the child, and for that purpose I will enquire after the mother directly.”
He went boldly up to the cot, and peeped in at the little window. The hearth was cold, and the furniture neatly arranged. He examined the door, but the step and threshold had not been swept as they wont for many days, and the green grass was beginning to peep up around them. “There is something extremely melancholy in this!” said he to himself. “I could not endure the veriest wretch on my estate to be thus lost, without at least enquiring after him.”
He turned his eyes to the other cottages, and to the farm-house, but lacked the courage to go boldly up to any of them, and ask after the object of his thoughts. He returned to the fishing, but caught no fish, or if he did it was against his will.
On Barnaby’s return he made some sly enquiries about the causes that induced toJane’s removal without effect, the farmer had kept all so snug. But haverel Meg, (as they called her for a nick-name,) his sister, knew, and though she was an excellent keeper of secrets among her own sex, yet she could not help blabbing them sometimes to the young fellows, which her brother always accounted a very ridiculous propensity;—whether or not it is a natural one among old maids, the relater of this tale does not pretend to decide; he is induced to think it is, but is not dogmatic on that side, not having bestowed due consideration on the subject.
One day, when Barnaby came home to his breakfast rather later than usual, and while he was sitting hewing away at a good stiff bicker of paritch, mixed with butter-milk, his excellent dog Nimrod all the time sitting with his head leaned on his master’s knee, watching the progress of every spoonful, thinking the latter was rather going near him that day in their wonted proportions—while Barnaby, I say, was thus delightfullyand busily employed, in comes Meg, bare-footed, with a clean white wrapper and round-eared cap on. “Barny, will ye hae time to help me to the water wi’ a boucking o’ claes? Ye’ll just only hae to carry the tae end o’ the hand-barrow to the water, wait till I sinde up the sarks, an’ help me hame wi’ them again.”
“That I will, Miss Peggy, wi’ heart an’ hand.”
“Miss Peggy! Snuffs o’ tobacco! Meg’s good enough! Troth, I’m nane o’ your molloping, precise flegaries, that want to bemiss’dan’beckit, an’bowedto—Na, sooth! Meg’s good enough—plain downrightMeg o’ the Todburn.”
“Weel, weel; haud your tongue, I’ll do a’ that ye bid me, an’ mair, Meg, my bonny woman.”
“How war a’ your focks, Barny, when ye war ower seeing them?”
“Unco weel, an’ they’re muckle behadden to you for your kind speering.”
“I kend your father weel; he’s a good cannie man.”
“I wish he had beltit your shoulders as aft as he has done mine, ye maybe wadna hae said sae muckle for him.”
“Ay, it’s weel o’ you to say sae; but he’s a douse, respectable man, and he’s no disgraced in his son.”
Barnaby rose with his bicker in his hand; gave it a graceful swing, as a gentleman does his hat when he meets a lady, made a low bow, and set down Nimrod his share of the paritch.
When they went to the river Barnaby sat him down on the bank, and Meg went into the running stream, and began with great agility, and much splashing, to wash up her clothes. Barnaby perceived her smiling to herself, and was sure that a volley of some stuff or other was forthcoming. She cast her eyes towards the laird’s house, then looked up the water, then down, in case any one might be angling on it; andafter perceiving that there was nobody within a mile of them, she spoke as follows to Barnaby, in a half whisper, lest any one should overhear her.
“Gude sauf us to the day, Barny man! What think ye o’ our laird?”
“Very muckle. I think him a decent worthy lad.”
“Decent! Shame fa’hisdecency!—I watna what will be countitundecent soon! Sae ye haena heard o’ his shamfu’ connection wi’ the bit prodigal, dinnagood lassie, that was here?”
“Never.”
“It’s a’ ower true though; but say nae a word about it. My billy Rob was obliged to chase her out o’ the country for it; an’ a burnin shame an’ a disgrace it was to the laird to take up wi’ the likes o’ her.—Deil a bit o’ her has the pith o’ a pipe-stapple!—Fich, fy! Away wi’ your spindle-shankit babyclouts—they’re no the gear.”
“As ye say, Meg. I like nane o’ the women thatstand pon trifles.”
“Stand on trifles!—Ha! ha! that’s real good! that’s devilish clever for a—young man! Ha! ha!—Tut! that water’s weetin’ a’ my claes.—Wad ye hae made sic a choice, Barny?”
