IT HAS OFTEN come into my head that, seeing the threads of Providence have many times a semblance of ravelling, it would be for edification to trace out one here and one there, that folk might see how well woven the web was, into which the Almighty’s hand had run them. I doubt not the world will think me bold, being but a quiet woman of discreet years and small riches, in having such an imagination as that it could be the better of hearing the like of my homely story; nevertheless, seeing there are many young folk who are but beginning for their own hand, and know not what may befall them, I think it is right to set down here what has come to pass in my corner of this great earth, and within my own knowledge.
It is a troublous water — the water of life, and it has often given me a sore heart to see young things launched upon it, like bairn’s boats, sailing hither and thither in an unpurpose-like manner, and having no thought of who it is that sends both the lown wind and the storm; and if they have need of various instruments and a right pilot-man to guide ships over that constant uncertainty, the sea (as I have read in books), I think not but there is far greater need of all manner of helps to win safely through that greater uncertainty — life. Uncertainty I call it, looking at it as the young folk I have mentioned do, with the short-sighted vision of a frail mortal; and though we know that to One Eye there is in it no matter of dubiety, yet I will not therefore change my word, for that is too great a thing for the like of me, seeing I profess to nothing but a common share of understanding, to make or meddle with.
I mind well when I was in years little above a bairn, of lying on the grass in a park near the Manse (for my father had a glebe of fine land, the like of which, I have heard, was hardly in the parish), looking at the white clouds sailing upon the sky, and thinking no mortal could be happier if I might but have abode there; but it aye so happened that my seam was lying waiting for me in the Manse parlour, or the unlearned lesson compelled me to go in; and when in the summer nights I had a while to myself, there ever came in something to hinder me of my pleasure, for, either the sky was overcast, or the grass was damp, or my brother Claud drew me into more stirring plays, it being little in the nature of a blythe boy to bide quiet, and look at the sky — that I should speak of him so! that is a man with grey hairs upon his head, and a father in the Kirk; but the years steal by us fast, and folk forget.
My father was Minister of the parish of Pasturelands; a pleasant country place, where there was neither stir nor bustle, but a quiet kirk to preach in, and a godly congregation to minister to. My father was a man of bye-ordinary mildness, and just in an uncommon manner fitted for his charge. His session also were douce, grave, elderly men, who had a perception when to draw the rein tight and when to let it slacken, and of the folk themselves I have often heard the minister, my father, say, that among them there were fewer of the dross, and more of the salt of the earth, than is to be found often in this weary and wicked generation. They were mostly farmers and farm servants, with a sprinkling of country tradesmen, and here and there a Laird and a Laird’s family, with lady daughters brought up in Edinburgh, and bringing their fine garments to put foolish notions of pride and gentility into many a young head, no excepting my own; for I was just like my neighbours, and thought much of the shining vanity of apparel, the purple and fine linen of the world.
I thought not I could have gotten on so far without speaking of my mother. Truly she was of a most uncommon spirit, being more like a lanthorn holding a great light than any other thing; for she was gifted with a mind that drew others to it, as the loadstone that bairns play with draws the needle; but woes me! the mortal habitation thereof was weak, and easy wearied. I never mind of her being strong; but I mind well at the different occasions when my father had brethren from various parts helping him, how they would slip out of the study into the parlour, and get a chair near the sofa on which my mother commonly abode, seeing she was not able to go about much even in the house. We had few visitors except the ministers; but whosoever came, they aye drew to my mother, and the fame of her was over all the country-side, though she was ever a most quiet woman, abiding for a constancy within her own house.
My brother Claud and me were the only ones left out of a flock, and while the folk said that I bore her outward resemblance, it was an undoubted thing that Claud had the features of her mind. There was a mildness in my father’s voice that might have moved the most hardened, when he spoke to them in the words of the tender-hearted Apostle John, of Him that was made flesh, and dwelt amongst us. But when Claud lifted his head in the pulpit, and preached his first sermon on the grand text, “Who is He that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah?” there was a glance from below his brow that shot into your heart I had near said it was a proud day for us, that day that Claud preached his first sermon, and truly it is not to be denied that carnal pride is ill to mortify, but without doubt it was a day of gratitude and thanksgiving.
Many had been the prayers, and much the anxiety in the Manse, when he went forth from amongst us, a simple boy, to stand by himself, and meet the temptations of that great and wicked city Edinburgh, the very distant sound of which is enough to put folk in mind of the roar of him that goeth about like a lion, seeking whom he may devour. I mind how my mother and me used to look at him when he came home in the spring, for fear there should be any change; and I will never forget how my godly father wrestled in supplication, that the Almighty would be a wall of fire about the lad, keeping him from evil: but that day (I wonder if Claud minds it as I do) our anxiety was calmed with a measure of sure confidence, and of trust, in Him that had brought us hitherto, and keeped us in His way.
