“Noone can doubt that Randall is unhappy; but Randall is not a humble man, Mrs Laurie; he will not woo and plead and supplicate, I am afraid; he will honour only those who honour him, and never obtrude his love where he thinks there is no response. You know them both—could anything be done?”
Alas! good Johnnie Lithgow, we are all proud. This is not the wisest line of attack, in the circumstances. Mrs Laurie sits gravely by the fireside to listen. Mrs Laurie was Mrs Laurie before Randall Home was born. It is wonderful how she recollects this; and, recollecting, it is not difficult to see which of the two, in the opinion of Menie’s mother, has the best right to stand on their dignity.
“I cannot advise,” said Mrs Laurie somewhat coldly. “Menie has made no explanation to me. Mr Home has not addressed me at all on the subject. I am sorry I cannot suggest anything—especiallywhen I have to take into consideration the lofty ideas of your friend.”
It was a little bitter this. Lithgow felt himself chilled by it, and she saw it herself immediately; but Mrs Laurie said no word of atonement, till a sudden recollection of Menie’s strangely altered and sobered fate broke upon her. Her countenance changed—her voice softened.
“I would be glad to do anything,” she said, with a slight faltering. “To make Menie happy, I could accept any sacrifice. I will see—I will try. No,” she continued, after a considerable pause, “I was right after all—your friend is what you call him. My Menie has a very high spirit, and in this matter is not to be controlled by me. They must be left to themselves—it is the wisest way.”
Lithgow made no answer. Mrs Laurie sank into silence and thought. As they sat opposite to each other by the little fireplace, the young man’s eye wandered over the room. His own birthplace and home was such another cottage as this; and Lithgow’s mother, with her homely gown and check apron—her constant occupation about the house—her peasant tastes and looks and habits—was suitable and homogeneous to the earthen floor and rude hearth of the cottars’ only room. But very strangely out of place was Menie’s easel—Menie’s desk—Mrs Laurie’s delicate basket of work—her easy-chair and covered table; strangely out of place, but not ungracefully—bearing, wherever they might be, a natural seemliness and fitness of their own. And if a rapid cloud of offence—a vapour of pride and resentment, might glide over Mrs Laurie’s brow, it was never shaded by so much as a momentary shame. As undisturbed in her household dignity as at her most prosperous time, she received her visitor in the cot-house, nor ever dreamt she had cause to be ashamed of such an evidence of her diminished fortunes.
But Lithgow’s thoughts were full of Randall; he was not willing to give up his attempt to reconcile them. “Randall is working very hard,” said his generous fellow-craftsman. “I think his second success will lift him above all thought of hazard. He does his genius wrong by such unnecessary caution; he could not produce a commonplace thing if he would.”
“And you, Mr Lithgow”—Mrs Laurie’s heart warmed to him, plebeian though he was.
“I do my day’s work,” said the young man, happily, “thanking God that it is very sufficient for the needs of the day; but between Randall and myself there is no comparison. I deal with common topics, common manners, common events, like any other labouring man. But Randall is an artist of the loftiest class.What he does is for generations to come, no less than for to-day.”
This enthusiasm threw a flush upon his face. As it receded, gradually fading from his forehead, a quick footstep went away from the cottage threshold. Menie Laurie had paused to listen whose the voice was before she entered, and, pausing, had heard all he had to say.
The happy golden purple of the sunset has melted from Criffel and his brother hills; but there is a pale light about all the east, whither Menie Laurie’s face is turned as she leaves the cottage door. From her rapid step, you would fancy she was going somewhere. Where will she go? Nowhither, poor heart—only into the night a little—into the silence. It would not be possible to sit still in that noiseless house, by that lonely fireside, with such a tumult and commotion in this loud throbbing heart—forcing up its rapid cadence into the ears that thrill with sympathetic pulses—leaping to the very lips that grow so parched and faint. Oh! for the din of streets, of storms, the violence of crowds and noise of life—anything to drown this greater violence, these strong perpetual throbs that beat upon the brain like hailstones—anything to deaden this.
But all the air remains so still—so still; not a sound upon the silent road, but the heart and the footsteps,so rapid and irregular, which keep each other time. But by-and-by, as Menie goes upon her aimless way, another sound does break the silence—voices in the air—the sound of wheels and of a horse’s feet. Listen, Menie—voices in the air!
But Menie will not listen—does not believe there are voices in the world which could wake her interest now—and so, unconsciously, looks up as this vehicle dashes past—looks up, to receive—what? The haughty salutation—uncovered brow and bending head, of Randall Home.
She would fain have caught at the hedge for a support; but he might look back and see her, and Menie hurried on. She had seen him; they had looked again into each other’s eyes. “I never said I was indifferent,” sobbed Menie to herself, and, in spite of herself, her voice took a shriller tone of passion—her tears came upon her in an agony. “I never said I was indifferent; it would have been a lie.”
Hush!—be calm. It is safe to sit down by the roadside on this turf, which is unsullied by the dust of these passing wheels; safe to sit down and let the flood have vent, once and never more. And the soft whispering air comes stealing about Menie, with all its balmy gentle touches, like a troop of fairy comforters; and the darkness comes down with graciousspeed to hide her as she crouches, with her head upon her hands, overcome and mastered;—once, and never more.
Now it is night. Yonder the lights are glimmering faintly in the cottage windows of the Brigend. Far away above the rest shines a little speck of light from the high window of Burnside, where once was Menie Laurie’s chamber—her land of meditation, her sanctuary of dreams. The wind rustles among the firs—the ash-trees hold up their bare white arms towards the heavens, waiting till this sweet star, lingering at the entrance of their arch, shall lead her followers through, like children in their dance. And—hush!—suddenly, like a bird new awaked, the burn throws out its voice upon the air, something sad. The passion is overpast. Look up, Menie Laurie; you are not among strangers. The hills and the heavens stretch out arms to embrace you; the calm of this great night, God’s minister, comes to your heart. Other thoughts—and noble ones—stretch out helping hands to you like angels. Rise up; many a hope remains in the world, though this one be gone for ever.