“D’ye think that I’m blind? or that I dinna ken what’s what?—Na, na, Meg! let me alane; I’m no sae young a cat but I ken a mouse by a feather.”
“If a’ our young men had the sense o’ you, Barny, some o’ them might get a pock an’ a wheen rustit nails to jingle in’t; they might get something better than a bit painted doll, wi’ a waist like a thread-paper, an’ hae nought ado foreby but to draw in the chair an’ sit down; butthey’llrin after a wheen clay-cakes baken i’ the sun, an’ leave the good substantial ait-meal bannocks to stand till they moul, or be pouched by them that draff an’ bran wad better hae mensed!—Tut! I’m ower deep into the stream again, without ever thinkin’ o’t.”
“That’s a’ ower true that ye hae been sayin’, Meg—ower true, indeed! But as toyour news about the laird and Jane, I dinna believe a word o’t.”
“Oh! it’s maybe no true, ye ken! It’s very likely a lee! There’s naething mair likely, than that a’ their correspondence was as pure as the morning snaw. For a laird, ye ken, worth three thousand pund o’ yearly rental, to frequent the house o’ a bit lassie for an hour ilka day, an’ maybe ilka night to, wha kens; ye ken it’s a’ fair! there’s nought mair likely than that they’reveryinnocent! An’sica ane too as she is! little better, I trow, than she should be, gin a’ war kend. To be sure she has a son,thatmay arguysomethingfor her decency. But after a’, I dinna blameher, for I ken by mysel——”
“Haud your tongue now, Meg, my bonny quean; for I ken ye are gaun to lee on yoursel, an’ speak nonsense into the bargain.”
“Ah! Barny! but ye are a queer ane!” (then in a whisper.) “I say—Barny—What do ye think o’ the bit farm o’ Hesperslack?How wad ye like to be tenant there yoursel, an’ hae servants o’ your ain?”
“I haena thought about that yet; but yonder’s my master keekin ower the knowe; he’ll be thinkin I’m stayin unco lang frae my sheep.”
“Ah! is my billy Rob yonder?—No awordye ken now, Barny. No a cheip aboon your breath about yon.”
Sad and heavy were Barnaby’s reflections that day as he herded his sheep all alone. “Andthisis the girl that I have taken and recommended so warmly to my parents! I do not believe the hateful slander; but I will go and inform them of all. It is proper they should know all that I know, and then let them judge for themselves. Poor luckless Jeany! I fear she is a ruined creature, be she as innocent and harmless as she will!”
Barnaby was resolved to go, but day past on after day, and still he had not the heart to go and tell his parents, although everywhisper that he heard tended rather to strengthen suspicion than dispel it.
On the very day that we left Lindsey in such distress for the loss of his amiable Wool-gatherer, Barnaby and he met by the side of the stream, at the foot of the Todburn-Hope. They were both alike anxious to speak to one another, but neither of them had the courage to begin, although both were burning to talk on the same theme. Lindsey fished away, swimming the fly across the ripple as dexterously and provokingly as he was able. Barnaby stood and looked on in silence; at length a yellowfin rose. “Aigh, that was a great chap! I wish your honour had hookit that ane.”
“It was better for him that I did not. Do you ever fish any?”
“O yes. I gump them whiles.”
“Gumpthem? pray what mode of fishing is that?”
“I guddle them in aneath the stanes an’ the braes like.”
“I do not exactly understand the termsnor the process. Pray will you be so good,” continued he, holding out the fishing-rod to Barnaby, “as give me a specimen how yougumpthe fish?”
“Od bless you, sir, I can do naething wi’ that goad; but if ye’ll gang wi’ me a wee piece up the Todburn-Hope, or up to the Rowntree-Linn, I’ll let ye see gumping to perfection.”
On being assured that it was not above half a mile to either of the places, the laird accompanied Barnaby without hesitation, to witness this pastoral way of fishing. By the way their converse became very interesting to both parties, but we cannot interrupt the description of such a favourite rural sport just now. Let it suffice that their discourse was all concerning a fair unfortunate, of whom the reader has heard a good deal already, and of whom he shall hear more in due time.
