ON THE TUESDAY after that, I got, to my great pleasure and satisfaction, safely home again to Sunnyside, not without much speaking, both on the part of Mrs. Elphinstone and Mr. Allan, about me coming back; but that was a thing concerning which I was very loath to make any promises, seeing it was far from a pleasant thing to me, a woman come to years, to live out of my own house.
“You must give me permission to visit you often, Miss Maitland,” said Mr. Allan to me, as we were just coming in sight of Sunnyside. “You must let me rest from my Cruive End labours beneath your hospitable roof. By the bye, I was telling Jenny about my mighty purpose the last time I was down; but Jenny is an obstinate sceptic. She won’t believe in the possibility of regenerating Cruive End.”
“Jenny!” said I. “Is’t possible, Mr. Allan, that you were speaking about the like of that to Jenny?”
“Yes, to be sure,” said the light-hearted young man. “Don’t you think I show myself a very sensible person thereby, Miss Maitland? Oh! Jenny and I are excellent friends — quite intimate indeed. I shall expect to have a place in her esteem by and bye, next to Mr. Claud, and Miss Grace and Miss Mary, though perhaps that is rather too much to look for just yet. Yes, Miss Maitland, I have the honour to be in Jenny’s confidence, and have sundry childish incidents laid up in my memory wherewith to retaliate upon Miss Mary, the next time she scolds me.”
“Scolds you, Mr. Allan?” said I, in wonder.
“Oh! well, not scolds altogether. Miss Mary is too dignified for that, but looks grave at my blunders. I believe she thinks me a perfect Goth. You must have skill in tutoring, Miss Maitland. Suppose you take me for a pupil? You have no idea how docile I shall be; and I have no doubt that you might turn me out one of the most pretty-behaved young gentlemen in the country. What say you, Miss Maitland? When will you begin to teach me my alphabet of proprieties?”
“I am feared, Mr. Allan,” said I, with a smile, “that Jenny would say you were aboon my fit.”
“Jenny would be meddling with things aboon her fit, if she did,” said Mr. Allan. “And here is Sunnyside, Miss Maitland, and I suppose I must give you up. See here, Jenny,” he went on, as he got out to help me down, “what will you give me for bringing back your mistress?”
“Deed, Sir, mony thanks,” said Jenny, speaking as if she had known him all her days. “Eh, Miss Marget, but you’re welcome hame. It’s been a dowie house since ye gaed awa. No a living body nearhand it but mysel.”
“You see Jenny makes no account of my visits, Miss Maitland,” said Mr. Allan, laughing, “and yet I’m sure I have been most assiduous.”
“The young gentleman has been just bye-ordinar considerate, mem,” said Jenny, as we went in. “I ne’er heard o’ sae muckle kindness to the like o’ me — ca’ing to tell me how Miss Grace was, and Miss Mary. And speaking o’ that, Miss Marget, the mistress ca’ed in hersel yesterday, to say she had forgotten to tell you on Sabbath that she was gaun to send Miss Mary down in the middle of the week, to bide a day or twa.’”
“My sister is very kind, Jenny,” said I, signing to her to be quiet, for I saw Mr. Allan’s face was kindling. “And now, Mr. Allan, you’ll sit down and take a glass of wine, before you go back to Lilliesleaf.”
“I am going to Cruive End,” said Mr. Allan, starting, for he had not noticed at first that I was speaking to him; “and I will not be long of making my appearance again, Miss Maitland. I must be off to my work now.” And with that, he bade me goodbye, and went merrily away.
“Na,” said Jenny to herself, in a quiet way, as if she did not care for me hearing: “I’ll be your caution, young gentleman, ye’ll no be lang o’ finding your way back again, seeing ye hae heard what ye hae heard.”
“What is that you are saying, Jenny?” said I.
“Only how thoughtfu’ it was o’ the young Laird to be bringing aye a word about yoursel and Miss Grace, (doubtless whiles Miss Mary also, but that was in the bygaun) to a poor body like me; but for a’ that, Miss Marget, I have been wearying sore to hear richt about Miss Grace, and how the dear bairn was winning on.”
