IT CHANCED THAT Mr. Allan came up to Sunnyside one day, about a week, I think, after the lad, Dunbar, had departed upon his long journey. And he brought a book with him to let me see it, the which he had taken from Mr. Dunbar as a kind of keepsake. It was a book of poetry, though truly I mind not at this moment who it was written by, only it was by one much thought of, in the world. But the thing that Mr. Allan brought it to me for, was some verses that had been written upon a leaf by Patrick himself, poor man, the time he was wrestling in the midst of his tribulations, before he met with Mr. Allan. And truly they were of a sad kind for so young a lad:
“In fair array they stand,
These years of the brief past; On this, on that, I lay my hand, Marshalled in memory’s quiet land, For evermore to last.
Here I wept, long and sore, and there awhile Forgot my sorrows in a smile; And there flowed childhood’s thoughtful stream along, And here, swifter and strong, Life struggled into care, and wakened unto song.
Press not upon mine eyes —
Ye years of future might!
As, when the blindman’s eyelids rise, The eternal hills, the steadfast skies, Press on his unused sight.
A phantom host of dim and shrouded fears, Only mine own by these familiar tears.
Pressing around me, lo! they crowd, they crowd — Speaking no word aloud, But dark indefinite ills, murmuring behind their cloud.
Ah, me! this weight of gloom, My heart grows sick and fails.
Dark is the shadow of you tomb —
Yet from its swift and sudden doom, Less the lorn spirit quails.
Time’s inarticulate muttering in mine ears, The unknown griefs of these dumb years; And clouds of dim, veiled faces round me lower, As if in pride of power.
Each would the sufferer see, before its proper hour.
Let them come one by one, Lest hope within me die; In every race some goal is won, On every day riseth a sun, However dark the sky.
Press not upon me thus, ye phantom years! Perchance, I shall be done with tears, Before your robes shine ‘neath this mortal sun, Come one by one!
So, side by side, and calm, shall our dim course be run.
“I like not to see such sadness of heart in any mortal, Mr. Allan,” said I, “and in especial it grieves folk in such a young callant as the lad Patrick Dunbar, but doubtless so deep a spirit is like to be more moved either in gladness or sorrow than common folk. And it is a pleasure to think that the years have a sunnier look to him now, and will, maybe, bring honour and riches, as well as being filled with a grand labour, the which of itself is a great blessing.”
“They are very melancholy,” said Mr. Allan, taking the hook back again. “Patrick must have been sadly broken in spirit, before I met him first. But now I hope he will have no such occasion. Poverty at least is warded off and its attendant evils.”
“I have read things in a manner like that in books of verse often,” said I; “but it was mostly foolish bairns making tribulations, where none had fallen to their lot. Lamenting and pining, if you were to believe themselves; and all the time the Bountiful Hand sending down its blessings upon them. Woes me! as if it was a grand thing to be in grief; but that, to my eyes, has a true look, and without doubt the lad was tried sore. Truly I have thought myself in like manner of the years that might be coming, and trembled at them; but it is just wonderful how the spirit is aye strengthened for whatsoever may be its lot.”
Mr. Allan sat and turned over the book in his hand, and looked not as if he were caring for converse. “And yet,” he said after a while, as if he was just speaking out loud the end of his own thought, “And yet — Dunbar would not change places with me.”
“I am thinking you would like worse to change places with him, Mr. Allan,” said I, “but it is a daftlike thing to say that. Doubtless, we are all best fitted for our own work, though whiles we have a temptation to think that we could do our neighbours better.”
So Mr. Allan gave a smile at that, and shook his head. And it looked to me as if the lamentation of the friendless lad, that, whatever weakness he might have secret to himself, was aye endeavouring, in the midst of his distress and poverty, to maintain a right walk and conversation, and to use his gift for the glory of the Giver, as will be seen in that writing of his, which as I have before said was read to us in the Manse, had stirred Mr. Allan’s spirit to think of his own ways, and doubtless he was troubled to see himself so girded about with temptations.
So when we had again sat quiet for a good time, I said to him. “You will doubtless have heard tell of the wedding, Mr. Allan?”
Mr. Allan started, and gave a feared look at me. “The wedding, Miss Maitland?”
“I am no meaning yours, Mr. Allan,” said I, in a blyther manner, “seeing I know not when it is like to be; but of Mr. Forrest’s of Woodlands, who is to be married the day after the morn.”
“Mr. Forrest’s?” said Mr. Allan. “Oh, yes! I have heard of that. I had some business with him the other day, but found it impossible to get admittance. I suppose he is too bashful to show himself in his present interesting condition, though he is not a very youthful bridegroom. Do you know anything of the bride, Miss Maitland?”
“He is a man in his prime, Mr. Allan,” said I, “and has ever been a most good and sensible lad; and I think not the bride is a bairn either, but come to discreet years, as was right and suitable. But she is a stranger to me, only I have heard Mrs. Standright speaking about her, and also that wild boy, William Elder.”