They crossed over a sloping ground, at the bottom of a green steep hill, and soon came into the Todburn-Hope. It was anarrow level valley between two high hills, and terminated in the haunted linn, above the sheep-house formerly mentioned. Down this narrow vale the Tod Burn ran with a thousand beautiful serpentine windings, and at every one of these turns there were one or two clear deep pools, overhung by little green banks. Into the first of these pools Barnaby got with his staff, plunging and poaching to make all the fish take into close cover; then he threw off his ragged coat, tucked up the sleeves of his shirt to the shoulders, tying them together behind, and into the pool he got again, knees and elbows, putting his arms in below the green banks, into the closest and most secret recesses of the trouts. There was no eluding him; he threw them out one after another, sometimes hitting the astonished laird on the face, or any other part of the body without ceremony, for his head being down sometimes close with the water, and sometimes below it, he did not see where he flung them. The trouts being a little startledat this momentary change from one element to another, jumped about on the grass, and cast so many acute somersets, that the laird had greater difficulty in getting hold of them the second time to put them into his basket, than Barnaby had at first; and when the latter had changed the scene of plunder to a new pool, Lindsey was commonly to be seen beside the old one, moving slowly about on his hands and knees. “I think ye’re pinched to catch them on the dry grund, sir,” said Barnaby to him.
“No, no,” returned he, with the utmost simplicity; “but I was looking lest some of them had made their way among the long grass and eluded me; and besides they are so very active and slippery that I seldom can keep the hold of them that I get.”
As they were going from one of these little pools to another, he said to our shepherd, “So this is what you callgumping?”
“Yes, sir, this is gumping, orguddling, ony o’ them ye like to ca’t.”
“I do not think this is altogether a fair way of fishing.”
“Now, I think it is muckle fairer than the tither way, sir. Your way is founded on the lowest artifice and deceit, but I come as an avowed enemy, and let them escape me if they can. I come into a family as a brave mountain robber or free-booter; but you come as a deceitful friend, promising to treat the family with all good things, that you may poison them every one unawares. A mountaineer’s sports are never founded on cunning; it’s a’ sheer and main force wi’ us.”
Lindsey confessed that the shepherd’s arguments had some foundation in nature and truth, but that they savoured of a period exempt from civilization and the fine arts. “At all events,” said he, “it is certainly the most downright way of fishing that I ever beheld.” In short, it was not long till the laird was to be seen wading in the pools, andgumpingas busily as the other; and, finally, he was sometimes sointent on his prey, that the water was running over his back, so that when he raised himself up it poured in torrents from his fine Holland shirt and stained cambrick ruffles. “Ye hae settled the pletts o’ your sark,” said Barnaby. Never did the family of Earlhall behold such a basket of trouts; and never had its proprietor such a day’s sport at the fishing, as he had at thegumpingorguddlingthe trouts among the links of the Todburn-Hope.
Though the sport occupied their minds completely during the time they were engaged in it, yet it was only a relaxation from concerns of a more serious nature. From Barnaby’s information the laird now saw exactly how the land lay; and though he got no hint of the part that his mother had acted in it, yet he rather suspected, for he well knew her sentiments regarding all the young and beautiful part of her own sex. Barnaby gave him no notice that he had ever seen the girl after her dismissal, or that he knew to what part of the worldshe had retired; and before they parted he desired him to tell his master to come down and speak with him that night.
Robin came as appointed; Lindsey and his mother were sitting by themselves in the parlour when the servant announced him; he was ordered to join them, and as soon as he came in Lindsey said, “Come away, Robin. I had a piece of information within these few days of you, that has somewhat distressed me, and I sent for you to make enquiry concerning it. What reasons had you for turning away the poor stranger girl and child from her cot before the term of your agreement expired?”
Robin looked to the window, then to the lady, and then to the window again, and finally looked down to the carpet, twirled his bonnet with both hands, and remained silent. Though a strong and speaking look of appeal was turned on the old lady by Robin from time to time, yet she, hearing her son speak in that determined manner,likewise sat still without opening her lips.
“Why don’t you answer me?” continued Lindsey. “I ask you simply what were your reasons for turning her away? you certainly must be able to state them.”
“Hem! We war feared, sir—we war feared that she was a bad ane.”
“You wereafraidshe was bad? Had you no other proofs of her badness farther than your own fears?”
“Indeed, sir, I never saw ony ill behaviour about the lassie. But ye ken weel enough that ane wha had forsaken the paths o’ virtue and honesty sae early as it appears she had done, wi’ sic an enchanting manner, an’ weelfaurd face into the boot, was rather a dangerous neighbour for sae mony young chiels.”