My mother was sitting in the corner of the pew, feared to look up at first; my father sat at the door with his face (I ever thought him like the beloved Apostle, but never more than on that day) turned steadfast to the pulpit; and I cowered in between them, whiles taking a glance round the kirk to see bow folk attended, and whiles venturing to look up to where my one brother stood up in his young prime, and preached the everlasting Word to the folk that had known him all his days. It might be called sinful pride. I know not, but they would have had strange hearts that said so, after hearing as I did my father’s thanksgiving at our evening exercise, and seeing my mother lift up her white face (for she was spent with trouble), and take into her own hand the hand of her one son, and say, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.” Truly it was a blessed night, that, to us — the happiest that had been in the Manse of Pasturelands for many a day!
The beginning of my own life, I need not to dwell on particularly. When I was twelve years old, I finished a sampler which had no equal in the parish, nor near hand it, the which I have now framed in a frame made for it by James Rule, the joiner, of Burrowstoun. And before that, I mind not anything past the common, seeing that I just learned my lesson, and sewed my seam like other bairns, though it is Claud’s word (and doubtless it behoves folk to believe the minister), that my gifts at that time lay more in the way of the idleness of play than any serious avocation.
I mind also that I was set to learn Latin at that season of my life, to encourage Claud, but I am no able to say that I ever had any natural inclination to win into the sepulchre of that dead language, in consequence whereof I never got far on. When I was sixteen, I was sent for a while into Edinburgh, to board with a Miss Scrymgeour, a discreet gentlewoman, who keeped a genteel school for young ladies, to learn divers things that were thought needful in those days, and also how to behave myself in polite society.
Doubtless there are aye changes in manners as well as in folk, and I have never had much troke with strangers. Nevertheless, I am bound to say, that I aye found the breeding of the Manse of Pasturelands to serve me better than what I got in the school at Edinburgh.
And truly if I was going into all that came to pass in the next four or five years of my life, I might soon fill up a printed book; but though I have now gotten into years, and folk may think me past feeling old stounds, yet there are some of these byegone days that I am no able to write about. Doubtless there are great blessings in the season of youth, but also there are sore tribulations; and seeing it was never my will to set my sorrow in the eye of any mortal but my own self, it is not like that I should write it down here, to be read by folk who never heard tell of me before. The hand of Providence is aye kind, howsoever it may whiles smite.
That season was bye when the first of our great family afflictions came upon us — that was the taking up of my father into his Master’s house. It was a strange thing to the eyes of many, that he, a man no far past his prime, and with his natural force little abated, should be taken home before my mother, who had for years held a loose grip of the world, and seemed to be aye waiting for the summons; but so it was. It was a sore time, that, in the Manse, and also in the parish of Pasturelands, and I wonder at myself now that I can speak about it so quietly. A year or two before he was gathered to his fathers, Claud had been ordained assistant and successor, so when the funeral was past, (and from the Earl himself, down to Reuben Reid, the west country probationer, that keeped the school at Sedgie Burn, there was scarce a man in the parish but came to it), we just abode still in the Manse. I think not that my mother (as the common word is) ever held up her head right again — though by reason of having a sure confidence that he for whom we made our lamentation, had entered into his Master’s presence with joy and with rejoicing, and been acknowledged before the Father and the holy angels, according to the promise — and also by reason of having a most healthful and well-conditioned spirit, there came again, in time, a measure of sober cheerfulness into her heart and demeanour, and into our household.
It might be about a year after that, when we began to discover that Claud’s pony had a particular gift of trotting to Bourtree, and indeed when it was brought out to the Manse door, would scarce ever (for it was a most sensible beast) turn its head to any other airt. And also, bye and bye, we found out that Claud himself looked down into the seat of the Bourtree family on the Sabbath days, in an uncommon manner, and that Mary Elder, instead of looking straight up at the minister the time of the sermon, as she should have done, hung down her head, and played with her Bible — the which were signs and tokens to us of something coming, for which it behoved us to make preparations. And so it came to pass, for in the autumn of the second year after my father departed, Mary Elder of Bourtree came home to the Manse, to the contentment of all who were concerned, seeing she was of a most pleasant nature, though maybe scarce so douce as a minister’s wife needs to be; but that is a thing I am never feared for in a young thing of a sensible and discerning spirit. It aye comes in time, and truly I know not who should be so blythe as them that have both a pleasant heritage here, and the same sure hope of a pleasanter and better when their day in this world is done.
