IT WAS ABOUT a month before Claud, my nephew, came back from Dourhills, and he was not well out of the parish as I have heard, till the people began to move about giving him a call, and finding Mr. Kirkman agreeable, they applied to the Presbytery in July for a moderation, (The first step in procuring a minister for a vacant congregation in Scotland, is the holding of a Presbytery meeting, for the purpose of “moderating in the call that is, after sermon, the call, or invitation, is signed in presence of the Presbytery, and attested by their Moderator, or Chairman. Notice of this meeting must he given to the congregation a stated time (ten days, we believe) before it is held, and their attendance requested. And the form of giving this notice, which must he done in the church after service, is called “Serving the Edict.” The terms are generally understood in Scotland, and of course were so perfectly familiar to Miss Maitland, as a daughter of the Manse, that she does not feel it necessary to explain them.) which was granted to them, and appointed to be on the twenty-second day of the month, Mr. Mavis of Lang Briery to preach, and old Dr. Bland of Summershaw to serve the Edict on the Sabbath week before. I mind the names so particular, because Dr. Bland had been once in the Earl’s family in the office of tutor, in the which Mr. Essence, of Cosieland, succeeded him; and Mr. Mavis was a young man no long out of the Hall before Claud, and had been out at Pasturelands whiles in the summer. So everything was in a fair way for Claud being settled.
It was bonnie summer weather I mind, and everything about us had outwardly the look of peace and pleasantness, and the full July sun shining over our heads, but for all that, it was not all comfort that was in my heart within me. Mr. Allan, poor young man, though he abode quiet a while after the fright he gave Mary, had just started on the race again, even as you may see a bairn stumbling over a stone sit down till it is mended of the fall, and then begin to its play with more birr than ever. I was not seeing my niece Mary, so often as ordinary at that season, and when I did see her, she looked but white and delicate; but truly, it is not given to mortals of erring nature such like as us, to see into the secret heart.
The month of July came to its close, and the call of the people of Dourhills to my nephew Claud, being harmonious, was sustained by the Presbytery, so that his trials were appointed to him, and the day set for his ordination. The trials he won through well, the Presbytery taking him up at their two meetings in August, which they held on purpose, seeing that there was great necessity for him being settled in the parish soon; and he was to be ordained on the 12th day of September thereafter. So he had come home after the last Presbytery when he finished his trials, and was to abide till the 10th, seeing we were all anxious to keep him as long as possible, and yet did not want that the young man should be disturbed with travel and worldly occupations, close upon the day when he was to take the care of the ministry upon him.
So it was agreed that he should go back upon the 10th, which was a Tuesday, that so he might have one clear day to meditate upon the right import of his vows, and the minister, my brother, was going with him, to be present and helping on the occasion, when his one son was set apart to the Lord’s work.
Upon-the Monday it chanced that I was taking a turn through the garden in the afternoon, (for the thorn hedge had then grown so thick and high that folk on the road could not see in) and greatly surprised I was to see Mary my niece, coming through the gate her lane; for I had not heard the gig.
“Mary!” said I, “is this you? Surely, bairn, you have not walked the whole way, and it seven miles.”
“No, aunt,” said Mary, “but Claud and Willie Elder were going to Rures, and they set me down at the Woodlands’ toll. Claud will be here whenever he has hidden Mr. Shepherd goodbye, but I wanted to see you alone.”
“You are no well, Mary, my dear, said I.”
“I am quite well, aunt,” said Mary, “only I want to speak to you alone. Will you come in?”
“I will do that, Mary,” said I, “but I like hot to see you so white and shilpit, the which is a thing you have no call to be, any more than that rose bush would have to wither in the summer time:”
“Ay, aunt,” said Mary, “but roses will wither in the summer time. The bush they planted in the garden at home, the day I was born, has never had a leaf this year, and sometimes I think it’s just like me.”
“Whisht, Mary,” said I. “I have known young things make troubles of their own fancies, where Providence had sent none. No that I am saying you are doing that, bairn, but only it behoves us to be canny. And, oh! Mary, the Almighty’s had a full and kind hand to you.”