“I think what Robin says is very true, and good sense,” said the old lady.
“You certainly ought to have taken all these things into consideration before youbargained with her at first, Robin,” said Lindsey. “I suppose you cannot argue that she is either grown younger or more beautiful since that period? I rather suspect, Robin, that you have used this young woman extremely ill; and if you cannot give any better reasons for your severity towards her, I can find out a method of forcing you to make an ample retribution.”
“Indeed then, sir, sin’ I maun tell the truth, I will tell the truth; it was my lady, your worthy mother there, that persuaded, andorderedme to turn her away; for we had observed how great a favourite she was with you, and dreaded the consequences.”
“It is then exactly as I suspected. You two have done me a great injury, and one that will not be easily wiped away. I hope neither of you intended it; but I would gladly know what trait in my character justified the conclusion you made? I think you might both have known my dispositions better than to have so readily believedthat I would injure youth and beauty, that had already been unfortunate in the world—that I would add to her state of wretchedness, by annihilating for ever that innate principle of virtue and modesty, inherent in every young female’s breast, which never man loved more, or delighted more to view, exerting all its primitive and untainted sway. If you had reflected at all, you could not have believed me capable of it. You have taken the readiest means in your power of injuring my character in the eyes of the world. It must naturally be concluded, that there was a profligate and criminal intercourse subsisting between us, which rendered such an act of cruelty and injustice necessary. You have hurt my honour and my feelings, and wronged a defenceless and amiable young woman. It is on my account that she is thus innocently suffering, and I am determined, for my own satisfaction, to see her righted, as far as redress is in my power, though equivalent for an injured reputation there is none; butevery vile insinuation on my account shall be fairly dispelled. To make, therefore, an end of all reflections at once, I warn you, Robin, that if she is not found, and restored to her rights, in less than a fortnight at farthest, you need not be surprised ifyouare some day removed on as short notice as you gave to her.”
The old lady and farmer had an inward view of matters in a different light: They perceived that the world would say he had brought her back to keep her there as his mistress, but this elegant and inflated harangue they were unable to answer. The young man’s conscience was hurt, and they were no casuists. The lady, it is true, uttered some involuntary sounds as he was speaking, but it was not easy to determine whether they were groans or hems of approbation. If one might have judged from her countenance, they were like the former, but the sounds themselves were certainly modulations of the latter. She wasdependant on her son! Robin was studying a friendly reply, by way of remonstrance, all the time of the speech; but Robin was a widower, had a good farm, a large family, and was a tenant at will, and the conclusion of the said speech was a stumbling-block to Robin.
Pray, gentle reader, did you ever see a country maiden baking pease-meal bannocks? If you ever did you must have noted, that before she committed them one by one to the gridiron, she always stood straight up, with her head gracefully turned to one side, and moulded them with her two hands to an orb, as nearly resembling the full moon as she could. You must likewise have remarked, that while engaged in this becoming part of her avocation, she was never once looking at her work, but that while her head had that sly cast to the one side, her eyes were ever and anon fixed on the window, noting what was going on without, looking perhaps for her lad coming from the hill, or whistling at theplough. If you have ever seen this, you can easily comprehend the attitude I mean—if you have never, it is a great pity!
Exactly in such a situation stood our honest farmer, Robin Muckerland, plying his bonnet round with both hands in the same way—his head was likewise turned to one side, and his eyes immoveably fixed on the window—it was the girl’s position to a hair. Let any man take his pen and describe the two attitudes, there is not the slightest shade of difference to be discerned—the one knee of both is even slackened and bent gently forward, the other upright and firm, by its own weight made steadfast and immoveable. Yet how it comes I do not comprehend, and should like much to consult my friend, David Wilkie, about it—it is plain that the attitudes are precisely the same, yet the girl’s is quite delightful—Robin’s was perfectly pitiable. He had not one word to say, but baked his bonnet and stood thus.
“This is my determination,” continuedLindsey, “and you may pay what attention to it you please.”
“Od, sir, I’m excessively vexed at what has happened, now when ye hae letten me see it in its true light, an’ I sal do what I can to find her again, an’ mak her what amends I am able. But, od ye see, naebody kens where she’s ye see. She may be gane into the wild Highlands, or away to that outlandish country ayont the sea that they ca’ Fife, an’ how am I to get her? therefore, if I canna an’ dinna get her, I hope you will excuse me, especially as neither the contrivance nor the act was mine.”
