UPON THAT SAME day (being, as I have before said, a Friday) my niece Mary wrote an answer to the two letters which Grace had sent to us. And it so happened, that when Mary went ben the house for a light to seal her letter by (seeing I caused her to go herself, not to be fashing Jenny, and her in the midst of her work) my eye fell upon a bit which she had hidden beneath the folding, for fear I should see it. I think not that the bairn knows to this day, that I saw that bit postscript of hers; nevertheless, as Gracewrites about it in one of her letters, I will just put it down here, though it was touching my own self.
“Grace,” it said, “did you ever hear of my aunt having grief in her youth harder to bear than even our parting? You know we have heard hints of some story, which nobody would tell us plainly, and I never liked to ask my mother — something of sorrow and sacrifice on my aunt’s part, and sin in some other. I have often wondered about it What makes me mention it just now is, that when my aunt was speaking of Mrs. Elphinstone, though she was pleased to meet her again, she said there would be pain in it, too. Do you think, Grace, that my aunt can ever have been very unhappy?”
Woes me! but it is a strangely formed thing, that tenderest part of us, that we call the heart; for even when folk get up into years, and grow in a manner hardened to the adversities of the world, there are aye old stounds and byepast remembrances that strike up through it sorely, when no mortal eye can see. The innocent bairn! I had entered into my tribulations by the time I was her age — soon begun, soon done; and had I no reason to be thankful that Providence had ordained me so peaceful and content a life? But there is ever the natural turn for repining that starts up whiles, whether folk will or no.
But Grace’s letter was sent away, and Mary and me both began to make ourselves ready, her to go home, and me to go to Lilliesleaf. No that I had many preparations to make, except just putting in a new front breadth into my best black silk gown, and sewing on a hook or two that had come away, for I did not wear it often, seeing it was a richer fabric than was needful for common use, and flowered. I had had the silk laid bye for a good while, but had never put it to its right use, because I did not need the gown; but being now like to wear it, I took the new breadth out of the drawer, and soon had it done. So by the Saturday at e’en, I had all my bits of odd things finished, that I might have no such worldly and vain matters in my head upon the Sabbath day.
Early on the Monday morning, having occasion to look out at the window, I was greatly surprised to see young Mr. Elphinstone coming up the brae, and before I had gotten over my surprise, I heard him in blythe converse with Jenny at the door. So straightway he was beside us.
“Miss Maitland,” he said to me, after we had shaken hands with him, “I must supplicate you to let me have the entree to Sunnyside. I am growing so wild in my new freedom among these moors and woods, that I shall certainly go astray if you do not extend your hospitality to me. Lilliesleaf, you know, loses its magnetic power when I come as far over as Burrowstown. Two points of attraction will enable me to steer better. I shall always have one in my eye.”
“I will aye be very glad to see you, Mr. Elphinstone,” said I; “but doubtless you will soon find folk in the countryside more meet for company to you than an old wife like me,” for I had a kind of wonderment at the way the young man spoke, seeing that folk in our douce country are not wont to be so intimate with strangers just at once.
“You are looking grave though, Miss Maitland,” said young Mr. Elphinstone. “You are not quite sure about me, I see, but I have a very legitimate errand to-day. I ought to have brought my introductory note with me the first time I invaded Sunnyside, and my conscience would not excuse me for its non-deliverance — here it is — and if I come down upon you afterwards at all kinds of unlikely times, you will forgive me, will you not, for my mother’s sake?”
And with that, he brought out a little note and gave it to me, and looked into my face with a half mirthful, half pleading eye — the which made me that I could not but smile at him. So he went away smiling too, and stood at the window where Mary was sitting, leaving me to read my note; but as there was nothing of a particular nature in it, but only two or three kindly words, and something about her son, Allan, and a word at the end, minding me to be sure and come on Tuesday, I could hear well enough what the two were saying to one another.
“How these children gape!” said young Lilliesleaf; “curiosity looks the same all the world over. Were you ever in London, Miss Mary?”