“I know that, aunt,” said Mary, leaning down her head upon her hands, for by that time we had entered in, and were sitting in my parlour, “I know that, and that’s what makes me hate myself, that I am so ungrateful — and I always think I could have borne anything else better. Oh, aunt! do not be angry at me.”
“My dear,” said I, “wherefore should I be angry? I have had tribulations of my own, Mary; so tell me, like a good bairn, what it is that has been vexing you. You need not be feared for me.”
It would be two or three minutes before Mary spoke again, and then she looked up into my face, and said she:
“Aunt, I want you to ask my mother to let me go with Claud.”
“With Claud, Mary?” said I; “what has put that into your head? You are surely no wearied of home?”
“No, aunt,” said Mary, in a grave, firm way. “I am not wearied of home; it is necessity. I want to go away, because I cannot stay in Pasturelands — only for a while — but for his sake, and for my sake, aunt, ask my mother to let me go with Claud.”
“For whose sake, Mary?” said I. The bairn gave a glint up with her wet eyes, and then hid her face in her hands.
“Mary,” said I, “is’t Mr. Allan?”
But the heart of the poor young thing was throbbing with trouble, and she answered me not.
“My dear bairn,” said I, “it is needful, if I am to wind this knotted thread, that you should let me see all the ravelling of it. What is it about Mr. Allan, that would make you leave your own mother home?”
The bairn lifted up her head in a degree, but shaded her cheeks with her hands, so that I could see scarce any of her face.
“He fears not God, aunt,” she said, in a voice that was like a whisper; “neither does he regard man. He is leading a sinful life, and suppose he promises to amend it, it is not for God, but for me. Aunt, aunt, would we not be far better asunder? There could be no blessing on us.”
“My bairn,” said I, “have you had converse with Mr. Allan? Look up and tell me right, Mary. It’s no a thing you need hide from me, for sure am I you are sore changed, if you either did or said anything, that was misbecoming Claud Maitland’s bairn.”
Mary lifted up her head with that, the bit proud womanly spirit kindling within her as I knew it would, and then she telled me, no in a very dear way, but aye as I could understand, that she had met with Mr. Allan, no far from the Manse, and that he had pleaded, and promised that he would change — that the first day she set foot in Lilliesleaf, he would be a new man, (the poor bairn minded the very words, and liked, I doubt not, to say them over, for all her grief — wherefore should she not? — that he would give up every ill thing — that he would let her guide him to good, that his very mother, the proud woman, would rejoice and be glad — would she but let him speak to the minister.
“Aunt,” said Mary, to me, when she had gotten it all out and was quieter, poor bairn! “would you have bidden me trust to a change that I was to make — I, so weak as I am? Would you have let him put his caring for me in the place of his fearing God? Oh, aunt! I cannot stay in Pasturelands just now, but I could have done nothing else.”
“Maiy,” said I, “I am troubled in my spirit concerning this matter. Truly I would like ill to have you wedded to a godless man, but mind you that Scripture that says what the believing wife may do? And Mr. Allan is a young man of a most pleasant nature, and if he was just once out of temptation — I know not, Maiy — it might be for the saving of him.”
“Aunt,” said Mary, in a firm and reproving way, “we are never to do evil that good may come, and do not you make me weaker than I am. I pray with all my heart that God may change him, but I cannot. Oh, aunt! do you not think it is hard for me, too?”
“And would you no let him speak to the minister, Mary?” said I.
“No, aunt,” said Mary, “it would only have grieved them all, and what good could it have done. Besides he is the chief heritor in the parish, after the Earl, and maybe hereafter, if my father had opposed or mortified him, it might have made dispeace. Oh, aunt! I did not know what to do, but I thought that was the best.”
“Well, my bairn,” said I, “we will see what time brings forth — and there’s aye something in my spirit, Mary, that says Mr. Allan will mend. The Lord be about the pleasant young man, to keep him from evil. You are both but young yet.”
“And will you ask my mother, aunt,” said Mary, looking up into my face in the innocent way that she used to do when she was a little bairn, “to let me go with Claud?”
“Mary,” said I, “what way do you keep this a secret from your mother, and tell it to me?”
The bairn looked down in a confused way.