And Menie, rising, returns upon her way—away from Burnside, her old beloved home, and, going, questions with herself if aught is changed since she made the bitter and painful decision which in her heart shethought it right to make. Nothing is changed—the severance has been made—the shock is over. At first we knew it would be very hard; at first we thought of nothing but despair. We never took into our calculation the oft-returning memories—the stubborn love, that will not be slain at a blow; and this it is that has mastered mind, and heart, and resolution now.
There is no one else upon the road. The night, and the hills, and Menie Laurie, look up through the silence to heaven—and no one knows the conflict that is waging—none is here with human voice or hand to help the struggle. Fought and won—lie still in her religious breast, oh heart! Fittest way to win your quiet back again, Menie Laurie has laid you down—come good or evil, come peace or contest—laid you down once for all at the feet of God.
A brilliantcompany—the very newspapers would say so if they had note of it; distinguished people—except here and there a few who are only wives or sisters of somebody; the ladies and gentlemen present, individual by individual, are somebodies themselves. For a very pretty collection of Lions, as one could wish to see, is drawn together into Mr Editor Lithgow’s drawing-room, to do honour to his wedding-day.
And you may wonder at first to hear such a moderate amount of roaring; Lions of the present day are not given to grandiloquence. If the truth must be told, the talk sounds somewhat professional, not unlike the regimental talk of soldier officers, and the ladies pertaining to the same. True, that a picturesque American, bolder than her compeers on this side the Atlantic,posesin one corner, and by-and-by makes a tableau, lying down in wild devotionat the feet of two respectable and somewhat scared good people—literary ladies of a modest standing, who have done just work enough to make their names known, but are by no means prepared for such homage as this. And for the rest of the company, it must be said that they sit or stand, lean back or lean forward, as propriety or common custom enjoin;—that there is a great talk of babies in that other corner, where the mistress of the house is surrounded by a band of matron friends;—and that there is in reality very little out of the common in this company, if it were not for the said professional talk.
The young mistress of the house! she talks pretty nearly as much now as other people talk—quite as much, indeed, when her heart is opened with that all-interesting subject, babies—or when her tongue has leisure to talk of the marvellous feats of certain babies of her own. July Home has been a married wife five years.
There is nothing very costly or rare in this drawing-room; but it is well-sized and well-furnished, notwithstanding, and a pretty apartment. Lithgow himself, not a very stately host, attends to his guests with an unassuming kindliness which charms these somewhat sophisticated people in spite of themselves; and Lithgow is full of the talk of the profession, and speaks great names with the confidence of friendship.In these five years, mother though she be, and mistress of a London household, all you can say of July is that she has grown a pretty girl—a little taller, a little more mature in action—but a girl, just as she was when we saw her last.
Being addressed, but of his own will scarcely speaking to any one, there is a remarkable-looking person among Mr Lithgow’s guests. Looking up to his great height, you can just see some threads of white among his hair, though his age does not justify this, for he is a young man still; and a settled cloud upon his brow gives darkness to his face. It is not grief—it is not care; a gloomy self-absorbed pride is much more like what it is.
“That is Mrs Lithgow’s brother,” says another guest, in answer to the “who’s that?” of an unaccustomed visitor. Mrs Lithgow’s brother! Is this all the distinction that remains to the lofty Randall Home?
“And a literary man like all the rest of us,” continues, condescendingly, this gentleman, who is a critic, and contemptuous in right of his craft. “He made a great success with his first publication six or seven years ago. I saw it on that table in the corner, covered with a pile of prints and drawings. They say Home cannot bear to see it now. Well; he lingered a long time polishing and elaborating, and retouching hissecond book, expecting, no doubt, a universal acclamation. Poor fellow! the public never so much as looked at it—it was a dead failure.”
“Was it not equal to the first?” inquired breathlessly the original speaker, who in his heart was a warm adherent of Randall, though personally unknown to him, and who was a great deal better acquainted with the work in question than his informant.
“There was merit in the book,” said the critic, poising a pretty paper-knife carelessly on his forefinger—“merit, such as it was; and Lithgow, here, gave him an article, and tried hard to get up a feeling; but he’s a supercilious fellow, sir—proud as Lucifer; he is constantly running against somebody, and we put him down.”
The critic turned to speak to another critic on his other hand; the interrogator stood aside. Solitary in the midst of this animated company—dark, where all was glowing with a modest brilliancy—it was not wonderful that this good man should inquire of himself whether there was nought of the evil thing called affectation in the gloom and pride of Randall Home. One thing at least it was not difficult to see—that Randall knew people were looking at him—wondering about him—and that more than one lady of sentiment and enthusiasm had marvelled already,with wistful melancholy, whether any one knew what the grief was which had blighted the young author’s life.
The young author’s life was not blighted. On him, like a nightmare, sat a subtle spirit, self-questioning, self-criticising. He was disappointed;—a bitter stream had come into his way, and by its side he walked, his eyes bent downward on it, pondering the evils of his fate, trying with a cold philosophy to believe them no evils, assuming to despise them, yet resenting them with bitterness in his own secret heart.
“Randall, look at this; it minds me of home,” said his sister in his ear. He took mechanically what she put into his hand—carelessly: not the slightest interest inhisface for poor July’s enthusiasm—as like as not he would smile and put it down with a careless glance. Things that other people look on with interest were matters of chilled and disappointed indifference to Randall Home.
Yet he looks at this child’s face that has been brought before him; insensibly a smile breaks upon his lips in answer to this sweet child’s smile. He, who is a critic, knows it is nochef-d’œuvre, and has little claim to be looked upon as high art; but for once Randall thinks nothing of the execution—as on a real countenance he gazes upon this. These sweetlittle features seem to move before him with the throng of gracious childlike thoughts that hover over the unclouded brow—childlike thoughts—thoughts of the great eternal simplicities which come nearest to angels and to children. This man, through his intricacies and glooms, catches for an instant a real glimpse of what that atmosphere must be through which simple hearts look up into the undoubted heavens; for scarcely so much as a summer cloud can float between this child and the sky.
Come this way, Randall. Here is a little room, vacant, half-lighted, where lie other things akin to this. Take them up after your careless fashion. What message can they have to you? Be ready, if you can, to put them aside with a word of bitter criticism—only leave out this child’s portrait. Say with your lips it is good and you like it; feel in your heart as if it spoke to you long, loving, simple speeches; and when you turn from it—hush! it is irreverent—do not try with either sarcasm or jest to cheat this sudden desolateness which you feel at your heart.