I knew that Jenny (in her degree) cared mostly as much for my bairn as I did myself, so I told her much of the substance of the letters; but I thought not it was needful to let her know all the kind of feeling that was in them, except just that Grace still liked Sunnyside better than the house in Edinburgh, for all so grand as it was; whereat Jenny was greatly pleased. So after I had some further converse with Jenny about the things of the house, I just sat down, and began to write a letter to Grace, seeing I had not answered the last one which I got at Lilliesleaf. —
“My dear bairn, “I have got the letter you wrote to me, with the history of your mother; and truly though it is indeed a most sorrowful story, it is yet a satisfaction to me that you have heard about her. Maybe her first griefs, poor young thing, had in a manner broken her spirit, and so it might not be so much the doing of your father; and maybe also it was that he was feared for you hearing, in case of it setting your heart against him; and that would show a right repentant spirit, which is, next to a pure spirit, the best thing that folk can have. But without dispute, Grace, it is a most woeful and sad story; and oh, my dear bairn! take warning by it, and at no hand bind yourself to any stranger, until you are well satisfied that he is like yourself. Doubtless there are other sore tribulations, but the sorest of them all is that. I am doubtful you will be wondering, and maybe smiling at this. But mind, Grace, I would far rather lie down in Pasturelands kirkyard the morn, than hear of either Mary or you entering upon such a wierd as fell to the lot of your poor, young, heart-broken mother.
“And furthermore, Grace, my dear, let not your mother’s wrongs, sore though they were, change your demeanour in the place where you are now dwelling. It would not right her, and it would but put yourself in new troubles — without saying, as I might doubtless do, that it is a duty to forgive, and that your father may have grieved for it sore sinsyne, being but a young and a thoughtless man then. And keep up a strong spirit, aye like a good bairn, and be ever mindful of Him who brings light out of darkness.
“So far as you have gone, and truly, Grace, I am not the one to lightlie what is pain to you, it is but outer tribulations that have come upon you yet; and your own mind is in a manner free, and your own friends would spend their whole strength to pleasure you. But oh, Grace! I could tell you of troubles, of sore weights laid upon a young spirit in a single night, and never taken off — of woeful struggles — the heart contending against the judgment, and the judgment against the heart, till the poor frail habitation they dwelt in was like to be riven in twain.
“It is a sore thing to have fightings without and fears within, but it is sorer still, Grace, my dear bairn, to have both the fightings and the fears gathered up in the same bit little space, and it all quivering and throbbing with pain day and night, seeking rest and finding none. I did not think even to have spoken of the like of these things to you, if it had not been in a small way to comfort you. But bring you a stout heart to your stey brae, my own bairn, and you will win over it. Truly I have known as young things as you, to whom folk could not have said that.
“And, as for ourselves, we are just settled down in our old way again. I am home to Sunnyside, as you will see by the top of my letter; and blythe I was this morning to sit down in my own chair, by my own fireside again, although I am missing, sorer than ever, my bird that they have caged away from me. Mary is coming to see me, some time, this week, and is going to stay a-while, the which you will wonder much to hear me say I am almost sorry about; but as I know you will be discreet, and no mention it to Mary, I will tell you the reason.
“Mr. Allan Elphinstone, I am feared, is inclined to think more about Mary than he has any occasion to do; and seeing it was mentioned before him, that Mary was coming, I am feared he will be at Sunnyside too. And our Mary, poor bairn, is an innocent thing, and has seen few like Mr. Allan, (as indeed you could not see many in any place like him), for he is a lad both of a pleasant countenance, and a most loveable and kindly nature; and I well know that Mrs. Elphinstone thinks in her own mind, that Mary Maitland, of Pasturelands Manse, is no right match for Allan Elphinstone of Lilliesleaf; as indeed, putting our own bit remainder of carnal pride away, it is true that she is not, in the wealth of this world; and among them I am like to have but little comfort for a while, unless Mr. Allan takes a notion of one of the ladies at the Castle (they are expected here every day), as his mother wants him to do; only lads like him are no aye good bairns in that particular. But any way, I wish he was fairly out of our Mary’s road, for I have aye a terror in such a matter as this — of an innocent young thing (and in especial one of own bairns) getting a sore heart.
