IT WAS A sad house for that day, and for many a day more, though, doubtless, when custom had used us to the want of the bairn, we were brought into a greater measure of patience than at first. No that we forgot her, but far the contrary. I was whiles feared that she was more to me than it was right for one mortal to be to another. We thought of her, and we prayed for her, and we dreamed about her, and the burden of our speech one to another was aye, “Grace, Grace.” We looked anxiously, as may be thought, Mary, and Jenny, and me, for her first letter, and just the second morning after she left us, I saw from the window, (for we were all watching) Saunders Lightfoot standing under the ash tree, low down upon the brae, and the little imp, his son Willie, careering up towards Sunnyside with something in his hand. It was my Grace’s letter, which the wild bairn had come up with, seeing he was swift of foot and a grand runner, while Saunders, his father, was but a pehgling slow body, and would have taken half-an-hour to climb the brae. So I broke the seal in a great hurry, and here is the letter: —
Edinburgh, 21st October.
“My dear Aunt, “I have just finished my first survey of the new world on whose threshold I am standing; its brilliant and cold externals, at least, from the magnificent river and country which I have been contemplating from my window, as enthusiastically almost as Fitz Eustace did, to the inmates of the drawingroom I have just left. Let me now proceed in proper order, however, in these my first impressions.
“The journey of yesterday was fatiguing, but had no annoyances peculiar to itself, only that the windows of the coach were almost superfluous things to me, and my own eyes the same. Mrs. Lennox’s maid behaved tolerably well, and I had the whole day to myself, to think over all that has been done and spoken at Sunnyside since my sentence of banishment was known, and behind my veil to indulge in a little quiet lamentation. It was late when we arrived in Edinburgh, and dark, and I only saw visions of passing tall houses, and an inhospitable sky, till the coach stopped.
“A carriage was in waiting for us, which we entered without delay, and I found, to my great astonishment, that my aunt’s maid became all at once very much more polite and attentive, which I accepted as a good omen. So, with gleams of light and tall shadows crossing us at every turn, we got at last to the house of Mrs. Lennox. How different from Sunnyside! Footmen to let us in, to show us up the broad staircase, but not a smile to meet me, not one upon whom I had even the cold claim of kindred to welcome me to the great dreary grand house, which, nevertheless, they will compel me to call home.
“‘Miss Maitland will have refreshments in her own room,” said my guardian, delivering me up to another waiting gentlewoman, who forthwith prepared to usher me to that sanctuary.
“‘But Mrs. Lennox,’ I said, in astonishment. ‘Has she been told?’
“‘Mrs. Lennox is engaged now, ma’am,’ said my fellow traveller, and will not fatigue you by waiting for her to-night, but tomorrow—’
“I turned away, and followed the other stranger, whom I find myself in the dignified position of calling “my maid” to my room, passing by the way a closed door from which came sounds of music and singing, and many voices, tokens, I suppose, of the engagement which prevented my kind relatives from taking any notice of me. We reached the room called mine at last, or rather the two, for the first we entered was a little dressing-room, the fireless grate and cold solitariness of which, brought to a climax the discomforts of the night. My guide, however, who is much younger and more prepossessing than the one who accompanied me from Sunnyside, called up another maid, who (albeit she did not do it in half so businesslike a manner as our own Jenny,) made a fire for my comfort and consolation, and then I got a lonely cup of tea, and then was left to myself, my maid bidding me ring when I wanted her.
“I will not venture to say, aunt, that my thoughts over that fire were of a very pleasant kind, but I remembered your commands, and steadfastly kept myself from either blaming, or anticipating the conduct of Mrs. Lennox. I sat ‘meditating,’ to use your own favourite word, for a long time, I do not know how long, and then, in perfect forgetfulness of my new dignity, lay down without thinking of my maid, a circumstance which, I daresay, will not be reported to my credit. This morning, however, I was encumbered and made awkward by her attendance, and being dressed as well as possible, proceeded to meet Mrs. Lennox.
“She has been a very fine-looking woman, and has still a majestic presence, but cold, cold as the marble she was leaning on when I made my humble appearance before her. She received me politely, made some slight inquiry about my journey, and presented me to her daughters, who were in the room, as their cousin, Miss Maitland. The youngest is about my own age, the other a year or two older, and both are like their mother, exceedingly handsome, with fine regular features, and an air about them which made me shrink back, and feel myself far littler and humbler and more insignificant than ever I did before.