A cloudy face—is this no portrait? The wind is tossing back wildly the curls from its white high brow, and out of a heavy thunder-cloud it looks down darkly, doubtfully, with a look which you cannot fathom. Uneasily the spectator lays it aside tolift another—another and another; they are very varied, but his keen eye perceives in a moment that every face among them which is a man’s bears the same features. Other heads of children unknown to Randall—pictures of peasant women, real and individual, diversify the little collection; but where the artist has made a man’s face, everywhere a subtle visionary resemblance runs through each and all. Through altered features the same expression—through changed moods and tempers the same sole face. The room swims about him as he looks—is it a dream or a vision—what does it mean?
The long white curtains faintly stir in the autumn night-wind which steals in through the open window; the shaded lamp upon the table throws down a little circle of light—a larger circle of shadow—upon these pictures, and faintly shines in the mirror above the vacant hearth. He has sunk on one knee to look at them again. What memory is it that has kept this face, what sad recollection has preserved its looks and changes so faithfully and so long? No ideal, noble, and glorious, such as a heart might make for itself—no human idol either, arrayed in the purple and gold of loving homage—and the heart of Randall, startled and dismayed, hides its face and beholds itself for the first time truly. He knows that none of these is meant for him—feels with certain confidence that reproach upon him is the last thing intended by this often portraiture; yet stands aside, and marvels, with a pang—a great throb of anguish and hope—to see himself, changed in habit and in aspect, with years added, and with years taken away; but he feels in every one that the face is his own.
Love that thinks you loftiest, noblest—love that worships in you its type of grace and high perfection, its embodiment of dreams and longings—rejoice in it, oh youth! But if you ever come to know a love that is disenchanted—a love that with its clear and anxious sight has found you out and read your heart—knowing not the highest part alone, but, in so far as human creature can,allthat is written there—yet still is love; if you rejoice no longer, pause at least, and tremble. Light is the blind love of the old poets—frail, and in constant peril. Heaven help those to whom is given the love that sees as nothing else can see—It struck to the heart of Randall Home.
Through secrets of his being, which himself had never guessed, this lightened eye had pierced like a sunbeam. Unwitting of its insight, nought could it say in words of its discovery, but unconsciously they came to light under the artist-hand. Menie Laurie—Menie Laurie!—little you wist when yourpencil touched so dreamily these faces, which were but so many shadows of one face in your heart—little you wist how strange a revelation they would carry to another soul.
“Something has happened to Randall—he will not hear me,” said July to her husband when the guests went away. “He makes me no answer—he never hears me speak, but stands yonder steadfast at the mirror, looking in his own face.”
Thesun has struck on Criffel’s sullen shoulder. Look you how it besets him, with a glorious burst of laughter and triumph over his gloom. And now a clown no longer, but some grand shepherd baron, he draws his purple cloak about him, and lifts his cloudy head into the sky. Marshal your men-at-arms, Warder of the Border! Keep your profound unbroken watch upon the liege valleys and homes at your feet—for the sun is setting in a stormy glory, and the winds are gathering wild in their battalions in the hollows of the hills.
Travelling with his face towards the east, is one wayfarer on this lonely road. He knows the way, but it is long to his unaccustomed feet; and he is like to be benighted, whatever speed he makes. The sky before him is cold and clear, the sky of an autumn night, gleaming itself with an intense pale lustre, while great mountain-heaps of clouds, flungupon it, stand out round and full against its glittering chilly light; and with a wild rush the wind comes down upon the trees, seizing them in a sudden convulsion. The road ascends a little, and looks from this point as if it went abruptly into the skies; and on either side lies the low breadth of a peat-moss, on which it is too dark now to distinguish the purple patches of heather, or anything but the moorland burn and deep drain full of black clear water, from which is thrown back again, in long flying glimmers of reflection, the pale light of the sky.
There is not a house in sight. Here and there a doddered oak or thorn, or stunted willows trailing their branches into the pools, give a kind of edge, interrupted and broken, to the moorland road; and now and then on a little homely bridge—one arch of stone, or it may be only two or three planks—it crosses a burn. With every gust of wind a shower of leaves comes rustling down from the occasional trees we pass, and the same cold breath persuades this traveller very soon to regret that his breast is not guarded by the natural defence—the grey plaid of the Border hills.
He does not lift his foot high and cumbrously from the ground, as the men of this quarter, used to wading through the moss and heather, are wont to do; nor does he oppose to this wild wind the broadexpanded chest and weather-beaten face of rural strength; but he knows the way along which he walks so smartly—pauses now and then to recognise some ancient landmark—and pushes forward without hesitation, very well aware where he is going to, nor fearing to choose that shorter way across the moss, like one to the manner born.
A narrower path, broken in upon here and there by young sapling trees, self-sown willows, and bushes, which are scattered over all the moss. Suddenly—it may be but a parcel of stones, a little heap of peats—but there is something on the edge of the way.
Going forward, the traveller finds seated on the fallen trunk of a tree two children—a little girl drawing in to her side the uncovered flaxen head of a still younger boy, and holding him firmly with her arm. The little fellow, with open mouth and close shut eyes, is fast asleep, and his young guardian’s head droops on her breast. You can see she watched long before she yielded to it; but she too has dropped asleep.
The traveller, touched with sudden interest, pauses and looks down upon them. Indistinctly, in her sleep, hearing his step, or conscious of the human eye upon her which breaks repose, the little girl moves uneasily, tightens the firm pressure of her arm, murmurs something—of which the spectator, stooping down, can hear only “little Davie”—and then, throwing back her head and changing her attitude, settles again into her profound child’s sleep.
What arrests him that he does not wake her? What makes him pause so long after his previous haste? Yes, look closer—stoop down upon the damp and springy soil—bend your knee. The pale faint light has not deceived you, neither has the memory which holds with unwonted tenacity the likeness of this face—for this is indeed the original. Sweet in its depth of slumber, its lips half-closed, its eye-lash warm upon its cheek, the same sweet heart you saw in London in the picture—the very child.
Eleven years old is Jessie now; and to keep little Davie out of mischief is a harder task than ever. So helpless, yet in such an attitude of guardianship and protection, the traveller’s eyes, in spite of himself, fill with tears. He is almost loth to wake her, but the wind rushes with growing violence among the cowering trees.