No,” said Mary, with a marvelling look; and well might the bairn wonder; she had never been above thirty miles from home, all her days.
“In Edinburgh, then?” said Mr. Elphinstone.
“No,” said Mary.
“What I never in a town at all,” said the young man. “Then Pasturelands must have a large share of your affections. I was there yesterday, hearing, and to my great pleasure, making acquaintance with Mr. Maitland. Does your mother not grudge your residence at Sunnyside, Miss Mary?”
“Oh! it is only for so short a time,” said Mary. “I do not live at Sunnyside.”
“You don’t? Oh!” said young Mr. Elphinstone, leaning his head upon the window, and looking disappointed, though wherefore I could not tell. “I have been greatly mistaken — I am sorry—”
And with that he stopped, as if he thought he was going too far, and truly it seemed to me as if Mary thought so too, for there came a cloud upon her face.
“I see you think I am growing impertinent,” he said again. “Nay, I dare say you are perfectly right, Miss Mary; but I must crave your forbearance. I am sure no one could possibly have less purpose of offending than I.”
Mary gave a smile. “You must think I am very easily offended, Mr. Elphinstone,” she said.
“Well, we shall drop that, with your permission, Miss Mary,” said the young man, in his blythe way, “and resume our original subject. I suppose you have not much curiosity as to the great world that fumes and frets outside this quiet hermitage of yours — not the very least, Miss Mary?”
“Oh! yes,” said Mary, “I should like to see Edinburgh exceedingly. We do not want curiosity, though we are very quiet here; but Edinburgh has other attractions for us besides that.”
“Your brother is there?” said Mr. Elphinstone.
“Yes,” said Mary, “and more than my brother. Claud will come home by and bye; but Grace, poor Grace — but I forgot that you never saw Grace, Mr. Elphinstone.”
“Your sister?” said young Lilliesleaf.
“No,” said Mary, “but my dear friend and companion. If she had only been my sister! but now — poor Grace!” and the bairn stopped with a tremble in her voice.
“Miss Mary,” said young Elphinstone, bending down to her, and speaking low, “I believe I had better go away. I have hit upon a subject which distresses you now. I am most unfortunate. I suppose I had better go.”
But go Mr. Elphinstone did not, but stood still there, looking at Mary, and as grieved like as if the trouble, the very nature of which he knew not, was his own.
Mary looked up to him again with a smile.
“I need not be so very much grieved either,” she said, “for Grace will come back, I hope; but we have been together nearly all our lives, and it was very hard to part with her. Do you know, Mr. Elphinstone, when you came on Friday, I felt quite sure that you had come with some word from Grace.”
“So I began by disappointing you,” said young Mr. Elphinstone. “No wonder I have gone on blundering since. Where is your friend, Miss Mary? Shall I set off and bring you a letter to redeem myself?”
Mary gave a laugh at that. “Oh, Grace is in Edinburgh,” she said, “far away; a day’s journey. Aunt,” and she turned about to me, “Mr. Elphinstone is speaking of Grace.”
“So I hear, my dear,” said I; “and truly, I would not wonder if Mr. Elphinstone chanced to meet with Grace sooner than we are like to do. It may be that her aunt’s family are known to you already, Mr. Elphinstone.”
“What is the name?” said the young man.
“The name of my dear bairn is Grace Maitland,” said I; “but the name of her aunt is Lennox, and they are both, as I hear, of high station in the world. I have an anxiety to ask Mrs. Elphinstone about them, for I mind that, in our young days, your mother was much about Edinburgh, Mr. Elphinstone.”
The young lad gave a blythe and kindly smile.
“And these young days, Miss Maitland,” he said, “your presence will almost bring back to my mother. To feel herself in her old home, and to see her old friends, is a most rare and delightful luxury to her; and even I, colt as Miss Mary thinks me, am beginning to acknowledge to the full the advantages of an hereditary dwelling-place. I assure you it is a great comfort to feel, that whatever may be one’s own defects, these good folk about Lilliesleaf owe a certain degree of friendship and kindliness to the name. Miss Maitland! I beg you to notice the mischief which lurks in this young lady’s smile. Is it my humility or my philosophy that you laugh at, Miss Mary?”