“The morning has passed off moderately well; my cousins, though troubling themselves little with me, have a good deal of conversation with one another, the whole tone and manner of which is so new to me, that I have had some interest in listening.
“And now, aunt, have you missed poor Grace? Has Jenny ever set my chair beside you, or Mary laid down a Bible, forgetting that I was gone? I hope it is so. How I shall endure this life, I cannot tell; but what will I do, dear aunt, if you do not remember me at Sunnyside? I comfort myself, however, with the thought that that is not very likely. When there are so few of us, there is less chance of one being forgotten. If the Bourtree children had been Maitlands instead of Elders, I would not have been nearly so confident.
“This window, at which I am luxuriating, is almost worth suffering something for; but the Firth and the sunshine are alike so cold in their brightness, that I am inclined to shiver while I admire. I am just about to make a paction with my maid, Jessie Gray by name, who seems a rather conversible and simple girl, that I may have the liberty of dressing myself; and if Jessie should be shocked with my barbarous independence, I must just submit. Some time to-day I am to accompany my aunt out. If I could only see Claud!
“Bid Mary write long letters, and write to me yourself, aunt, as much as you can, and regularly. And to my sister Mary, and Jenny, and everybody in the Manse of Pasturelands, give for me far more affection and kind wishes than a letter could carry, and tell them not to forget me; and remember me always yourself, dear aunt, as
“Your most affectionate “GRACE MAITLAND.”
Truly, we were all greatly rejoiced at getting that first letter; not that there was much of a pleasant nature in it, but it was aye tidings; and the first words I heard, when we were done with it was Jenny crying out loud, “Blessings on her! to think o’ her minding how the like of me pat on a fire!”
So I bad Jenny go ben the house, and give the bairn Willie Lightfoot a jelly piece, seeing he well deserved it, having brought Grace’s letter so fast, the which Jenny was well pleased to do, for although he was an evil spirit of a bairn, it was wonderful how he was in favour with many douce folk.
And Mary and me had converse respecting the letter of our Grace.
Now I have before had occasion to say that Mary, my niece, being a bairn of a warm spirit, had a measure of jealousy respecting them (and truly, as Grace said, there were few of us) that were nearest to her, and liked not that any strange place should ever in any degree be likened to home. And I think not that Mary was greatly grieved that Grace was not like to think much of Edinburgh.
“Aunt,” she said to me, “how differently we would have welcomed Grace!”
“Doubtless, my dear,” said I, “it looked but a coldrife welcome — nevertheless, I have read in books that folk who are great in this world are wont to do so even with their best friends; and there might be a kindness in it also, as considering that our Grace was new come off a journey, and might be wearied and no fit to see strangers: but, Mary, you should aye mind that there is a great odds of manners, and what might become us well enough, might, maybe, no be right with the like of Mrs. Lennox.”
A bit red glow came over the face of my niece Mary, but seeing she was a good bairn, for all the bit sparks of impatience that were within her, she abode quiet awhile till the, prideful feeling was away, and then she said again in a serious way: —
“But, aunt, if Grace is not happy in Edinburgh, she can surely come back to us?”
“I am in no manner clear in my own mind concerning that matter, Mary,” said I; “but we must just bide awhile and see. It’s my hope, that bye and bye she will be well content, seeing she is among her own kin.”
“But I am sure she will not, aunt,” said Mary, with a burst that I was not looking for. “Grace will never be content there — away from home, never, I am sure, I — I do not wish—”
“Whisht, Mary,” said I: “it is a grief to me to see the like of these ill thoughts in your head. Whether Grace ever comes back or no (and truly it is my hope she will) it is our part to seek that she should be content, and have a pleasant home to dwell in; so go away like a good bairn and write your letter to her; for doubtless, it will aye be a comfort to Grace to have kindly word from what has been home to her hitherto.”
So Mary wrote a letter to Grace which, being but the outflowing of one bit innocent heart into another, I was well enough pleased with. Also, I added something to it myself which, being only in the way of counsel and encouragement to my dear bairn, is hardly worth writing down again here, and so the letter was sent away. Truly, I comforted my heart concerning Grace, with a hope that her kindred would turn out better than she thought them, and would deal tenderly with her, even as a bairn of her spirit needed to be dealt with.