He touches her shoulder—she does not know how gently—as suddenly she starts up broad awake. One terrified look Jessie gives him—another at the wild sky and dreary moor. “You’re no to meddle wi’ Davie; it’s a’ my blame,” said Jessie with onefrightened sob; “and oh, it’s dark night, and we’ll never win hame!”
“How did you come here?” said the stranger, gently. Jessie was reassured; she dried her eyes, and began to look up at him with a little returning confidence.
“I dinna ken; it was Davie would rin—no, it was me that never cam the road before—and we got on to the moss. Oh, will you tell me the airt I’m to gang hame?”
He put his hand upon the child’s head kindly. This was not much like Randall Home. The Randall of old days, if he never failed to help, scarcely ever knew himself awakened to interest. There was a great delight of novelty in this new spring opened in his heart.
“Were you not afraid to fall asleep?”
Poor little Jessie began to cry; she thought she had done wrong. “I couldna keep wakin. I tried as lang as I could, and then I thocht I would just ask God to take care o’ Davie, and then there would be nae fear. That was the way I fell asleep.”
A philosopher! But how have these tears found their way to his face? Somehow he cannot look on this little speaker—cannot perceive her small brother laying his cheek upon her breast, without a newemotion which ought to have no place in the mind of an observing moralist whose thought is of cause and effect. Again he lays his hand upon her head—so kindly that Jessie looks up with a shy smile—and says, “You are used to say your prayers?”
“I aye do’t every night.” Jessie looks up again wistfully, wondering with a sudden pity. Can it be possible that he does not say his prayers, gentleman though he be!
“Say them here, little girl—I would like to hear your prayers”—and his own voice sounds reverent, low, as one who feels a great presence near.
But Jessie falters and cries—does not know what to answer, though it is very hard to contend against the impulse of instant obedience. “Oh! I dinna like—I canna say them out-by to a man,” she says in great trouble, clasping and unclasping her hands. “I just mind a’body, and little Davie—and give my soul to Christ to keep,” added the little girl solemnly, “for fear I shouldna wake the morn.”
There is a little silence. She thinks this kindly stranger is angry with her, and cries; but it is only a something of strong unusual emotion, which he must swallow down.
“Now, you must wake up little Davie, and I will take you home. Is it far? You do not know, poorlittle guardian. Come away—it is near Brigend? Well, we will manage to get there. Come, little fellow, rouse up and give me your hand.”
But Davie, very wroth at such a sudden interruption of his repose, shook his little brown clenched hand in the stranger’s face instead, and would hold by no other but his sister. So in this order they went on, Jessie, with much awe, permitting her hand to be held in Randall’s, and sleepy Davie dragging her back at the other side. They went on at a very different pace from Randall’s former rate of walking—threading their encumbered way with great difficulty through the moorland path—but by-and-by, to the general comfort, emerged once more upon the high-road, and near the cheerful light from a cottage door.
And here he would pause to ask for some refreshment for the lost children, but does not fail to glance in first at the cottage window. This woman sitting before the fire has a face he knows, and she is rolling up a heavy white-faced baby, and moving with a kind of monotonous rock back and forward upon her seat. But there is not a murmur of the mother-song—instead, she is slowly winding up to extremest aggravation a little girl in a short-gown and apron, who stands behind her in a flood of tears, and whose present state of mind suggests no comfort to her, but tobreak all the “pigs” (Anglicècrockery) in the house and run away.
“Will I take in twa bairns?—what would I do wi’ twa bairns? I’ve enow o’ my ain; but folk just think they can use ony freedom wi’ me,” said the woman, in answer to Randall’s appeal made from the door. “I’m sure Peter’s pack might be a laird’s lands for what folk expect; and because there’s nae ither cause o’ quarrelling wi’ a peaceable woman like me, I maun aye be askit to do things I canna do. It’s nane o’ my blame they didna get their denner. Lad, you had best take them hame.”
“I will pay for anything you give them cheerfully; but the little creatures are exhausted,” said Randall again from the door. He thought he had altered a good deal his natural voice.
The woman suddenly raised her head. “I’m saying, that’s a tongue I ken,” she said in an undertone. “This is nae public to gie meat for siller, lad,” she continued; “but they may get a bit barley scone and a drink o’ milk—I’ve nae objections. Ye’ll no belang to this country yoursel?” For with a rapidity very unusual to her, she had suddenly deposited her gaping baby in the cradle, and now stood at the door. Randall kept without in the darkness. The lost children were admitted to the fire.
“No.”
“I wouldna say but you’re out o’ London, by your tongue. I’ve been there mysel before I was married, biding wi’ a brother o’ mine that’s real weel-off and comfortable there. I’ve never been up again, for he’s married, and her and me disna gree that weel. It’s an awfu’ world—a peaceable person has nae chance—and I was aye kent for that, married and single. Ye’ll ha heard o’ my man, Peter Drumlie, if you come out o’ Cumberland; but I reckon you’re frae London, by your tongue.”
With a bow, and a sarcastic compliment to her discrimination, Randall answered her question; but the bow and the sarcasm were lost upon the person he addressed: she went on in her dull tone without a pause.
“Ay, I aye was kent for discrimination,” she said with modest self-approval, “though it’s no everybody has the sense to allow’t. But you’ll hae come to see your friends, I reckon—they’ll be biding about this pairt?”
“Just so,” said Randall.
“Ye’ll ken mony a change in the countryside,” continued the woman. “There’s the auld minister dead in Kirklands parish, and a’ the family scattered, and a delicate lad, a stranger, in the Manse his lane; and maister and mistress gane out o’ Kirklands House, away some gate in foreign pairts; and WalterWellwood, the young laird, he’s married upon a grand lady and joined to the Papishes; and—but ye’ll maybe ken better about the common folk o’ the parish. There’s auld Crofthill and Miss Janet their lee lane up the brae yonder, and ne’er a word frae Randy—maybe you would ken Randy?—the awfullest lad for thinking o’ himsel; and then there’s the family at Burnside—they’re come down in the world, wi’ a’ their pride and their vanity—living in naething but a cot-house on the siller Jenny makes wi’ her kye; and Miss Menie, she makes pictures and takes folk’s likenesses, and does what she can to keep hersel. Eh, man, there’s awfu’ changes!—And wee July Home, Crofthill’s daughter, she’s married upon our Johnnie, keepit like a leddy, and never has a hand’s turn laid to her, wet day or dry—it’s a grand marriage for the like o’ her;—and there’s mysel—I was ance Nelly Panton, till I got my man—but I’ve nae occasion to do a thing now but keep the house gaun, and mind the siller—for Peter, he’s a man o’ sense, and kens the value o’ a guid wife—and I live real comfortable among my ain folk in a peaceable way, as I was aye disposed—though they’re an ill set the folk hereaway—they’re aye bickering amang themsels. Will you no come in-by and rest?”