Mr. Allan laughed. “I heard William Elder wickedly reporting what some Edinburgh lady had said of her a few days since. ‘Miss Cassilis has experience.’ Is not that a delicate way of intimating these discreet years you speak of, Miss Maitland.”
“Truly, I know not, Mr. Allan,” said I, “though without doubt years should bring a measure of wisdom — but I have seen commonly that folk in that middle age, do often foolisher things than bairns, especially in the way of marrying.”
Mr. Allan smiled in his blythe way, but looked to me, as he had done all the morning, to be in a kind of meditative disposition, and did not say anything.
“No that I am minting any blame on Mr. Forrest,” said I, “for doubtless it is the wisest thing he could do; nor on Miss Cassilis either, seeing I have heard that she has no near kindred but her brother, and he is going to be married upon a young wife, which doubtless would be far from pleasant to a gentlewoman come to years, that has aye been used to guiding the house herself. So I think this marriage is a most sensible thing.”
“I hope it does not take so much to satisfy you in ordinary-cases, Miss Maitland,” said Mr. Allan.
“Mary was telling me,” said I, “that the young folk were only to be a week from home. And then there will be a great festivity, to the which they have invited me, and also the family from the Manse; — but, doubtless, you have heard about it, Mr. Allan?”
“And you are going, I hope, Miss Maitland?” said Mr. Allan, looking up quick. “It is decidedly your duty to welcome the bride.”
“And she will be a near neighbour,” said I, “the which will be pleasant, if she turns out a discreet gentlewoman, as I doubt not she will And truly, I know no man to be a douce man, winning into years, that deserves a good wife better than Mr. Forrest of Woodlands.”
So in the end of the next week, the young folk returned to their house, and I went up to Woodlands, the Manse gig having been sent for me, to be at the great party, and welcome Mrs. Forrest home. —
Mr. Forrest was no so much younger than me, but what I minded well of him being a kind of boy-companion to Claud, when we were in our youth — though, by reason of being a lone man, and having no family rising about him, there doubtless looked, at this time, a good difference between his age and the minister’s. It was said in the countryside once, that in his young days, he was uncommonly fond about Helen Elder, the youngest of the Bourtree family, but Helen being troth-plighted, when she was a mere bairn, and soon married, it is clear he could never have any thought of succeeding with her — forbye that he was always a most staid and shy lad, and needed more observation than she was like to give him, before folk found out his truthful and upright nature.
Also, I mind myself, that when Helen, poor thing, died in Edinburgh, after George, her second bairn was born, Mr. Forrest had a sore illness, and folk said it was because of his secret sorrow, though he had not looked upon her for years. Doubtless to hear of a young thing, like her, taken suddenly out of a household, and from two bits of bairns, would make any heart sore; and for all so douce and sensible as Mr. Forrest looked, he had within him a most tender and easy moved spirit — though I have heard foolish young folk often inclined to laugh at that, seeing he wore a brown wig, honest man, and snuffed much.
Nevertheless, I had noticed by divers signs, that the old affection was aye lying at the bottom of his heart; for when Mary my sister, had a little bairn, called by the name of Helen, (the which died when it was but six months old), I have seen Mr. Forrest take it in his arms in an unpurpose like way, for he was in no manner used with bairns, and look into its bits of blue e’en, as long as it would bide quiet — without saying a word. Likewise it was through Mr. Forrest, that George Sinclair got his commission in a great warship, when the callant was going daft to get to the sea. But for all that, I did not marvel at him being married, for doubtless a man winning into years, and dwelling his lane in a big house, is a most dowie and solitary thing.
Also, Mr. Forrest was a great farmer, well known through the country, and aye getting prizes for having fine beasts of divers kinds, and had done wonderful things with some of his farms, in the way of bringing grand crops off poor land, in the which work he employed many men, and so in every way was a blessing to the place, for being a most upright man, he was ever to be depended on.
So, when I got to Woodlands, I found all the family from the Manse there (for though it was five miles good from Woodlands to the Kirk of Pasturlands, Mr. Forrest aye went there, seeing he liked the ministrations of Claud, my brother) and the Elders and the Blythes, and many more. Also Mr. Allan was among them.
So I was introduced to the new Mrs. Forrest, who was a gentlewoman of tall stature, and a sensible countenance, and looked most suitable for her place, bring neither very young, nor trying to look like it. So that her and me soon got acquaint, having many folk to speak about that we both knew, in especial Mrs. Standright, and others in Edinburgh. And Mrs. Forrest said to me, that she knew Claud my nephew (for her brother and her, as I had often heard, keeped a most hospitable house, and liked the company of young folk, as I also do myself), and thought him an uncommon fine lad, and likely to be a good workman in the Kirk — at which I was doubtless pleased. And likewise that Mrs. Standright had spoken to her about Grace, whom she thought was a niece or a relation of mine, seeing the name was the same.