We had often been advised to change from Pasturelands for a while, for the sake of my mother’s health, and now, seeing the servant-maids that had aye been used with my mother and me, might not have given Mary her right place as long as we were in the house, and she was not the one to take it, we made up our minds to flit into a house of our own. Doubtless Claud and Mary were very sweard to let us away; nevertheless, seeing that it was right, (for one habitation should ever have but one mistress,) we abode by our resolve. My mother had some bits of possessions near to Burrowstoun, the yearly rents of which made a good and pleasant addition to our income, and, indeed, would of themselves have been enough for us, seeing we ever lived in a most quiet manner, and were little in the way of spending siller. Also, there was a house just of a right size for the like of us, with a fine garden round it, and a view of the town from its windows, that was just uncommon for cheeriness. When we were bairns, Claud and me, we aye had a great liking to Sunnyside, and it so happened that the old gentlewoman that lived in it (she was well born, but no way rich, and sat under an easy rental,) had departed this life no long before, and left the house empty; whereupon we made up our minds to establish our tabernacle there.
It was a dull autumn morning when we left our old home, my mother, and me, and Jenny our maid, and flitted into our new one, and the dowie falling of the leaves that bade us farewell at Pasturelands, and the dear chirp of the robin redbreast that welcomed us to Sunnyside, were just like a publishing of our feelings; for though, doubtless, it was a sad thing to leave the Manse, the which had been a peaceful and pleasant dwelling-place to us all our days, yet it was with a measure of quiet and cheerful composedness that we entered upon our new habitation, seeing that there also the blessing that maketh rich, and addeth no sorrow, might come from the full hand of the Almighty, and dwell upon us. I had got my father’s picture hung upon the easter wall in a good light, and also divers of the old furniture from Pasturelands, the oaken book-case, and things of the like age and value, that could go back to Claud’s family when we were done with them, for, as was but natural, the Manse had been in a manner new furnished, in preparation for Mary coming home.
Jenny, our maid, was a lass of wonderful spirit, and a most eident nature, and had wrought in just an uncommon manner to have the house right and home-like when we came, in the which she succeeded well, so that I thought my mother scarce minded whiles that we had really flitted from the Manse. It was well named Sunnyside, that new house of ours, for there was scarce an hour in the day but what in some part or other the sun was shining upon it. There were just enough trees to be a shade, and not so many but what you could see through them (for the thorn hedge was not near so high or so thick then as it is now) whiles a band of playing bairns, or town-wives, or, in the evening, the young folk at their walks, the which was one of the pleasantest sights of all.
We had a peaceful and a happy time of it there in Sunnyside, while my mother abode in this world — for we were ever of one heart and of one mind, and there is no fellowship that can be in the flesh, like the fellowship of a mother and her only daughter. But woes me, for our mortal blessedness! we had been so long used to my mother’s weakness, Claud and me, that we thought not how surely and speedily it was compassing her end; but at last, in the pleasant season of spring, three or four years after we went to Sunnyside, it grew so dear, that we could neither doubt nor hope longer, for we saw her gliding away out from the midst of us, like as a mist wreath glides from a hill-side at the rising of the sun.
It was a solemn spring, and a heavy summer to me. We had aye had a reverence for her very weakness, and it seemed in that time as if she stood, like the man in the picture that the Pilgrim saw in the Interpreter’s house, with a crown of gold banging over her head, and the world behind her back; and oh! that she could have pleaded with men, for truly I never mind of hearing as powerful words as fell from her thin white lips, when the breath was sighing away. It was a dreary house when she departed, for the four walls of Sunnyside held a heart like to burst, and many a weary day did I wander about through the house, sick and pining, and thinking every moment that I heard her foot, or her voice crying upon me. But doubtless it is ordained that quietness should come, and it was but myself I had to lament for, and no for her, seeing she also had entered into the Kingdom. Neither did He that took her away leave me without comforters, for besides Jenny, my maid, that (in her degree) was aye labouring to win me out of my sore tribulation, there was Claud, my brother, and Mary (and truly to him, and scarce less to her, it was a most heavy dispensation) that never wearied in ministering to my affliction.
There had two bairns come home to the Manse by that time; and whiles they were sent to me, and when they began to go trotting about the house, my old spirit was roused in a measure within me, for the boy Claud bore a look of my mother, and spoke words with his bit lisping tongue that minded me of hers; and the bairn Mary came creeping into my bosom with her mother’s kindly eye and smile, and I was comforted.