Randall, who felt his philosophy abandon him in this respect as well as others, and who could notpersuade himself by any arguments of her insignificance to quench the passion which this slow stream of malicious disparagement raised within him, answered very hotly, and with great abruptness, that he could not wait longer. A moment after he found himself again upon the road, with the reluctant children dragging him back, and Nelly looking out after him from her door. He had time to be annoyed at himself for betraying his anger; but Randall began to have changed thoughts—began to lose respect for the self-constraint which once had been his highest form of dignity—began to think that no natural emotion was unworthy of him—ofhim. For the first time he laughed at the words with bitterness as he looked up to the pale gleaming sky, with its clouds and stars. Unworthy of him—who then was he?
“Theman’s right—they’ll hae strayed in on the moss. Oh, my bairns! my bairns!” cried the distressed mother into the night. “And Patie was telling, nae farther gane than yestreen, what a bogilly bit it was, till a’ the weans were fleyed; and if they’re no sunk in the moss itsel, they’ll be dead wi’ fright by this time. Oh, my bonnie Jessy! that was aye doing somebody a guid turn; and wee Davie—puir wee Davie! he was aye the youngest, and got his ain way. My bairns! my bairns!”
A snort came through the misty gloom. By this time it was very dark, and Randall could hear the voices as they approached.
“What’s the woman greeting for? Her bairns?—her bairns? I would just like to ken what suld ail her bairns—little mischiefs! They’re warm at somebody’s ingle-neuk, Ise warrant. That wee Davie’s an imp o’ Satan; neither fright nor bogleswill harm him. Come this road, woman. What gart ye leave the lantern? If there werena better wits than yours”—
Jenny’s voice was interrupted by a sudden footstep crushing the bramble branches on the side of the way, and by a sudden glow of light thrown full upon the dazzled eyes of little Jessie, who left Randall’s hand with a cry of joy—“Oh, it’s the leddy—we’re safe at hame.”
The lantern flashed about through the darkness. Randall’s heart beat loudly. With a great start he recognised the voice which gave kindly welcome to the strayed child, and he could distinguish the outline of her figure, as she shaded the lantern with her hand; then she raised it—he felt the light suddenly burst upon his face—another moment, and it was gone. Little Jessie flew back to him dismayed; voice and figure and light had disappeared as they came; one other step upon the brambles, and they were alone once more.
He had no time to marvel or to follow, for now the mother and Jenny, suddenly drawing close to them, fell upon the lost children, with cried of mingled blame and joy. “It was the gentleman brought us hame.”
“Thanks to the gentleman—would he no come in and rest?—he would be far out o’ his way—the guidman would take a lantern, and convoy him”—and a hundred other anxious volunteerings of gratitude poured upon Randall’s ears. “I must go on—I must go on!” He burst past them impatiently; he did not know where the house was, or if she had gone home; but Menie had seen him, and Menie he must see.
Step softly, Randall! In her high excitement, she hears every stir of the falling leaves without, and could not miss your footstep, if you trod as softly as a child. She has reached to her shelter already—she has put out her mother’s lights, and stands in the darkness, pressing her white face against the window, looking out, wondering if she will see you again—wondering why you come here—praying in a whisper that you may not cross her path any more, but contradicting the prayer in her heart. Mrs Laurie stands by the door without, watching for the children’s return; and now they come, Davie lifted into his mother’s arms (for he has been almost asleep on his feet), Jessie eager that everybody should understand “it was my blame,” and Jenny smartly lecturing each and all. The rest of the family—all but the goodman, who has gone to the moss to seek the children—are gathered in a group before the cottage; and the red light of the fire glows out upon them, and some one has picked up the lantern which MenieLaurie dropped. A little crowd—the inner circle of faces brightened by the lamp, the outer ones receding into partial gloom, hearing little Jessie tell her story, speculating what part of the moss it could be, and “where was the gentleman?”—a question which none could answer.
“Though I’ve heard his tongue afore, mysel,” said Jenny, “I’m just as sure—woman, will ye no take that little Satan to his bed?—and puir wee Jessie’s een’s gaun thegither. It wasna your blame, you deceitful monkey! Ye may cheat the wife there, but ye’ll no cheat Jenny. It was a’ that little bother—it wasna you. Gang out o’ my gate, callant! If nane o’ the rest o’ ye will stir, I maun pit the bairn to her bed mysel.”
From her window Menie Laurie looks out upon this scene—upon the darkness around—the one spot of light, and the half-illuminated faces; looks out wistfully, straining her eyes into the night, wondering where he has gone, and getting time now, as her agitation calms, to be ashamed and annoyed at her own weakness. Very calm for many a day has been Menie Laurie’s quiet heart—soberly, happily contented, and at rest. Little comforts and elegancies, which neither Mrs. Laurie’s income nor Jenny’s kye could attain, Menie has managed to collect into this little room. Her “trade,” as she still calls it—forMenie is the person of all others least satisfied with her own performances, and will not assume to be an artist—has brought her in contact with many pleasant people; her mother is pleased that they have even better “society” here, in the cot-house, than they had in prosperous Burnside; and it even seems a thing probable, and to be hoped for, that by-and-by they may go back to Burnside, and be able to live without its fifty yearly pounds. This success could not come without bringing some content and satisfaction with it; and constant occupation has restored health and ease to Menie’s mind; while almost as calm as of old, but with a deeper, loftier quiet, a womanly repose—light, within her eased breast, has lain Menie Laurie’s heart.