So the days passed on in a quiet manner, and upon the Wednesday, Mary, my sister, came down from the Manse to see us, bringing with her a letter from Claud, wherein the young man said that, though he was vexed for Grace having left Sunnyside, he was yet blythe that he would see her in Edinburgh. I had a drither within myself, when I heard that; for the worldly estate of the two young things was like to be so different, and in all other ways — but truly that was in the hand of Providence and no in ours. I saw also by Mary, my sister, though she spoke not much of it, that she also had a feeling like to mine; and, moreover, a fear which savoured of pride, lest any worldly-minded body should cast up that her son was wanting the favour of Grace, because she would be rich in houses and lands and such like, the perishable treasures of this world; for Mary was herself come of a good house, and had a right ambition that Claud Maitland should bring no discredit upon his godly forbears on either side. She did not abide long at Sunnyside, it being out of the question that both her and the bairn Mary, my niece, should be out of the Manse at the same time; but in consideration of my solitariness, it was settled between us that the bairn should stay with me for three or four days longer.
Upon the Friday after that, (which made out the first week from the departure of my Grace) we noticed from the window, Mary and me, that there was some stir in the town more than ordinary, (for commonly Burrowstoun is a most quiet place); whereupon the bairn, being in a measure curious what it might be, as was but natural, went out to the gate to look down the brae. I also abode still at the window; no that I was heeding about the stir at the braefoot, for I have ever noticed that the Burrowstoun marvels are never more than just an opportunity for a moment’s idleset, but because it was pleasant to look upon the young thing, my niece Mary, standing at the outer gate, with the thin sprinkling of red autumn leaves that were still on the branches, drooping above her head. But when I turned my eyes down for a moment, I saw a gentleman riding up the brae, with little Willie Lightfoot running by the horse’s feet as though he was guiding him, and up they came together, nigh to Sunnyside. When Mary saw that, she turned about, as was right, no to be looking at the stranger, and him a young man, when to my wonder, Willie Lightfoot lifted up his voice and cried, “Miss Mary! Miss Mary! here’s a gentleman wantin the leddy,” whereupon the young gentleman came off his horse, and followed Maty in.
I marvelled to see a look upon the bairn’s face, as if she knew what the stranger’s errand was, and truly when I looked upon the young man himself, coming in behind her, I could not but he taken with him at once, for he had an open and blythe face, such as it was just a pleasure to see — forbye that I saw he was a thought bashful, and had a flush upon his countenance, which was not to be wondered at, seeing Mary and me were both standing waiting for him to speak.
“My name is Elphinstone, ma’am,” said the young man, and then he cleared his throat and gave a glint at Mary, and grew redder in the face than ever. “I have a commission from my mother, whom you formerly knew, Miss Maitland — Mrs. Elphinstone of Lilliesleaf.”
I was brought to myself with that in a moment. Mrs. Elphinstone of Liliesleaf was a lady who had been long away out of the countryside, having departed a new made widow, with one bairn, a while before my brother Claud was married, and I was blythe to hear of her return, and well pleased that she should mind me so well as to send her son ance errand to see me, for we had been warm friends in the days of our youth. So I told the young gentleman I was glad to see him, and bade him sit down, and as he did it I saw that Mary had gotten her seam again, and was set down to it with such disappointment in her innocent face as made me marvel. “This will be but a strange land to you, Mr. Elphinstone,” said I, when I had asked much for his mother, and had grown in a manner acquaint with him; “for you can mind little about even Lilliesleaf itself, seeing you had scarcely gotten to your own feet when you were taken away.”
The young man gave a cheery smile. “I have certainly more command of my goings and comings now,” he said; “but I am quite a stranger in my own country, Miss Maitland, almost in my own house, though the dark corners of Lilliesleaf are beginning to grow familiar now, when I have been a whole fortnight at home; but it is not so in feeling, I assure you: I am a true Scotsman in spite of my German education.”
“You have been in Germany than?” said I.