So I told her that Grace was indeed my dear bairn, but that there was no connexion in the way of blood or kindred; and Mrs. Forrest smiled, and said she to me:
“I have heard a good deal of the family she is residing with. Mrs. Lennox is her aunt, I think you said, Miss Maitland? There is a young friend of my brother’s who fancies himself very much in love with the youngest daughter; but between stern trustees, and a sterner mother, poor Bellendean is nearly despairing.”
“Bellendean!” said I; “I have surely noticed that name in the letters of my bairn.”
“Very probably,” said Mrs. Forrest, “my brother (for Mr. Cassilis was an Edinburgh writer, in great business, being of a good family himself, and having many connexions) has the management of his affairs, and has got into his confidence — nay, I do not betray him in telling you, Miss Maitland — he has so many confidants that it is no secret. His estate is in the hand of trustees, and sadly encumbered, and Mrs. Lennox will not listen to him, though he says her daughter has lent him no unwilling ear. The poor lad thinks their sudden departure from Edinburgh is merely a scheme to carry the young lady out of his way.”
“And so it may be,” said I, “and have no manner of connection with the fortunes of my bairn.”
“Mrs. Lennox may be actuated by tender consideration for both the girls,” said Mrs. Forrest, smiling. “Frederic Bellendean gives her a sad character, and vows never to rest till he has delivered his Harriet, who, however, by his description seems exceedingly well able to take care of herself.”
“But if the lad is in true earnest, Mrs. Forrest,” said I, “it is maybe no right to laugh at him.”
“Perhaps not, Miss Maitland,” said Mrs. Forrest, smiling again; “but he is a weak, frivolous lad, and these boy-and-girl attachments are slight matters. Nay, you look grave. I do not mean in all cases; but certainly in his.”
Doubtless it might be so, and Mrs. Forrest was in a measure right. Only I doubt much if Woodlands himself would have said the like of that, or even if she thought it, in her own secret heart — for I have known folk mock at things that had wrought them sore tribulation. But, any way, that was not a matter for me to take up, so I said:
“Have you seen Grace, Mrs. Forrest?”
“No,” said Mrs. Forrest, “I am sorry that I never saw your young friend, Miss Maitland. I suppose I might have had a better chance of popularity with these pleasant young people from Pasturelands, had I brought them news of Miss Grace: but I have heard a great deal of her from Mrs. Standright and Mr. Claud. She seems to stand very high in your nephew’s opinion, Miss Maitland.”
And with that, Mrs. Forrest looked in my face, and smiled.
“Doubtless,” said I, “that is to be thought, Mrs. Forrest, seeing that they were brought up bairns together, and Claud has known little odds between Mary and her for the best part of his life; besides that, it is a most natural thing to think much of Grace, for she is truly a young thing of an uncommon nature.”
Mrs. Forrest smiled again, and said something about that being a dangerous kind of relationship, the which I was not very well pleased at, so I turned the converse to other things, and also other folk gathered round us, seeing that they all had a measure of curiosity, as was to be expected, about the new mistress of Woodlands.
I perceived also that Mr. Allan was keeping beside Mary, in a way that I did not desire, seeing folk are aye ready to remark any kything of kindness between two of their age, so I went myself close to them, and in my endeavour to draw some more of the young things, that were present, round about us, I saw a sparkle of mischief in the e’en of William Elder, and rose to divert him from his purpose, which was to tease Reuben Reid, poor man, and lead him into saying daftlike things.
It chanced that Mr. Forrest, for some part of his young days, had been at the Pasturelands school; for Reuben, though he was a strange body, was just an uncommon good teacher of the old and dead tongues; so being, as I have said before, a man of a kindly spirit, Mr. Forrest had invited Reuben to Woodlands, on occasion of this great ploy, which was the cause of him being there. And truly, it was a divert to see the Maister sitting among the folk, and aye so anxious to show himself acquaint with the right way of behaving at a great party like that; and doubless, he was much made of, seeing the young folk were aye gathering round him, and William Elder standing at his side, drawing him into converse.
So I took Mary by the arm, and led her away with me, pretending I wanted to speak to her mother; and truly, I had a double reason, being both unwilling that Mr. Allan should be aye lingering so near her, and feared that her cousin William might in some way affront the Dominie, poor man!
“It’s a blythe occasion this, Miss Marget,” said Reuben to me, as I came up; at which, though it was a most simple observation, some haverels of bairns laughed, thinking, as I suppose, that it behoved them to laugh whenever he spoke, at which I was in no manner pleased, for the body was a decent body in his way, besides being a man of years.
“Doubtless, it is Mr. Reuben,” said I, “and it’s a pleasure to see so discreet and sensible a gentlewoman at the head of this house.”