“I have just been hearing from Jenny, that Christian Lightfoot is going to be married upon James Laidlaw, the carter, whom you will mind. He was one of your first friends in Burrowstoun, Grace, and a leal one he is to this day. And the evil spirit of a bairn, Willie, Christian’s brother, has gone to be prentice with John Smiddy, the blacksmith, no so much to learn the trade, as just to keep him out of mischief; though, so far as I can see, there’s no much likelihood of that coming to pass.
“I put in these things because I think you will like to keep Burrowstoun in your mind, and the things that happen in it. Also, Mr. Allan has got a plan in his head for the bettering of Cruive End, which, as you will remember, has much need of being improved; only it’s my fear that he is going to begin at the wrong end.
“And now, my dear bairn, keep a blythe heart. I have a confidence within me in Him that setteth the poor in families, that he will not let me bide desolate long. Be you aye getting all the learning you can, seeing you have a good opportunity the now, and write to me, like a good bairn, everything that comes into your head. And the Almighty bless you, and have you in His keeping for evermore.
“MARGARET MAITLAND.”
“P.S. If you should meet the gentleman called Monteith, be careful of noting what he says, and tell me what like he is, and what you think of him. I knew one once that bore that name.
M. M.”
So having sent away that letter, I began to look over my house quietly, and by myself, as it was right I should do, having been a while away; and truly my heart swelled within me, when I went into my Grace’s empty room, and saw the bits of books lying, some of them just as they did when she was there, and minded her saying that she would get them if she ever came home again. And also in my work-table, in the parlour, there was a seam lying half-done, that she had been sewing just before she went away. I had not the heart to meddle with it, but just let it lie as her own hands had folded it, thinking, that maybe, after all, the Lord, who brought her to my household first to be my bairn, would bring her back again; and much meditation I had concerning her, as was but natural, seeing I had never missed her so greatly before.
So, partly with these thoughts in my mind, and partly with doing bits of things that were needful to be done in the house, the afternoon slipped away, and after I had got my solitary cup of tea, I went ben into the kitchen to speak a word to Jenny about something I wanted her to do. And at the kitchen fireside, when I went in, there was sitting an old woman from Burrowstoun, whose name was Jean Wylie — a woman I had no manner of liking for, seeing that her whole work was speaking about her neighbours, praising them to themselves, and miscalling them to other folk. And truly I had no sooner crossed the door than she began making a work about me, as if it was a matter of thankfulness to her, that I had come safe home again. And then she had to ask for Grace.
“I thank you, Jean,” said I, “Grace is well so far as I have heard.”
“And come into a great fortune, as I hear, Miss Maitland,” said Jean, “and living in as grand a house as there is in a’ E’mbro’. And they say its ane grand place to dwell in, wi’ wale o’ a’thing that onybody could desire; and whenever ane minister onygate through the haill country begins to stand up, head and shouthers aboon a’ the people, in the way o’ doctrine, or learning, or the like, they say he’s straightway tooken there, even as the Spirit took Philip and loot him down at the place ca’ed Azotus. But ye hae dwelt there yoursel, Miss Maitland, and, doubtless, ye maun ken better than a puir body like me.”
“It is a very fine town to live in, Edinburgh, Jean,” said I; “there is no dispute of that.”
“I hae often wondered within myself, Miss Maitland,” said Jean, “that the minister, Mr. Maitland, should have been loot bide in ane wee place like Pasturelands sae lang, and him weel kent as ane michty in the Scriptures; but I ne’er saw the like o’ you, Miss Maitland, for ye’re as ill at a body for gieing honour where honour is due in your ain family, as if it was an ill word; but they say the Leddy o’ Lelliesleaf is sair worn in the body, and withered and auld like.
Eh! Losh! and it looks nae a week since I mind o’ Miss Shuzan of Lochlee ane young thing, and the auld lady like an atomy in the heavy widow’s claes. It maun be trouble, Miss Maitland, for it canna be sae mudde age; for there’s yoursel, but a young leddy yet.”
“Whisht, Jean,” said I, for I was angry at the woman for thinking to please me with such a falset. “I have not called myself young this fifteen years, and truly, if I had been given to the like of these vanities, the sight of Mrs. Elphinstone being weak and ill, poor lady, might have cured me of it for a while.”