“Whisht, Mr. Elphinstone,” said I; “if you take tent of the changes of a bairn’s countenance, truly your hands will be keeped full of work; but it’s my hope you will like Lilliesleaf for its own sake, as well as because it has been the house of your fathers for many generations.”
“I have no doubt I shall,” said the young gentleman, keeping aye a kind of watchful and smiling glance upon Mary. “I assure you I intend settling into the best-behaved country gentleman within twenty miles of Burrowstoun.”
“It is a very wise resolution,” said Mary.
“And so it is, Mr. Elphinstone,” said I; “and folk of that kind are sorely wanted in the countiyside.”
The young gentleman laughed at me taking his mirthful word in a grave manner, and so the converse went on, himself fleeing from one thing to another, whiles telling us about the far-away places he had been in, and whiles what it was his intent to do, now that he had gotten home. Truly, he seemed to me a young man of a most kindly and pleasant spirit, with much knowledge of divers kinds, and a light and mirthful heart, that had never yet come within the shadow of this world’s tribulations. Also, it was easy to see, by a word here and there, how careful and anxious he was about the delicate and invalid lady, his mother, at which I rejoiced in my own mind, for she had had her own share of trials.
I thought the young gentleman was never going away, and truly he lingered till I was wearied, and when he did go, he told me he would come himself with the carriage for me upon the next day, which was doubtless very kind of him.
“What a time he has been,” said I, when he was at last fairly out of the house. “I thought we were never to get him away.”
“Has he been so long, aunt?” said Mary, with a marvelling look. “Three o’clock! I did not think it was two yet.”
“You had not been taking count of the time, Mary,” said I, and indeed I thought it little wonder that the bairn should have found it pleasant to have converse with one that was of years and spirit like herself.
Upon the next morning, before it was far on, we heard the blythe chirrup of Robbie Telfer, who was the boy at the Manse, and the pony’s feet clattering on the gravel (for my brother Claud keeped a gig), and after the boy had gotten a piece, and the pony some provender, Mary and me parted, and she went away to her own home.
Truly I had a sore heaviness at my heart, when the bairn departed, although I myself was going away the same day, for the house had never looked so lone and desolate before, and being left for a while to myself, it was but natural that I should fall into a meditation concerning my bairn, Grace. It was a sore trial, for a young thing of a kindly nature to be placed so in the midst of a cold household of strangers; and I was like to fall into a disposition of carping and discontent, considering within my own mind how much better my Grace would have been, if the will of Providence had set her, as a bairn of the Manse, like Mary. But then I reflected, that I knew not what Mary’s weird might be, and that it was ill the part of the like of me, to take upon myself to judge of the ways of Providence, seeing that His hand mingled every cup in something of the same proportion, whether the bitter drop was seen by mortal vision or no, and as I knew by my ‘own lot, it was whiles bitterest that was secret.
But I abode in a sore swither and perplexity respecting my bairn, for the way was clouded and tangled, and I knew not how to counsel her. Nevertheless, I had a hope, that when her own father was nearhand her, the ill things would pass away, and my Grace would have a measure of pleasantness, seeing she was young and of an unburdened spirit. So while I was still in the midst of such meditation, Jenny came in to let me see how she had put up change of raiment.
“And when do you expect the young gentleman, Miss Marget?” said Jenny to me. “The twa times he’s been here already, the haill toun’s made a crack o’t, and Jean Wylie threeps it was Miss Mary that brocht him back sae sune. Atweel, and I wadna tak’ my ain aith neither — but that’s neither here nor there.”
“But, indeed, it is, Jenny,” said I. “It’s foolish folk, like you and Jean Wylie, that cannot see two young things together, but you must be thinking there’s something out of the ordinary in it, that puts such notions in the bairn’s heads. Never let me hear you minting such a word to Mary. The young gentleman came on his mother’s lawful errands.”