I had a friend in Edinburgh, a Mrs. Standright, whose husband had been licensed, and was a probationer of the Kirk; but bang rather stiff and dry in the pulpit, and a great slave to the paper, and being, besides, a man of a conscientious spirit, who would not be intruded into any Kirk by reason of a presentation, without a hearty and Christian call (the which no congregation was ever stirred up to give him), he had wisely sought a way of being useful without striving to exercise gifts, upon the which Nature had put her tether. So he held a place in Edinburgh, of which I know not the name, but his duties were to have the supervision of many things connected with the whole Kirk, that needed to be in careful keeping, and were over much for the burdened hands of a placed minister. I have seen printed letters many a time lying on the study-table in the Manse, signed with his name, “Gavin Standright and any bit collection that they made in Pasturelands was ever sent to him.
So, as I was saying, Mrs. Standright and me were acquainted. When I was dwelling with Miss Scrymgeour, she came to the school there, and, as is commonly the case, when folk are friends in the blythe and aefauld season of youth, the kindness continued all our lives long. She was in the neighbourhood of Burrowstoun at the time I met with my great tribulation (for she had many friends through the country, and having no bairns, went about a good deal); and truly, she was uncommon kind, coming to see me often, and trying to comfort me, (doubtless I was often sick at heart, and was sore pained with company, but it was aye kindly meant, and folk should take the will for the deed). So it happened a good while after my mother was taken away (indeed it was years, but I mind not at this present time how many of them); when I was calmed and composed in my own spirit, I got a letter from her, in which, after speaking much of my loneliness at Sunnyside, she said, she was going to propose something to me, and that was no less than taking charge of a lady that was not right in her mind. Mrs. Standright did not say that plainly, but she hinted just, that this Miss — (I have forgotten her name, and it makes little matter) needed to be well looked after, and had whiles strange humours — the which I understood to mean that she had not the right use of her senses.
I was in a manner taken by surprise, and knew not what to think; but after reading the letter over again, and deliberating in my own mind, both that it might be a relief to me to have something of that nature to take up my mind, and also that it might be a task too great for me, seeing I was not so strong as I had been, I thought I would just step ben to the kitchen, and consult with Jenny, my maid, — for Jenny, like myself, had come to ripe years, and had a judgment that I could rely on. Jenny was throng when I went ben, washing the best china tea-things — for Mary, my sister, and Mrs. Elder of Bourtree, and Mrs. Blythe of the Meadows, (James Elder, Mary’s brother, and Mr. Blythe, were married upon sisters) had been down at Sunnyside the night before, with some of the bairns, and had taken a cup of tea with me.
“Jenny,” said I, “I have gotten a letter from Mrs. Standright, and there’s something in it I want to consult you about.” So I read to her that bit of the letter.
Jenny did not speak for a while after I was done, but began building up the cups and saucers upon the little tray (for she was done with washing them) till I was feared they would all be broken; but just as I was going to bid her take care, she turned round about upon me. “A daft leddy!” said Jenny; “and I wad like to ken, Miss Marget, wha wad mint at sending a daft leddy to Sunnyside.”
“It was Mrs. Standright, Jenny,” said I; “and I am no sure but we might do worse than take her.”
Jenny shook her head. “At no hand, Miss Marget. A camstarie daft woman in your peaceable habitation I and they’re a’ camstarie — and this ane in especial, I’se warrant, seeing she’s a leddy, and the like o’ them, wise or wad, maun aye hae their ain pleasure: I’m saying, at no hand, Miss Marget, an’ ye wad hae ony guid o’ your life.”
“Well, Jenny,” said I, “doubtless it might turn out too great a handful; but then, Mrs. Standright would never have written to me about it, if the poor lady had not been quiet and biddable.”
“And her speaks o’ humours, Miss Marget!” said Jenny, “the which are unchaury things in wise folk, let alane daft. Keep me! they say the like o’ them have the strength o’ three men, and us dwalling our leelane, and no a mortal near hand till ye come to Judon Waters’s public, and its at the fit o’ the brae; and afore ane got that length — and it’s in no manner creditable to hae ony troke wi’ a public — there’s nae saying what ill micht be dune. Na, Miss Marget, neither the Mistress nor the Minister would hear tell o’t, I’se undertake for them. If it had been a bit bonnie genty wean, like wee Miss Mary — but a daft leddy!”
So, being mostly of Jenny’s mind myself, and after we had some more converse respecting the matter, I went ben and straightway wrote to Mrs. Standright, saying that I could not undertake for the daft lady, but I might take care of a bairn; so what followed upon that will be, in a great part, the subject of what is to be written in this book.