“You and my honoured mother settle that betwixt you. I will not abate a tittle of that I have said; but, to encourage your people in the search, or whomsoever you are pleased to employ, I shall give ten guineas to the person who finds her and restores her to her home.”
“Aweel, son Lindsey,” said the lady, moving her head like the pendulum of a clock, “your mother meant ye good, an’nae ill, in what she has done; but them that will to Cupar maun to Cupar. For the sake o’ Robin and his family, and no for the neighbourhood o’ this whilly-wha of a young witch, I shall gi’e the body that finds her half as muckle.”
“And I,” said Robin, “shall gi’e the same, which will make up the reward to twenty guineas, an’ it is mair than I can weel spare in sic hard times. I never saw better come o’ women’s schemes, as I say whiles to my titty Meg.”
The company parted, not on the most social terms; and that night, before Robin dismissed his servants to their beds, he said, “Lads, my master informs me that I am to be plaguit wi’ the law for putting away that lassie Jeany an’ her bit brat atween term-days. I gi’e ye a’ your liberty frae my wark until the end o’ neist week, if she be not found afore that time, to search for her; and whoever finds her, and brings her back to her cottage, shall have a reward o’ twenty guineas in his loof.”
A long conversation then ensued on the best means of recovering her; but Barnaby did not wait on this, but hasted away to the stable loft, where his chest stood at the head of his bed, dressed himself in his Sunday clothes, and went without delay to the nearest stage where horses were let out for hire, got an old brown hack equipped with a bridle, saddle, and pad, and off he set directly for his father’s cottage, where he arrived next morning by the time the sun was up.
To describe all Barnaby’s adventures that night would take a volume by itself, for it was the very country of the ghosts and fairies that he traversed. As his errand was, however, solely for good, he was afraid for none of them meddling with him, save the devil and the water-kelpie; yet so hardly was he beset with these at times, that he had no other resource but to shut his eyes close, and push on his horse. He by this resolute contrivance got on without interruption, but had been so near his infernal adversaries at times, that twice or thrice he felt a glow on his face as if a breath of lukewarm air had been breathed against it, and a smell exactly resembling (he did not like to say brimstone, but)a coal fire just gaun out!—But it is truly wonderful what a man, with a conscience void of offence towards God and towards his neighbour, will go through!
When the day-light began to spring up behind the hills of Glenrath, what a blithe and grateful man was Barnaby! “The bogles will be obliged to thraw aff their black claes now,” said he, “an’ in less than half an hour the red an’ the green anes too. They’ll hae to pit on their pollonians o’ the pale colour o’ the fair day-light, that the e’e o’ Christian maunna see them; or gang away an’ sleep in their dew-cups an’ foxter-leaves till the gloaming come again. O, but the things o’ this warld are weel contrived!”
Safely did he reach the glen, at the head of which his father’s cottage stood, with its little kail-yard in the forkings of the burn;there was no dog, nor even little noisy pup, came out to give note of his approach, for his father and canine friends had all gone out to the heights at a very early hour to look after the sheep. The morning was calm and lovely; but there was no sound in the glen save the voice of his mother’s grey cock, who was perched on the kail-yard dike, and crowing incessantly. The echoes were answering him distinctly from the hills; and as these aerial opponents were the only ones he ever in his life had to contend with, he had learned to value himself extremely on his courage, and was clapping his wings, and braving them in a note louder and louder. Barnaby laughed at him, although he himself had been struggling with beings as unreal and visionary during the whole night; so ready we are to see the follies of others, yet all the while to overlook our own!
The smoke was issuing from his mother’s chimney in a tall blue spire that reached to the middle of the hill; but when there, itspread itself into a soft hazy cloud, and was resting on the side of the green brae in the most still and moveless position. The rising sun kissed it with his beams, which gave it a light woolly appearance, something like floating down; it was so like a vision that Barnaby durst scarcely look at it. “My mither’s asteer,” said he to himself, “I ken by her morning reek; she’ll be fiking up an’ down the house, an’ putting a’ things to rights; an’ my billies they’ll be lying grumphing and snoring i’ their dens, an’ Jeany will be lying waking, listening what’s gaun on, an’ wee George will be sniffing an’ sleeping sound in her bosom. Now I think, of a’ things i’ the warld a young mother an’ her first son is the maist interesting—if she has been unfortunate it is ten times mair sae—to see how she’ll sit an’ look at him!—(here Barnaby blew his nose.)—I was my mother’s first son; if she had been as bonny, an’ as gentle, an’ as feele as Jeany, aih! but I wad hae likit weel!”