“Deed, and ye needna be feared for me, Miss Marget,” said Jenny. “The young gentleman, be thankit, has a good tongue o’ his ane, as weel as a blythe face, and needsna the like o’ me to speak for him; but if Miss Mary doesna find it out for hersel — wed, weel, its na business o’ mine.
“Jenny,” said I, “you will mind that I will be greatly angered if I hear you so much as evening the two to one another again. Young Mr. Elphinstone and Mary have seen each other but twice, and nothing but ill and dispeace could come of the like of that nonsense between them.”
“I had na will to anger ye, Miss Marget,” said Jenny. “Atweel, and I kenna, far or near, gentle or simple, whaur the young laird could get the like o’ Miss Mary, noo that Miss Grace is awa; and for bonnieness, it’s no to be denied that Miss Mary aye bare the gree.”
“Whisht, whisht!” said I, “you are but a haverel, Jenny, when we come to speak about young folk. Let the bairns be bairns still, poor innocent things, their troubles will come soon enough, without us helping them on.
Jenny gave her head a turn, as if she thought I needed not be so hard on her.
“It wad ill set me to help bring trouble on ony o’ the bairns, Miss Marget; but I see na watna awfu’ faut there is in scorning her with the like o’ young Mr. Elphinstone, wha is as gallant a looking lad as ane could wish to see, wi gowd in gowpins, I doubtna, and the haill yestate o’ Lilliesleaf (let alane Lochlee, that is his mother’s), to come an gang on. Deed, sae far as I can see, Miss Mary wad be a hantle better, the Leddy o’ a grand house like Lilliesleaf nearhand her ain mither nest, than awa in some driech Manse in the North country or the West country, where ane couldna get to see her without perils by the land, and perils by the sea.”
It has long been a matter of experience that when Jenny and me are in an argument, it is aye her that has the best of it, so I laughed and said I, “Truly, Jenny, you have small consideration: did it never strike you that the bairn might be even like myself, and never get the offer of either Manse or braw house?”
“Lo! if there is na a grand carriage turning round in the road, shining in the sun as ane reads in story-books,” cried out Jenny. “And there’s the young Laird himself, Miss Marget. Blessins on his bonnie face I he as like Miss Mary as gif he had been her brother, and abody kens what’s signified in that.” So Jenny hurried away to let the young gentleman in.
“Well, Miss Maitland,” he said to me, “are you ready to come with me—” and as he said that, his eyes travelled round and round the room as if he wanted something pleasanter to look upon than me, for all that the wily callant was pretending (and, doubtless, with a measure of sincerity also, for he was of a kindly nature) to pay me so much attention. So I went away up the stair to put on my bonnet, and when I came down again, my young gallant was leaning upon the back of a chair with a book in his hands; and truly I marvelled to see the start he gave, when I opened the door.
“Oh! is it you, Miss Maitland?” he said, putting down the book upon the table. “I suppose we may go then,” but for all that he did not stir, but stood with his back to the window looking at the door.
“My mother expects us soon,” he said again, “and — I hope Miss Mary is quite well this morning.”
“I thank you, Mr. Elphinstone,” said I. “The bairn is quite well, but she will be home by this time, I am thinking, for they sent the gig for her early.”
The young man gave a kind of little low exclamation, I heard not what, but it seemed that this satisfied him (though truly I see not what he had to do with at all): so he said again: “Shall we go then?” and straightway we went.
It is not to be denied that young Lilliesleaf had an uncommon gift of speech, nevertheless, I remember not much of our converse at that time, seeing my thoughts were much taken up with the lady I was going to see. I minded of her first, as she was in her youth, dwelling with her mother in the old house of Lochlee, and how I thought there was not the like of her in the world. She was, maybe, five or six years older than me, a time which looked long in our young days, but made little odds when we were both well on in years; and then I minded of her marrying wild Malcolm Elphinstone of Lilliesleaf, and being but a distressed-like wife, for he was a gay man and no to be trusted, and it was said in the countryside that the old lady, Mrs. Graeme, of Lochlee, was sorely against the marriage. And then (the last time I saw Susan Graeme) I minded of her a pale young widow, with her deep mourning weeds, and her one bairn; and truly my spirit was stirred within me with the memories of these old days, when I also was in my tribulations.