“You see, Miss Marget,” said Reuben, leaning forward to me in a confidential way, “he was ever a lang-headed lad, James Forrest. I aye said it of him, and I’m no often mista’en, that he would take his time and make a guid choice when he was at it; and she has a grand presence. Truly, if she is as wise as she looks, James has made a good hand of it.”
“Mr. Reid,” said Willie Elder, “we, who are standing here, will all be trying similar speculations on our own account by and bye. Do let us have your views on the subject.”
And with that, there was much laughing among the bairns, and they gathered nearer, till Reuben — honest man! was made like one of the doctors of the old times, sitting upon a chair, speaking, and them all standing round him.
“Truly, Miss Marget,” said Reuben, to me, for I was in the midst of them myself, with Mary beside me, and Mr. Allan also was drawing near, “the young generation of this parish is creditable to look upon. There are some braw couples there, and though they tell me that young Bourtree is to be married upon an Irish lady by and bye, when he comes to years of discretion, doubtless it is right to give them the benefit of my lights. Ye see—”
“I marry an Irish lady!” cried out William Elder, in a discomfited manner: “that is a trick of somebody’s.” And with that he began to look round him wrathfully, to see who had put that in Reuben’s head.
“William is but a boy, Mr. Reuben,” said I, “and it will be time enough for him to be thinking of the like of these things half-a-dozen years after this, if he’s spared so long.”
“Plenty time, Miss Marget,” said Reuben, “that’s just what I’m saying, when he comes to years of discretion, which will leave him much leisure to look about him. So you, see—”
“But the Irish lady, Mr. Reid,” said Marion Blythe. “Let us hear about her. Who is she?”
“Doubtless it would rejoice my heart to pleasure a young lady,” said Reuben, in a pawky way, “but a secret’s a secret, Miss Marion, and I would, at no hand, betray your cousin, young Bourtree; but, as I was saying, it is a most prudent and expedient thing for young folk, and for folk generally, in a single condition, to look well about them before they do anything in such a matter. Now we’ll suppose that Mr. Forrest, honest man, had been taken with the like of your own winsome young face, Miss Marion, I’m thinking his petition would have gotten but a cold welcome from you.”
Marion Blythe, who was as wild in her way as her cousin Willie, threw up her hands at that, and ran in behind Marjory, her sister — who was a bairn of a staid disposition — laughing, and red in the face.
So, having in that manner quieted, for a time, the two of the young folk who were most inclined to plague him, Reuben went on, “Truly this marriage festivity, in that case, would have been like the grand ploy that the Laird of Lilliesleaf had at Cruive End on New Year’s Day.”
“And how so, Mr. Reid?” said our Mary.
“Because young Lilliesleaf, Miss Mary,” said Reuben, “is trying to wed a new thing to an auld, the which is ever a fickle experiment. There’s the minds and breeding of the folk of Cruive End — that’s the auld bridegroom — and the new-fangled schilling and ploys, and nonsense — that’s the young bride; and ye’ll see they’ll never ‘gree; for, without doubt, it is just the same as what is condemned in the very Scripture itsel, under the similitude of putting a new clout upon an auld garment, the which is puir thrift — as I was saying in a philosophic manner this very morning, concerning a pair o’ my ain — but that is no to the point. They tell me,” said the Dominie, looking about in a horrified manner, “that when the big callants took their Rudiments to the schule, as was right on the first Monday morning, the new maister threw the good books in below his desk, and said he would learn them no Latin in his schule, whereupon the boy, James Strive, that has set his mind upon being a doctor, had to come up and dwell with his old auntie at Pasturelands, for the sake of right learning. To think of that! The grand auld Latin tongue, that is the mother of our vernacular, and of all civilized languages upon the face of this earth!”
“But maybe he did not know it himself, Mr. Reuben,” said I; “and, therefore, could not learn the bairns.”
“And wha ever heard, Miss Marget,” said Reuben, “of an instructor of youth, that did not ken the Latin tongue? Doubtless, Mr. Daighy, the teacher at Burrowstoun, is no great shakes of a scholar, but he aye gies the callants their rudiments. It is awfu’ to think of! But truly, I know not what the world would be at, for it changes its ways and its fashions like a petted bairn.”
But by that time, Mr. Allan put in his own word, and began to take the part of his new teacher at Cruive End, and the Maister and him got into an argument concerning the Latin tongue, in the which, according to my poor judgment, Reuben had the best of it. Only I judged it not needful to abide and listen, seeing Mr. Allan, when he said anything, was aye glancing to Mary, as if she was like to be greatly interested in an arguing like that.
And then the bairns, Janet Elder, and Marion, and Marjory Blythe, and our own Mary, got all round me in a corner, and began a converse about Grace, which, being all concerning matters which I have set down already, it is not worth while writing here.