“Oh yes, for most of my life,” said our new friend. “I suppose my mother chose Mannheim, originally for economical reasons: we Elphinstones of Lilliesleaf were not the richest people in the world then, you know,” and the young man laughed in a frank and light-hearted way. “And of late my mother’s health has failed greatly, and we have tried many places in a vain attempt to improve it,” and with that a shadow fell upon the blythe young face again.
“It’s my hope the air of home will do her some good, Mr. Elphinstone,” said I, “for it is aye kindlier than a strange place.”
“I am flattering myself that it will,” said Mr. Elphinstone, “and that reminds me of my errand to-day, Miss Maitland, which was to beg you to come and see my mother as soon as you have leisure. She is very lonely and very weak, and Lilliesleaf, you know, must have painful associations. I hope you will honour my deputyship so far as to let me say what day we may expect the pleasure of seeing you.”
I was startled with that, for I neither expected an invitation to Lilliesleaf, nor was in the custom of going out any way to visit, except to the Manse, or maybe once in two or three years to a gathering at Bourtree, so I knew not well how to answer him.
“To-morrow?” said the young man.
“No,” I said, “it would not be right so near the Sabbath-day.”
“Monday?” said Mr. Elphinstone.
I looked over to Mary, that she might give me counsel, and so did he.
“There will be word from Grace on Monday, aunt,” said Mary, in a tone that was wonderful ungracious for her.
“And so there will, my dear,” said I. “Monday would not do then.”
“Then we will fix Tuesday,” said the young man. “Nay, Miss Maitland, take my counsel this time, instead of the young lady’s — you will come on Tuesday. But I will not undertake to say when my mother will let you return.”
“But Grace’s letters, aunt,” said Mary, in a low voice, as if she was feared I would forget.
“Indeed, Mary,” said I, “that is just what I was thinking about.”
“Now I call that too bad, Miss Mary,” said young Mr. Elphinstone, rising up from his seat and going nearer her, as if he had known her all her days, “it is not generous of you to lift so potent a voice against me. Let me be your counsellor this once, Miss Maitland, and as for letters, I shall ride down myself for them, if you will only not disappoint my mother.”
So it ended with me promising I would go, and the carriage was to be sent for me, and as much work made about me, as if I had been the first lady in the land.
“My mother indulges in many speculations, Miss Maitland,” said Mr. Elphinstone, “regarding the changes which must have been wrought in the neighbourhood since she left it. Births, deaths, marryings, and all these other interesting minutiae. I hear her mention your brother often — our minister in future, I believe.”
“My brother Claud is minister of the parish of Pasturelands,” said I, “as his father was before him. Your mother will mind him a young man, Mr. Elphinstone; but he has a son now, like what he was himself then, and this, my niece Mary, is his daughter.”
The young man had doubtless thought as much before, as I saw by the way he asked about the minister; but he rose up from his seat and bowed to her, the which politeness Mary only made answer to, by a little motion of her head. Truly I marvelled greatly within myself what could have stirred the bit evil and impatient spirit to get the better of the bairn. But young Mr. Elphinstone chanced to espy from the window that the little spirit, Willie Lightfoot, was causing his horse to gallop in an unchancy manner up and down the brae, whereupon the young gentleman departed from us, minding me that the carriage would be sent to Sunnyside for me on Tuesday.
“And Mary,” said I, when I was standing at the window, watching him turn along the high road to Pasturelands (for Lilliesleaf was in that parish), “what ailed you at the gallant young gentleman, that you took so little heed of him, and him so polite to you?”
Mary gave a glance up to me, as if she had a kind of perception that she was not in a right spirit.
“I wonder, aunt,” she said, in a quick way, “if Mr. Elphinstone thought an invitation to Lilliesleaf an honour to you.”
“Maybe other folk would, Mary,” said I, “whether he did or no; but truly I am feared I must be losing my own right vision, for I saw not anything like that in him. The frank, open-spirited young man! and was it your thought, Mary, that he had a haughty or prideful meaning towards us?”
Mary gave me no answer for a while, and then she said low and quiet, “I was so disappointed.”
“Disappointed, bairn?” said I, “and wherefore was you disappointed?”
The bit perturbation of the bairn’s spirit was floating away like mist. “It was very foolish, aunt,” said Mary to me, “only it just came into my head: I thought he was bringing some word from Grace. It was very unreasonable, but I was so much disappointed.”