No one being aware of Barnaby’s approach, he rode briskly up to the door and rapped, causing at the same time his horse’s feet make a terrible clamping on the stones. His mother, who had been sweeping the house, came running out with the heather besom in her hand. “Bless my heart, callant, is that you? Sic a gliff as I hae gotten w’ye! What’s asteer w’ye? or whar ir ye gaun sae early i’ the morning on that grand cut-luggit beast?”
“I’m turned a gentleman now, mother, that’s a’; an’ I thought I wad g’ye a ca’ as I gaed by for auld lang syne—Hope ye’re all well?”
“Deed we’re a’ no that ill. But, dear Barny, what ir ye after?—Hae ye a’ your senses about ye?”
“I thank ye, I dinna miss ony o’ them that I notice. I’m come for my wife that I left w’ye—How is she?”
“Yourwife! Weel I wat ye’ll never get the like o’ her, great muckle hallanshaker-like guff.”
“Haud your tongue now, mother, ye dinna ken wha I may get; but I can tell ye o’ something that I’m to get. If I take hame that lassie Jeany safe to her house, ony time these ten days, there’s naebody kens where I hae her hidden, an’ I’m to get twenty guineas in my loof for doing o’t.”
“Ay, I tauld ye sae, my dear bairn.”
“Ye never tauld me sic a word, mother.”
“I hae tauld ye oft, that ae good turn never misses to meet wi’ another, an’ that the king may come i’ the beggar’s way.”
“Ramsay’s Scots Proverbs tell me that.”
“It will begin a bit stock to you, my man; an’ I sal say it o’ her, gin I sude never see her face again, she’s the best creature, ae way an’ a’ ways, that ever was about a poor body’s house. Ah, God bless her!—she’s a dear creature!—Ye’ll never hae cause to rue, my man, the pains ye hae ta’en about her.”
Jane was very happy at meeting with her romantic and kind-hearted Barnaby again, who told her such a turn as affairs hadtaken in her favour, and all that the laird had said to him about her, and the earnest enquiries he had made; and likewise how he had put Robin to his shifts. She had lived very happy with these poor honest people, and had no mind to leave them; indeed, from the day that she entered their house she had not harboured a thought of it; but now, on account of her furniture, which was of considerable value to her, and more particularly for the sake of Barnaby’s reward, she judged it best to accompany him. So after they had all taken a hearty breakfast together at the same board, the old shepherd returned thanks to the Bestower of all good things, and then kissing Jane, he lifted her on the horse behind his son. “Now fare-ye-weel, Jeany woman,” said he; “I think you will be happy, for I’m sure you deserve to be sae. If ye continue to mind the thing that’s good, there is Ane wha will never forsake ye; I come surety for him. An’ if ever adversity should again fa’ to your lot, ye shall be as welcome to our bit house as ever, and to your share o’ ilka thing that’s in it; an’ if I should see you nae mair, I’ll never bow my knee before my Maker without remembering you. God bless you, my bonny woman! Fareweel.”
Jane dropped a tear on her benefactor’s hand, for who could stand such unaffected goodness? Barnaby, who had folded his plaid and held little George on it before him, turned his face towards the other side of the horse, and contracted it into a shape and contortion that is not often seen, every feature being lengthened extremely the cross way; but after blowing his nose two or three times he recovered the use of his rod, with which he instantly began a thrashing his nag, that he might get out of this flood of tenderness and leave-taking. It is not easy to conceive a more happy man than he was that day, he was so proud of his parents’ kindness to Jane, and of the good he thought he was doing to all parties, and, besides, the twenty guineas was a fortune to him. He went on prating to George, who was quite delighted with the ride on such a grand horse; yet at times he grew thoughtful, and testified his regret for the horse, lest he should be tired with carrying them all. “Geoge vely solly fol poole holse, Balny! Geoge no like to be a holse.”