And why this face of strange excitement now, Menie cannot tell. She found him out so suddenly—flashing her light upon the face which least of all she thought to see. But Menie wonders to feel this strong thrill of agitation returning on her as she touches the window with her pale cheek, and wonders if she will see him again.
The night falls deeper—darker; the wind over-head comes shouting down upon the trees, throwing their leaves from them in wild handfuls, and tearing off their feebler branches in a frenzy. Here where we stand, you can hear it going forth with its cry ofdefiance against the hills, flinging a magic circle round the startled homesteads, attacking bridges upon rivers, stacks in farmyards. The goodman, who has returned with a glad heart to find his children safe, says, when he closes the cottage door, that it is a wild night; but here, amid all its violence, waiting a moment when he may see her—strangely excited, strangely emancipated, owning the sway of one most passionate and simple emotion, and for the first time forgetting, not only himself, but everything else—here, with his bare forehead to the wind, stands Randall Home.
Now come hither: Jenny’s candle in the kitchen thriftily extinguished, leaving her window only lightened by the firelight, proves that Jenny has come “ben” to the family service—the daily meeting-ground of mistress and servant, child and mother. There is no need to close the shutters on this window, which no one ever passes by to see. Calm in her fireside corner sits Mrs Laurie, with her open Bible in her lap; Jenny is close by the table, drawing near the light, and poring very closely upon the “sma’ prent,” which runs into a confused medley before her, not to be deciphered—for Jenny will not be persuaded to try spectacles, lest they should “spoil her een;” while Menie, who reads the chapter aloud, reverently turns over the leaves of the family Bible,and, with all her quiet restored, speaks the words which say peace to other storms than that storm never to be forgotten, in the Galilean Sea.
You remember how she was when you saw her last—you remember her through the flash of your own anger, the mortification of your own pride—but pride and mortification have little to do with this atmosphere which surrounds our Menie now. Her delicate hand is on the open Book—her reverent eyes cast down upon it—her figure rising out of its old girlish freedom and carelessness, into a womanly calm and dignity. He follows the motion of her head and lips with an unconscious eager gesture—follows them with devotion, longing to feel himself engaged with her; and hears, his frame quivering the while—rising upon his heart with a command, that hushes all these violent strong voices round—the low sound ofhervoice.
Now they are at prayer. Her face is folded in her hands, Randall; and there may be a prayer in Menie’s heart, which Mrs Laurie’s voice, always timid at this time, does not say. Whatever there is in Menie’s heart, you know what is in your own—know at once this flood of sudden yearning, this sudden passion of hope and purpose, this sudden burst of womanish tears. Now then, over-mastered, subdued, and won, turn away, Randall Home—butnot till Jenny, starting from her knees, has burst into a violent sob and scream. “I dreamt he was come back this very night; I dreamt o’ him yestreen—Randall—Randall Home!” But with an awed face, Jenny returned from the door to which she had flown. Randall was not there!
Somethingof languor is in this chill morning, as its quiet footstep steals upon the path of the exhausted storm—something worn out and heavy are Menie’s eyes, as she closes them, wearily upon the daylight when Jenny has cleared the little breakfast-table, and it is time for the day’s work to begin. They speak to her softly, you will perceive, and are very tender of Menie, as if she were ill, and Jenny cannot forgive herself for the shock that her exclamation caused last night.
A heavy stupor is on Menie’s mind, lightened only with gleams of wild anxiety, with fruitless self-questionings, which she fain would restrain, but cannot. Jenny, firm in the belief that she has seen a spirit, is melancholy and mysterious, and asks suggestive questions—whether they have heard if there is “ony great trouble in London ’enow,” or who it was that was prayed for in the kirk last Sabbath—a youngman in great distress. Mrs Laurie, uneasy and solicitous, cannot stay these pitiful looks which unawares she turns upon her daughter, and hangs perpetually about her with tender touches, consoling words, and smiles, till poor Menie’s heart is like to break.
The day’s work is over in Jenny’s “redd-up kitchen;”—the uneven earthen floor is carefully swept—the hearth as white and the fireside as brilliant as Jenny’s elaborate care can make them; and Jenny has drawn aside a little the sliding panel which closes in her bed, to show the light patch-work quilt, and snowy linen of the “owrelay.” Bright brass and pewter carefully polished above the high mantelshelf—bright plates and crockery against the walls—with a glance of satisfaction Jenny surveyed the whole as she passed into the private corner where she made her toilette—a “wiselike” kitchen; it was worthy of Jenny.
And now, in her blue and yellow gown, in her black and red checked plaiden shawl, in her great Leghorn bonnet, fashioned in antique times, Jenny sets out from the cottage door. No one knows where Jenny is going, and there has been some surprise “ben the house” at her intimation of her proposed absence. But Jenny keeps her own counsel, and walks away soberly, seeing Mrs Laurie at the window, in the direction of Burnside. “Nae occasion tolet the haill town see the gate Jenny was gaun,” she says to herself, with a slight fuff; and, altering her course before she reaches the Brigend, Jenny turns rapidly towards the hills.
And something of growing gravity, almost awe, is on Jenny’s face. “Eh, puir callant, he’s young to take fareweel o’ this life. Weel, laddie, mony’s the time Jenny’s grutten for ye; and maybe it’s best, after a’, if ane could but think sae.” These lamentations fall like so many tears on Jenny’s way—and she is rapidly climbing the brae, as she utters them, towards the house of Crofthill.
It is a wintery autumn afternoon—so dull, that the potato-gatherers in the fields are chilled into silence, and the ploughmen scarcely can whistle into the heavy atmosphere, which droops upon them laden with unfallen rain. The paths of the little triangular garden of Crofthill are choked with masses of brown leaves, fallen from the trees, which sway their thin remaining foliage drearily, hanging lank from the crest of the hill. The goodman is thrashing to-day; you can hear the heavy tramp of the horses, the swing of the primitive machine; it is almost the only sound that breaks the silence of the place.
Nay, listen—there is another sound; a slow monotonous voice, wont to excite in Jenny certain sentiments the reverse of peaceable. The kitchen dooris open, a great umbrella rests against the lintel, and Miss Janet’s tall figure is just visible in a gown not much unlike Jenny’s own, standing before the fire listening, as Jenny, arrested at the threshold, must be content to listen too.