“You are but a foolish bairn, Mary,” said I, “and if the young man had just been like yourself, in the way of worldly station, you might have hurt his feelings; and truly I will need to tell the minister if I see the like of that again.”
I had scarce got the words spoken, when Jenny came in with something in her hand, the which made Mary’s seam flee into the corner in little time. It was a letter from Grace. Two letters, I should say, for there was one to Mary besides mine, the which being written in a bantering way, as if the dear bairn was wanting to bring mirth even out of her troubles, I see little need for putting in here, for though it is my purpose to send forth this history into the world through the hands of them that make their bread by printing books, yet I think not it would be right to publish the innocent communings of the two bairns — but this is Grace’s letter to me: —
“My dear Aunt, “I have just laid down your most kind letter, and while its charm remains strongest, begin my own, that you may see me in my sunniest hour. I do not care for misinterpretation here, but if you began to think me morose and ill-conditioned, what should I do?
“I shall obey your command most scrupulously and tell you everything. I have all confidence, dear aunt, that you will counsel me in my difficulties and correct me in my blunders. I can promise you already that there shall be abundance of both.
“And now for my report. Sabbath morning rose coldly over us, most unlike the Sabbaths of Sunnyside; with no household worship to welcome it, and nothing to show that it was hallowed. We went to Church, my aunt, my cousin Madeline and I — to the Episcopal Church I mean; for that I should have any religious opinions of my own would appear supremely ridiculous in their eyes. And after listening to the long ritual, (I would not like to speak disrespectfully of anything that Christian people hold in high estimation, but to me it did seem very wearisome and lifeless), we heard an exceedingly excellent and evangelical sermon, to which my aunt and cousin gave the most graceful and listless half attention, while I listened with all my might. Strangely different as the circumstances were, I could almost have fancied, sometimes, that Mr. Maitland himself was the speaker.
“When the service concluded, and we were returning home, I ventured to ask who the preacher was, but save the important piece of information that he was of a good family, could ascertain nothing about him. I could hardly venture, however, to find fault with that, remembering that even yourself had so great a remainder of Scottish prejudice, as to like people better for being ‘well-born.’
“On Monday, I had the honour to accompany Mrs. Lennox to various shops; and, under her direction, made choice of a few articles of dress, very quiet and very plain, but of rich enough material, (see how faithful my record is). On the same evening, I had a conversation with, or rather was examined by, my aunt, on various points connected with my education. My cousin Harriet was seated at the piano, making her fingers spin over the keys, with a speed which astonished me, while I, albeit not very greatly delighted with the sweet sounds, stood looking vacantly on, in the painful weariness of having nothing to do. The thing came to a clattering conclusion at last, and my aunt spoke during the lull.
“‘Harriet, does your cousin play?’
“Harriet turned her head half round, and looked astonished.
“‘How should I know, Ma’am, I have never investigated the extent of my cousin’s accomplishments. Pray, Miss Maitland, do you play?’
“I answered, with a tremble, that I did a very little.
“Harriet smiled, and her mother said, coldly: ‘Be so good as to favour me, Miss Maitland, by letting me see how much.’
“Harriet rose with mischievous haste, and I, like a hero, (only a very tremulous and reluctant one) sat down to that abominable piano, — what I brought out of it I know not: I might have grown a very MacRimmon at that moment, if feeling had been all that was needful — but I was soon released. Harriet resumed her seat with an intelligent, half-mocking, half-compassionate glance, and Mrs. Lennox continued. ‘Ah, it is of little consequence: the natural taste is wanting, and that, of course, nothing can supply. Do you draw, Miss Maitland?’
“‘No, Madam,’ said I.
“‘And have no taste for that either, I presume,’ said Mrs. Lennox, drawing herself up. ‘You have a strange mind, young lady, for a Maitland; your father’s family have been always distinguished for their love of literature and art, but what can we expect, indeed, from the daughter of—’
“Mrs. Lennox stopped, and then slightly modifying her tone resumed:— ‘I suppose it is unnecessary to ask if you are acquainted with any of the languages.’