“Deed and that’s true,” said Jean, shaking her head. “It will make an odds, that weary time, baith on gentle and simple. I’m an auld withered body mysel, but I’ll no say but what I’m yaul yet, in a measure, and can tak my bit meat hearty, the which is a matter of thankfulness; but trouble is waur than years, Miss Maitland, and the Leddy o’ Lilliesleaf, folk say, has kent plenty o’ that. An ill man’s a sair handfu’, and I hae heard—”
“Jean,” said I, “it is not fit that we should be speaking slanders of the dead. Truly we might have plenty of our own to think about, without meddling with our neighbours’ ill-doings. Jenny, I want you.’
“Oh! Miss Maitland!” said Jean, in a great hurry, as if she was feared I would get away, “there’s an unco story getting up at Cruive End, about something the young Laird’s gotten into his head. Poor folk’s business maun gie way to gentle’s pleasure; but the haill toun’s in a stir about it, and I thought maybe you would gie me a notion o’ what it’s gaun to be.”
“What do the folk say, Jean?” said I.
“Deed ye ken, Miss Maitland, there’s aye a hantle lees gaun, and ane would need wisdom to part the wee pickle wheat frae the stourie chaff, even as it is written in the very Scriptur itsel; but they say the young gentleman’s gaun to file his bonnie white hands ripeing out the mouldy corners and redding up the chalmers, or waur than that, pu’ing down the bits o’ biggings about the lugs o’ the puir sackless bodies that aught them; but I think mysel that nae young gentleman o’ guid bluid and gentle havins, like the Laird, wi’ the haill estate o’ Lilliesleaf and Lochlee to tak’ his pleasure on, would have the heart to play himsel in sic a manner as that, letting in the cauld wind and the open daylicht into the auld wives’ neuks, just because they were nae sae weel redd up as they micht hae been; but Sandy Clavers, the auld tailor, says they do the like in Ireland every day, and that it’d - to get the folk off the land; but I say, Miss Maitland, that the young Laird suld mind that the folk o’ Cruive End are kindly tenants, and no ungodly Inshers.”
“Mr. Allan will wrong no man, Jean,” said I, “be you sure of that; and what he will do in Cruive End, will be well and rightly done, for you know yourself it’s an ill place.”
“Weel, to hear the like o’ that!” said Jean, holding up her hands. “When a’body kens I had said sae, and upheld sae, when there wasna ane in the toun durst venture on sic a word but mysel! for I aye said to mysel, ‘Aweel, and if the wild Irishes div hear o’t and be wraithful, as the manner o’ them is, how can they meddle wi’ me, that am but a lone woman; biding quiet in the bit cobble o’ a theekit habitation that was my granny’s before me?’ Sae I aye spoke out my mind, Miss Maitland, and testified that Cruive End was ane shame and ane disgrace to be seen in a Christian land; and to think that the young Laird should have tooken it up Weel, wed! but it’s no my pairt to be puffed up.”
But truly it is little use writing this down here, seeing it could be of small consequence to anybody what Jean Wylie, of Burrowstoun, thought of Mr. Allan’s plan; but I had began to write it down before I thought of that, for Jean Wylie being a great speaker, and no without a kind of cleverness in her way, was more mixed up with everything in our quiet place than folk in a bigger town would think possible for an old and poor woman. But that is no way to the purpose.
So, in our ordinary quiet manner, another day or two slipped by, and on the Friday, Mary came from the Manse, and truly I was blythe to see her, though I still had a measure of dread concerning Mr. Allan. And the first thing Mary asked for was Grace’s letter, which I had mentioned to her upon the Sabbath day before, when I was at Pasturelands’ Kirk, though I had forgotten to take it over with me, to let them see it. Mary was greatly moved, as it was natural a young thing should be, at the story of Grace’s poor mother, and more than ever anxious, as it seemed, to get Grace home, for the two had been such close friends, almost more than even sisters commonly are.
“Aunt,” said Mary to me, “I have found out a way to get Grace home. When she is twenty-one — and that will only be three years — her father cannot make her stay in Edinburgh; and then she can come home to Sunnyside. No, but you need not smile, for that is the law.”
“Ay, Mary,” said I. “I knew not that you were any way learned in the law before. Was it Willie Elder that told you that?”
“Willie Elder is at college just now, you know,” said Maty. “It was Mr. Elphinstone that told me, aunt.”