Many were the witch and fairy tales that Barnaby related that day to amuse his fellow travellers. He set down Jane and George safe at their cottage before evening, and astonished Robin not a little, who was overjoyed to see his lost gimmer and lamb (as he termed them,) so soon. He paid Barnaby his twenty guineas that night in excellent humour, making some mention, meantime, of an old proverb, “They that hide ken where to seek,” and without delay sent information to the mansion-house that Jane was found, and safely arrived at her own house, a piece of news which created no little stir at Earlhall.
The old lady had entertained strong hopes that Jane would not be found; orthat she would refuse to return after the treatment she had met with, and the suspicions that were raised against her; in short, she wished her not to return, and she hoped she would not; but now all her fond hopes were extinguished, and she could see no honourable issue to the affair. It was like to turn out a love intrigue; a low and shameful business, her son might pretend what he chose. She instantly lost all command of her temper, hurried from one part of the house to another, quarrelled with every one of the maid servants, and gave the two prettiest ones warning to leave their places.
Lindsey was likewise a little out of his reason that night, but his feelings were of a very different kind. He loved all the human race; he loved the little birds that sung upon the trees almost to distraction. The deep blue of the heavens never appeared so serene—the woods, the fields, and the flowers, never so delightful! such anew and exhilarating tone did the return of this beautiful girl (child, I mean) give to his whole vital frame. “What a delightful world this is!” said he to himself; “and how happy might all its inhabitants live, if they would suffer themselves to do so!” He did not traverse the different apartments of the house with the same hasty steps as his mother did, but he took many rapid turns out to the back garden, and in again to the parlour.
In the middle of one of these distant excursions his ears were assailed by the discordant tones of anger and reproach—Proud and haughty contumely on the one side, and the bitter complaints of wronged but humble dependance on the other.
“This is some one of my mother’s unreasonable imputations,” said he to himself; “it is hard that the fairer and more delicate part of my servants, who are in factmyservants, receiving meat and wages from me, and whom I most wish to be happyand comfortable in their circumstances should be thus harassed and rendered miserable—I will interfere in spite of all obloquy.” He went in to the fore-kitchen, “What is the matter? What is the meaning of all this disturbance here?”
“Matter, son! The matter is, that I will not be thus teased and wronged by such a worthless scum of menials as your grieve has buckled on me. I am determined to be rid of them for the present, and to have no more servants of his hiring.”
So saying, she bustled away by him, and out of the kitchen. Sally, one of the maidens that wrought afield, whose bright complexion and sly looks had roused the lady’s resentment, was standing sobbing in a corner. “What is this you have done, Sally, thus to irritate my mother?”
“I hae done naething ava that’s wrang, sir; but she’s never aff my tap; an’ I’m glad I’m now free frae her. Had she tauld me my fault, an’ turned me away, I wad neverhae regrettit; but she has ca’d me names sic afore a’ these witnesses, that I’ll never get mair service i’ the country. I see nae right ony body has to guide poor servants this gate.”
“Nor I either, Sally; but say no more about it; I know you to be a very faithful and conscientious servant, for I have often enquired; remain in your place, anddo notgo away—remember I order it—give no offence to my mother that you can avoid—be a good girl, as you have heretofore been, and here is a guinea to buy you a gown at next fair.”
“Oh, God bless him for a kind good soul!” said Sally, as he went out, and the benediction was echoed from every corner of the kitchen.
He rambled more than half-way up the river side to Todburn; but it was too late to call and seethe dear childthat night, so he returned—joined his mother at supper; was more than usually gay and talkative, and at last proposed to invite this fair rambler down to Earlhall to breakfast with them next morning. The lady was almost paralyzed by this proposal, and groaned in spirit!
“Certainly, son! certainly! your house is your ain; invite ony body to it you like; nane has a better right! a man may keep ony company he chooses. Ye’ll hae nae objections, I fancy, that I keep out o’ the party?”
“Very great objections, mother; I wish to see this girl, and learn her history; if I call privately, you will be offended; is it not better to do this before witnesses? And I am likewise desirous that you should see her, and be satisfied that she is at all events worthy of being protected from injury. Let us make a rustic party of it, for a little variety—we will invite Robin, and his sister Miss Margaret, and any other of that class you chuse.”
“O certainly! invite them ilk ane, son—invite a’ the riff-raff i’ the parish; your mother has naething to say.”