Nevertheless, though my mind was filled with these meditations, I was in a manner constrained to tell the young man the history of my bairn, Grace, and also to answer his questions respecting my nephew, Claud, and all the family at the Manse; for to be a young man of good parts, and divers kinds of learning, it was just wonderful how young Mr. Elphinstone was possessed with the spirit of curiosity, in an especial manner respecting the quiet affairs of a douce family like ours. So, in due time, we came to Lilliesleaf, and Mr. Elphinstone himself guided me to where his mother was. It was a room I had been in often, and truly when I saw all the old things standing as they had been three-and-twenty years before, I had a feeling as if the time had slipped back, and she, herself, would be even the same as she was then. But woes me, there was a wonderful change!
She was lying upon a sofa, a thin, wasted, aged woman, with the hair upon her forehead as white as the driven snow. I knew I myself was beginning to be bowed with years, but I thought not to find her burdened so, and I stood there at the door, looking upon her, like one that had lost the use of speech. But Mrs. Elphinstone raised herself up joyful-like, and held out her hand and said how glad she was to see me, and then she looked at me even as I had looked at her, “Time tells on us both,” she said; “but Margaret Maitland bears her years better than Susan Graeme.”
“Years, mother!” cried out young Mr.
Elphinstone, sorting the pillow at his mother’s shoulder, in a kindly manner, that it just did me good to see. “You are bold to speak of years to Miss Maitland. I know few young ladies that have so light a step, and you shall emulate it by and bye, I hope, when the air of Lilliesleaf has had time to work.”
The pale, thin, invalid lady, that I could hardly think yet was bonnie Susan Graeme, shook her head. “No, Allan, that will never be, I am afraid; however, we will do what we can — and see now, you have kept Miss Maitland standing all this time. Ring the bell, Allan, and attend to our friend.”
Mr. Allan had got me the softest chair in all the room, before she was done speaking, and then Mrs. Elphinstone’s own woman came and took away my bonnet and shawl, no to trouble me leaving the room. And after that, Mr. Allan wheeled in my chair beside his mother’s, and we began to have converse about old things.
“And your brother is married, Miss Maitland?” said Mrs. Elphinstone.
Mr. Allan laughed out at that.
“I should think he was,” he said. “Why, mother, Miss Maitland has a nephew whose popularity in the parish I am afraid I shall never equal.”
“That is no reason for you interrupting Miss Maitland, Allan,” said his mother, shaking her head at him, and smiling, “and do not let her see at the very beginning of your acquaintance, how obstreperous you are. But was it not one of the Elders of Bourtree Mr. Claud married, Miss Maitland?”
“Yes,” said I, “it was Mary — you will mind Mary, Mrs. Elphinstone?”
“I do, indeed!” said Mrs. Elphinstone, raising herself a little, and seeming to me to grow more youthful-like— “that will do, Allan, never mind the pillow — Mary Elder was a sweet girl!”
“So is her daughter,” said Mr. Allan, very low, so that his mother did not hear.
“And Allan tells me you have a niece too, Miss Margaret,” said Mrs. Elphinstone; “I wish you had brought her with you; but perhaps if the Lilliesleaf air does all that Allan promises in its name, I may try if I cannot drive to the Manse and see my old friends — or, perhaps, Allan, you may wile them down to see me, before that distant good shall have arrived. Ay, Margaret, you may sigh. Time has changed with us, since you and I stood at the gate of the old school-house, within sight of your home, and laughed at the conversation going on between gay Harry Monteith and simple Reuben Reid — do you remember?”
Did I remember! — well, well — but that was a strange question to ask me!