“And when did you see Mr. Elphinstone, Mary,” said I, in an alarmed manner.
The bairn looked up in an innocent way to my face. “Was there anything wrong in speaking to Mr. Elphinstone, aunt?” said she. “I met him on Wednesday, at Sedgie Brae, and so he walked up to the Manse with me, because he wanted to consult my father about something he is going to do at Cruive End; and we began to talk of Grace, and he told me that — but, aunt, was there anything wrong in it, that you look at me so?”
“No, Mary,” said I, being feared to turn her thoughts to such a thing, though there was already a flush upon her face, but that was with me looking at her, “by no means, my dear; wherefore should there be anything wrong in it?”
“Well, aunt,” said Mary, giving her head a shake, as if it was to throw off the bit shamefacedness that had come upon her, though the red was still upon her cheek, “if Grace cannot get away before, we are sure of her then, and three years is not so long a time after all.”
“If we are all spared, Mary,” said I.
“Yes, aunt, I mean that,” said the bairn. “The Earl and his family arrived at the Castle the day you left Lilliesleaf, Mr. Elphinstone told me, and there is to be some very great pasty at Lilliesleaf. But you would bear of that.”
“Did Mr. Allan tell you about it, Mary?” said I.
“No, aunt,” said Mary, “it was Janet Elder that told me. The Elders have not been invited, nor the Blythes, nor us, and my aunt is not pleased, for she says there were Elders in the old Place at Bourtree, before a stone of the Castle was laid, and I am sure no one would compare Adam Blythe, of the Meadows, to Lord Burrowstown, or Lady Julia to Janet Elder, only they have titles, that is all.”
“Well, Mary, my dear, never heed it,” said I, “neither Adam Blythe, nor Janet Elder, nor you, would like to be in a company with these folk, and be looked down upon. But did Mr. Allan no say anything about the ladies at the Castle?”
“Not much,” said Mary, with a kind of smile, “only he asked me if I knew them, and said old Lady Mary was a great bore — which was not right certainly — but then I did not know her, aunt, so I could not say anything, and she has not a pleasant face.”
“And if Mr. Allan was going to the Castle, and telling Lady Julia that your aunt was a great bore, would you be pleased with that, Mary,” said I. “Maybe the young man may think the same of me as he does of Lady Mary, Lady Mary has written a book.”
“Aunt!” said Mary, in an offended-like way, “I thought you knew Mr. Elphinstone better — that is, I mean — oh! there he is at the gate.”
And truly it was him opening the outer gate.
“Did you tell him when you were coming down, Mary?” said L
“Yes, aunt,” said Mary, speaking low; “but he did not say he was coming to Sunnyride,” and with that she gave me a kind of strange wondering look, and a colour came on her whole face like fire. The bairn had found it out!
I would have given Sunnyride, at that moment, to anybody that would have kept that young man from my door; for bow did I know what might come to pass, and my heart began to tremble for the peacefulness of my innocent bairn.
So Mr. Allan came in and sat down, and we got into converse.
“I have just come from Cruive End, Miss Maitland,” he said. “I am not sure, by the bye, that that piece of information is likely to make you better pleased with my intrusion; but as I am fairly in, and Jenny is too much my friend to be a party to turning me out, I may venture to tell you. But such a din as I have awakened in that odorous suburb of Burrowstoun, Babel, I am sure, was nothing to it.”
“And what have you done, Mr. Allan?” said I. “I could hardly think you had time to do much yet.”
“Only overhauling,” said Mr. Allan, in his cheerful way; “suggesting here and there that there might be a greater distinction made between the little pigs, biped, and quadruped, to the advantage of both; or that you sacred doorway dubs might be dispensed with. The people have got some stories of Irish dealings among them, left, I suppose, with lots of other rubbish, by the Irish harvest-men, reapers, shearers, or whatever they may please to call themselves; and the mind of Cruive End is actually possessed with the idea that I am going to pull down their cottages, and do no more — leaving them houseless. Now, ladies, I have a proposal to make to you. If you will walk down to Cruive End with me, you shall hear Allan Elphinstone’s maiden speech. I must say something to them. There was a knot of rascals yonder, looking thunder at me; and really I am exceedingly reluctant that my first public appearance should be made only to them. Ah! Miss Maitland, why that gentle shaking of your head? Remember the Cruive End scheme originated with you.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Allan,” said I, “and I would like in an uncommon manner to hear your speech; but it would not be right. I am only an humble gentlewoman, and Mary is but a bairn; and truly, I think it would be daft like to see us with a young gentleman like you at such a time.”