He was stung with this perversity, as wellas with his love forthe childon the other hand—he did invite them, and the invitation was accepted. Down came Robin Muckerland, tenant of the Todburn, dressed in his blue and gray thread-about coat, with metal buttons, broader than a Queen Ann’s half-crown, dark corduroy breeches, and drab-coloured leggums (the best things, by the bye, that ever came in fashion;) and down came haverel Meg, his sister,aliasMiss Peggy, for that day, with her cork-heeled shoon, and long-waisted gown, covered with broad stripes, like the hangings of an ancient bed. She had, moreover, a silken bonnet on her head for laying aside in the lobby, under that a smart cap, and under that, again, an abundance of black curly hair, slightly grizzled, and rendered more outrageously bushy that morning by the effects of paper-curls over night. Meg was never seen dressed in such style before, and I wish from my heart that any assembly of our belles had seen her. She viewed the business as a kind ofshow of cattlebefore the laird, in the same wayas the young ladies long ago were brought in before King Ahasuerus; and she was determined to bear down Jane to the dust, and carry all before her. The very air and swagger with which she walked was quite delightful, while her blue ribbon-belt, half a foot broad, and proportionally long, having been left intentionally loose, was streaming behind her, like the pennon of a ship. “It is rather odd, billy Rob,” said she, “that we should thus be invited alang wi’ our ain cottar—However, the laird’s ha’ levels a’—if she be fit company for him, she maunna be less for us—fock maun bow to the bush that they seek beild frae.”
“E’en sae, Meg; but let us see you behave yoursel like a woman the day, an’ no get out wi’ ony o’ your vollies o’ nonsense.”
“Deed, Rob, I’ll just speak as I think; there sall naething gyzen i’ my thrapple that my noddle pits there. I like nane o’ your kind o’ fock that dare do naething but chim chim at the same thing ower again, like the gouk in a June day. Megmaun hae out her say, if it sude burst Powbeit on her head.”
As they came down by the washing-green, Jane joined them, dressed in a plain brown frock, and leading little George, who was equipt like an earl’s son; and a prettier boy never paddled at a mother’s side.
The old lady was indisposed that day, and unable to come down to breakfast; and it was not till after the third visit from her son, who found he was like to be awkwardly situated with his party, that she was prevailed on to appear. Robin entered first, and made his obeisance; Meg came in with a skip and a courtesy, very like that of the water-owzel when she is sitting on a stone in the middle of the stream. Poor Jane appeared last, leading her boy; her air was modest and diffident, yet it had nothing of that awkward timidity, inseparable from low life, and a consciousness that one has no right to be there. The lady returned a slight nod to her courtesy, for she had nearly dropt down when she first cast her eyesupon her beauty, and elegance of form and manner. It was the last hope that she had remaining, that this girl would be a vulgar creature, and have no pretensions to that kind of beauty admired in the higher circles; now that last hope was blasted. But that which astonished every one most, was the brilliancy of her eyes, which all her misfortunes had nothing dimmed; their humid lustre was such, that it was impossible for any other eye to meet their glances without withdrawing abashed. The laird set a seat for her, and spoke to her as easily as he could, but of that he was no great master; he then lifted little George, kissed him, and, setting him on his knee, fell a talking to him. “And where have you been so long away from me, my dear little fellow? Tell me where you have been all this while.”
“Fal away, at auld Geoldie’s, little Davie’s falel, ye ken; him ’at has ’e fine bonny ’halp wi’ a stipe down hele, and anolel down hele.—Little Davie vely good till Geoge, an vely queel callant.”
Every one laughed aloud at George’s description of the whelp, and his companion little Davie, save Jane, who was afraid he would discover where their retreat had been, rather prematurely. Breakfast was served; the old lady forced a complaisance and chatted to Meg, who answered her just with what chanced to come uppermost, never once to the point or subject on which she was previously talking; for all the time the good old dowager was addressing her, she was busied in adjusting some part of her dress—looking at the shape of her stays—casting a glance at the laird, and occasionally at Jane—then adjusting a voluptuous curl that half-hid her grey eye. She likewise occasionally uttered a vacant hem! when the lady paused; and, as soon as she ceased, began some observation of her own. Robin was quite in the fidgets. “Dear Meg, woman,that’s no what her ladyship was speaking about. That’s no to the purpose ava.”