“Na; I can do nae mair than tell what’s true; I canna gie folk the judgment to put trust in me. I’m no ane that meddles wi’ ither folk’s concerns—but I thocht it right ye should ken—I’m no saying whether it’s in the flesh or the spirit—that Randall Home was seen upon the Kirklands road last night.”
“But I tell ye, woman, it couldna be our Randy—it couldna be my bairn,” exclaimed Miss Janet in great distress. “Do you think Crofthill’s son would ca’ upon the like o’ you, and no come hame? It’s been some English lad, that’s spoken grand, like Randall; and how was you to ken to look at his presence, that never ane had like him? Na, it wasna our son.”
“Presence or no presence, I mind him weel,” said Nelly, emphatically. “I wouldna think, mysel, an appearance or a wraith could hae grippit thae weans, and kent the road sae weel to carry them hame—no to say that spirits would hae little patience, as I think, wi’ barley scones, when they canna partake themsels; and I tried him about the Burnside family, and Crofthill as weel; and I saw his een louping wi’ passion and he scarce gae me thanks for my charity. It’s an awfu’ thing to see as I do ilka day—and I canna think but what it’s just because I’m sae peaceable mysel that a’body flees into raptures wi’ me. But I just ken this—I saw Randall Home.”
Miss Janet turned round to wring her hands unseen. She was very much troubled and shaken, and turning, met, to her dismay, the keen inquisitive face of Jenny. With a little start and cry, Miss Janet turned again to dash some tears off her cheek. Then she addressed the new-comer in a trembling voice. “Ye’ll have heard her story—your house is on the same road—have ye seen onything like this?”
“I wouldna put a moment’s faith in her—no me!” said Jenny, promptly. “It’s a dull day to her when she disna put somebody in trouble; and its just because there’s no a single mischief to the fore in Kirklands that she’s come to put her malice on you. Put strife amang neibors, woman—naebody can do’t sae weel; but what would ye come here for to frighten honest folk in their ain houses?”
“For every friendly word I say, I aye get twa ill words back,” said Nelly meekly, with a sigh of injury. “But it’s weel kent the spirit that’s in Burnside Jenny, and I wouldna take notice, for my pairt, o’ what the like o’ her might say; but I cannahelp aye being concerned for what happens to Crofthill, minding the connection; and if I didna see Randall Home’s face, and hear Randall Home’s tongue, in the dark at my ain door yestreen I never saw mortal man. If he’s in the flesh, I wouldna say but he was hiding for some ill-doing—for you may be sure he didna want me to see his face, kenning me for far sight langsyne; and if it was an appearance, I’ll no gie you muckle hope o’ his state, for the awsome passion he got in, though he never said a word to me; and, as I said before, I can tell you what’s true, but I canna gie ye faith to believe—sae I’ll bid ye guid-day, Miss Janet; and ye’ll just see if ye dinna think mair o’ what I’ve said, afore you’re a day aulder—you and the auld man too.”
Slowly Nelly took her departure, Miss Janet looking on like one stupefied. As the unwelcome visitor disappeared, Miss Janet sank into a chair, and again wrung her hands; but looking up with sudden fright to perceive Jenny’s elaborate dress, and look of mystery, hastily exclaimed, “Jenny, woman—it’s no but what you’re aye welcome,—but what’s brought you here the day?”
“I cam o’ my ain will; naebody kens,” said Jenny abruptly.
“But ye maun have come wi’ an errand—I’m no feared to greet before you, Jenny,” said Miss Janet, with humility. “Oh, woman, tell me—do you ken onything o’ my bairn?”
“Me! what should I ken?” said Jenny, turning her face away. “You’ll have gotten word? Nae doubt, being grand at the writing, he aye sends letters. What gars ye ask the like o’ me?”
Miss Janet caught her visitor’s hand, and turned her face towards the light with a terrified cry, “You may tell me—I ken ye’ve seen him as weel.”
Jenny resisted for some time, keeping her head averted. At length, when she could struggle no longer, she fell into a little burst of sobbing. “I never would have telled ye. I didna come to make you desolate—but I canna tell a lee. I saw him in the dark last night, just ae moment, glancing in at the window—and when I gaed to the door, he was gane.”
Half an hour after, very drearily Jenny took her way down the hill—and looking back as the early twilight began to darken on her path, she saw Miss Janet’s wistful face commanding the way. The twilight came down heavily—the clouds dipt upon the hill—drizzling rains began to fall, carrying downwith them light dropping showers of half-detached and dying leaves—but still Miss Janet leaned upon the dyke, and turned her anxious eyes to the hilly footpath, watching, with many a sob and shiver, for Randall—in the flesh or in the spirit. Surely, if he revealed himself to strangers, he might come to her.
Afterthis there fell some very still and quiet days upon Mrs Laurie’s cottage. Every thing went on languidly; there was no heart to the work which Menie touched with dreamy fingers; there was something subdued and spiritless in her mother’s looks and movements; and even Jenny’s foot rang less briskly upon her earthen floor. They did not know what ailed them, nor what it was they looked for; but with a brooding stillness of expectation, they waited for something, if it were tempest, earthquake, or only a new glow of sunshine out of the kindly skies.
Was it a spirit? Asking so often, you make your cheek pale, Menie Laurie; you make your eyelids droop heavy and leaden over your dim eyes. Few people come here to break the solitude, and we all dwell with our own thoughts, through these still days, alone.
“Menie, you are injuring yourself; we will take along walk, and see some people to-day,” said Mrs Laurie. “Come, it is quite mild—it will do us both good; we will go to the manse to see Miss Johnston, and then to Woodlands and Burnside. Put up your papers—we will take a holiday to-day.”
Menie’s heavy eyes said faintly that she cared nothing about Miss Johnston, about Woodlands or Burnside; but Menie put aside her papers slowly, and prepared for the walk. They went out together, not saying much, though each sought out, with labour and difficulty, something to say. “I wonder what ails us?” said Menie, with a sigh. Her mother made no answer. It was not easy to tell; and speaking of it would do more harm than good.
A hazy day—the sky one faint unvaried colour, enveloped in a uniform livery of cloud; a faint white mist spread upon the hills; small invisible rain in the air, and the withered leaves heavily falling down upon the sodden soil.