Mr. Allan’s countenance grew vexed like, but yet he gave a bit smile when I said that. He was looking at Mary, and no at me; but the bairn kept her eyes steadfast on her seam, and never said a word. And then he began:
“Miss Maitland, you don’t consider, the people of Cruive End know your benevolence —
Oh! I did not expect you would acknowledge that; but Miss Mary, I hope, will be so candid as to admit it; and if you were with me, you see, they would be satisfied that I had no barbarous intentions. You really will not, Miss Maitland? That is too bad! I did not think you could “have been so cruel — and my maiden speech too!”
“And are you not going to pull down the houses, Mr. Elphinstone?” said Mary.
“Yes,” said Mr. Allan, “but not now. My mother was planning a village for me; but that everlasting Lady Mary heard of it, and so it is shipwrecked. They want to have Swiss cottages! If you would only help me with my plan, Miss Mary, we might make a decent thing of it yet. Will you let me bring down my mother’s sketch to-morrow?”
“I cannot draw,” said Mary, quietly, “and I have seen far too little to be of any use; but, just now, you are not going into the people’s houses, Mr. Elphinstone? They say charitable people do that, and lecture them if they are not dean. Now, perhaps, that is right — I don’t know; but — their houses are their own as well as ours — I do not feel comfortable about it.”
“I do not fed comfortable about it either, Miss Mary,” said Mr. Allan. “I am glad we agree in that, at least. I do not feel at liberty to pry into the domestic concerns of these people, even though I wish to do them good. So I propose that we refer our difficulty to my most wise and excellent counsellor at your right hand, to whom the honour of originating the scheme belongs, and not to me.”
“Indeed, Mr. Allan,” said I, “that has aye been a difficulty with me too. I am not one of the folk who could go into a cot-house, and preach to the mistress of it — maybe a distressed woman toiling among a big small family — about having bright plates on her shelf, and scoured things hanging on her wall, like what are in the houses that bairns have for toys. And my thought, Mr. Allan, concerning Cruive End, was, that you might do something to get them to turn to honest work, (for idleset seldom heeds about being dean), and chiefly that you might endeavour to bring the Word to bear upon that benighted and dark place, the which is an effectual cleanser of both hearts and houses, and never fails to work a change — that was my thought of it.”
Mr. Allan’s face grew grave at that, and then he came up to me, and held out his hand.
“I will,” he said, “I promise you, Miss Maitland, I will use the highest means, and perhaps — perhaps, as my mother’s old maid says, ‘get some of the blessings in the byegoing.’ And then Mr. Allan went on, getting into his blyther tone again, and turning to Mary, “There is one quite legitimate thing, Miss Mary, which is to be my first step. I intend to build a village — not after Lady Mary’s plan, but a plain, substantial Scotch village, with good, comfortable, airy little houses, which my worshipful tenants at Cruive End will do me the honour to inhabit when they are finished, in lieu of these miserable huts. Does that please you, Miss Mary?”
Mary smiled, and said, “Yes.”
And the young man went on, “Will you lay the foundation stone, Miss Maitland? I don’t know any one so fit We shall give the inhabitants of Cruive End a fete, and have a regular masonic ceremony. Greater pomps, I am sure, than are within our reach have dignified erections greatly less useful. Miss Maitland, shall I go order my silver trowel? Will you lay the foundation stone of regenerated Cruive End?”
“Whisht, Mr. Allan,” said I, with a smile; “it’s no right to laugh so at a harmless old wife like me. No, no! but there’s the young ladies at the Castle. There is no saying but what one of them would lay the stone with her own hand, for the sake of the ploy and of the young Laird of Lilliesleaf.”
Mr. Allan started, and turned round upon his heel, muttering to himself angry like, “If new Cruive End is to begin under the auspices of the Castle, or the young ladies of of the Castle, Miss Maitland, it shall have for its regenerator some other person than Allan Elphinstone.”