“You may imagine how I felt while undergoing this peremptory questioning, and how that last illusion ‘the daughter of—’ made the full cup overflow; but you have no idea, aunt, how meek I grow — so I answered: ‘I have some little acquaintance with French, Madam, though I cannot vouch for having sufficient taste to master the language perfectly; and of Latin I know more, having read a good deal with my kind friend, Mr. Maitland of Pasturelands.’
“‘With whom?’ said my aunt, and Harriet’s fingers stayed on the piano to listen. ‘Mr. Maitland of where?’
“I repeated our good father’s name, and his relationship to you, but dared not trust myself further, something not favourable to speech was swelling in my throat “My aunt smiled.
“‘So you are quite a learned lady, Miss Maitland, I find. Our poor accomplishments sink into insignificance before you. Such a pursuit as this for instance,’ and Mrs. Lennox laid her jewelled hand upon an embroidery frame, resplendent in rich colours, ‘would be altogether too frivolous for you, I imagine.’
“I am afraid I began to grow ill-natured.
“‘You have already demonstrated, Madam,’ I said, ‘that I have no taste. At Sunnyside such an accomplishment would have been useless to me — here, I would gladly attempt even that for an occupation.’
“‘Oh,’ cried my aunt, ‘your cousin is most gracious, Harriet — make your acknowlodgements. She would actually patronize our useless occupations.’
“I made no answer to that: Mrs. Lennox’s address to me has a degree of mere mean spitefulness in it, which does not seem to suit with her real character, and which is best answered, I think, by silence; but Harriet looked round in her usual half patronizing, half contemptuous way, and came to my rescue. ‘I shall show you my gratitude, cousin, by teaching you to be useless gracefully, if you can manage to have taste enough for that.’
“So, since that day, I have been entrusted with a piece of Harriet’s embroidery, pricking my dull fingers over it in stupid tediousness.
‘The daughter of — .’ Mrs. Lennox did not know how many old childish pains were set tingling by that word, nor how I begin to grope for the half remembered words of my old nurse, and put them together. Did you ever hear anything, dear aunt, about my mother?
“So now I must come to the formula of conclusion, kind love to everybody. Pasturelands and Sunnyside consecrate all their vicinity to me; but principally to all who bear our name, and dwell beneath the two roofs, on which I pray that all blessings may descend — and still more especially, my dear aunt, to yourself.
“GRACE MAITLAND.”
Truly I marvelled within myself that a lady who had bairns of her own could find it in her heart to speak in such a manner to a young thing of a pleasant nature like my Grace. And I was also troubled with the thought, that it was ill done to bring her up just in the same quiet manner as the bairn Mary, who was never like to be higher in this life than just maybe the estate of a plain single woman like myself, or a douce minister’s wife, like her mother before her. But it was aye a comfort to me, that the bairn had wanted no needful thing, but just them that were in a manner bonny dies, and could be done without; for truly, she had read many books, and had much knowledge of divers things, besides having in herself a dear and well-conditioned spirit. Likewise concerning the folk in Edinburgh, I was troubled, and saw not how the bairn could dwell among them, seeing that they were fremd in heart, if they were kin in blood.
I could not see that Mary was in any uncommon manner vexed that Grace was not like to be great friends with her cousins; but she was filled with great indignation, (having, as I have already found it needful to say, the spark of a hot and impatient spirit within her,) that any mortal should speak so to our Grace. So after we had communed much concerning the letters, she said to me: “Then you are sure to go to Lilliesleaf on Tuesday, aunt?”
“I think not that I can help myself, Mary,” said I, “for you young lad looks not like one that will stand resistance: so I will have to be a good bairn, and do what I am bidden. Also, doubtless, I have a desire to see Mrs Elphinstone, who knew my youth, Mary, even as Grace knows yours.”
Mary gave me a wondering look, as if she thought it was not possible. “Did you know her as well, aunt, as Grace and I know one another?”
“Maybe no quite, Mary,” said I, “but nearhand it; and my life had more stir in it then, and less quiet. Truly, it is but natural that I should like to see her; yet there will be a measure of pain in it too.”
“Then, aunt,” said Mary,”
“you would grieve to part with her, as I did to part with Grace?”
“Ay, Mary,” said I, “but I had other trials before, that made that look light. But marvel not so, Mary, my bairn; they are all long past and forgotten, and you have your letters to write to Grace.”