“This will not raise our spirits, mother,” said Menie, with a faint smile; “better within doors, and at work, on a day like this.”
But why, with such a start and tremble, do you hear those steps upon the path? Why be struck with such wild curiosity about them, although you would not turn your head for a king’s ransom? Anybody may be coming—the shepherd’s wife fromWhinnyrig yonder, the poor crofter from the edge of the peat-moss, or little Jessie’s mother bound for the universal rural shop at the Brigend. We are drawing near to the Brigend—already the aromatic flavour of the peats warms the chill air with word of household fires, and we see smoke rise beyond the ash trees—the smoke of our old family home, the kind hearth of Burnside.
Hush! whether it were hope or fear, is no matter; the steps have ceased; vain this breathless listening to hear them again; go on through the ash trees, Menie Laurie—on through the simple gateway of this humble rural world. By the fireside—in the cottage—with such simple joy as friendly words and voices of children can give you—this is your life.
And only one—only one—this your mother—to watch your looks and gestures—the falling and the rising of your tired heart. Wistful eyes she turns upon you—tender cares. Look up to repay her, Menie; smile for her comfort; you are all that remains to her, and she is all that remains to you.
Look up; see how solemnly the ash trees lift their old bleached arms to heaven. Look up, Menie Laurie; but here, at our very ear, these bewildering steps again!
Do not shrink; here has come the ordeal you have looked for many a day. Well said your propheticheart, that it drew near in the hush and silence of this fated time. They stand there, arched and canopied, under these familiar trees, the hamlet’s quiet houses receding behind them—Burnside yonder, the limit of the scene, and the burn, the kindly country voice, singing a quiet measure to keep them calm. An old man and a young, learned with experiences of life: the elder, fresh and noble, daring to meet the world with open face, aware of all the greatest truths and mysteries of the wonderful existence which we call common life, but nothing more; the younger trained in a more painful school, with his lesson of self-forgetting newly conned, with knowledge sadder than his father’s, with a heart and conscience quivering still with self-inflicted wounds—they stand there bareheaded under the cloudy sky—not with the salutation of common respect, which might permit them to pass on. A courtly natural grace about them both, makes their attitude all the more remarkable. With blanched cheeks and failing eyes, Menie Laurie’s face droops; she dares not look up, but waits, trembling so greatly that she can scarcely stand, for what has to be said.
Mrs Laurie, with a sudden impulse of protection, draws her child’s arm within her own—moves forward steadily, all her pride of mother and of woman coming to her aid; bows to her right hand and herleft; says she is glad to see that this is really Mr Randall, and not the wraith her simple Jenny had supposed; and, speaking thus in a voice which is but a murmur of inarticulate sound to Menie, bows again, and would pass on.
But John Home of Crofthill lays his hand upon her sleeve. “You and me have no outcast to settle. Leave the bairns to themselves.”
With a startled glance Mrs Laurie looks round her, at the old man’s face of anxious friendliness, at the deep flush on Randall’s brow, and at her own Menie’s drooping head. “Shall I leave you, Menie?” Menie makes no answer—as pale and as cold as marble, with a giddy pain in her forehead, unable to raise her swimming eyes—but she makes a great effort to support herself, as her mother gradually looses her hand from her arm.
Passive, silent, her whole mind absorbed with the pain it takes to keep herself erect, and guide her faltering steps along the road; but Randall is by Menie’s side once more.
Father and mother have gone on, back towards the cottage; silently, without a word, these parted hearts follow them side by side. If she had any power left but what is wanted for her own support, she would wonder why Randall does not speak. She does wonder, indeed, faintly, even through her pain. Withdowncast eyes like hers, he walks beside her, through this chill dewy air, between these rustling hedges, in a conscious silence, which every moment becomes more overpowering, more strange.
“Menie!” With a sudden start she acknowledges her name; but there is nothing more.
“I said, when we parted, that you were disloyal to me and to Nature,” said Randall, after another pause. “Menie, I have learned many a thing since then. It was I that was disloyal to Nature—but never to you.”
Still no answer; this giddiness grows upon her, though she does not miss a syllable of what he says.
“There is no question between us—none that does not fade like a vapour before the sunlight I see. Menie, can you trust me again?”
She cannot answer—she can do nothing but falter and stumble upon this darkening road. It grows like night to her. What is this she leans upon—the arm of Randall Home?
Miss Janet sits in her shawl of state in Jenny’s kitchen—very curious and full of anxiety. “Eh, woman, such a sair heart I had,” said Miss Janet, “when wha should come, as fast up the road as if he kent I was watching, but my ain bairn? He hasna been hame since July’s wedding; ye wouldna think it o’ a grand lad like our Randall, and him saeclever, and sae muckle thocht o’ in the world—but when he gaed owre his father’s door-stane again, the puir laddie grat like a bairn. Will you look if they’re coming, Jenny—nae word o’ them? Eh, woman, what can make Miss Menie sae ill at the like o’ him?”
“The like o’ him’s nae such great things,” said Jenny, with a little snort. “I wouldna say but what Miss Menie has had far better in her offer. She’s a self-willed thing—she’ll no take Jenny’s word; but weel I wat, if she askit me——”
“Whisht, you’re no to say a word,” cried Miss Janet, coming in from the door. “I see them on the road—I see them coming hame. Jenny, you’re no to speak. Miss Menie and my Randall, they’re ae heart ance mair.”
And so it was—one heart, but not a heart at ease; the love-renewed still owned a pang of terror. But day after day came out of the softening heavens—hour after hour preached and expounded of the mellowed nature—the soul which had learned to forget itself; other pictures rose under Menie’s fingers—faces which looked you bravely in the face—eyes that forgot to doubt and criticise. The clouds cleared from her firmament in gusts and rapid evolutions, as before these brisk October winds. One fear followed another, falling like the autumn leaves; a warmeratmosphere crept into the cottage, a brighter sunshine filled its homely rooms. Day by day, advancing steadily, the son drew farther in, to his domestic place. The mother gave her welcome heartily; the daughter, saying nothing, felt the more; and no one said a word of grumbling, save perverse Jenny, who wept with joy the while, when another year and another life lighted up into natural gladness the sweet harmonious quiet of Menie Laurie’s heart.
THE END.PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.