“Aunt,” she said to me, “since little Helen died, and that is so long since that I do not remember her, there has never been any sorrow in the Manse, and I cannot bear to grieve my mother; but you — aunt, do not be angry — you know what it is yourself.”
“And so I do, Mary,” said I, “far better, it is my hope, than you will ever know; but you must not keep it from your mother.”
Mary gave her head a bit shake.
“You must tell your mother yourself, Mary,” said I; “and it will not be all grief to her either, any more than it has been to me. Mr. Allan will mend. But, bairn, Claud is to stay at Dourbraes at first, and Mr. Kirkman’s folk are strangers to you. I see not how you can go with Claud.”
“Claud is to get a little house from Mr. Kirkman,” said Mary, in a quick way; “and, perhaps, after he has been a week settled, I could go. I would not need to stay long, for he will, maybe, not remain at Lilliesleaf; or, maybe — oh! if I was only away just now, I would not care so much for what happened after!”
“Tell your mother, Mary, my dear,” said I, “and I will come up myself. You can send down Robbie for me in the end of the week; and, Mary, if some wee bird should whistle at your window, that the young man, Mr. Allan, had settled into a douce and godly manner of life, as becomes one that Providence has gifted so well, what would you say then?”
I saw the bairn’s bits of white fingers clasped tight, and upon her face there came a wan smile, like a glint of the moon; but she said not a word. We had much more converse concerning the same matter, until the gig came up to the door, with Claud, my nephew, and the youth, William Elder, in it, just new from the Manse of Rures; and before they came in, Mary gathered up her hair right, and sorted herself, so that folk might not see that there had been anything in her mind, or in our converse, past the common.
“Mary, Mary,” said William Elder, “what a shame of you to bewitch you poor young minuter! You should have seen how woebegone he looked when Claud said you had set out with us, and left us to go to Sunnyside. Poor Mr. Shepherd thought he should have had as many attractions as aunt Margaret!”
“Mr. Shepherd was very wrong, then, Willie,” said Mary, with a smile that cheered me. “Did he really think I would go to Rures to see him?”
“Oh! his sister was the excuse, you know,” said William; “and, by the bye, it’s as well Claud is going away, or else you would have been compelled to go with him; when he went to Rures, by way of safeguard. James Shepherd, you know, could have protected Elizabeth, and you Claud, besides doing a little private business on your own account — eh, Mary? Do you know, I am jealous of Claud. Elizabeth Shepherd is a very nice girl.”
“I wish you did not think so much of very nice girls, Willie,” said Claud, with a smile. “He is a sad fellow, this young sprig of the law, aunt. We shall have him jealous of Reuben Reid next, for paying too much attention to Mary.”
“As if there was nobody to be jealous of on that account but Reuben Reid,” said William. “But, Mary, don’t look frightened. I never was a talep yet. My aunt does not know to this day, who threw the ball that cracked the chimney-glass in the Manse dining-room, though I got a drubbing for it. By the bye, aunt Margaret, what has become of Grace? Has she married a lord yet?”
“If I were you, I would think sometimes before I spoke, Willie,” said Claud, in a kind of angry way.
“Well, and so I do, Claud,” stud the wild boy Willie, for he was but a boy in a manner, being ages with Mary. “And what business had Grace in London, I would like to know, if she did not intend to distinguish herself in some way? Why, man, all the young ladies in novels do it.”
I marvelled at Claud. “Grace is not a young lady in a novel,” he said, in a grave, ill-pleased tone.
“Whisht, bairns,” said I, “there are worse things than novels in this ill world; and doubtless you will all get your fate some day, so you need not cast out about it. Also it is my thought, William Elder, that in due and right time, you will be bridging home to Bourtree a grave lady of tall stature and much discretion, seeing that folk (as I have often heard) aye like them that are opposite to themselves.”
“Many thanks, aunt Margaret,” said the mirthful laddie; “and who shall we get for Claud? neither too grave nor too gay — a ‘wee lady.’ Aha, cousin! I have you there. Grace, Grace—”
“Willie, don’t be ridiculous,” said Claud, in an impatient manner, and with a cloud upon his brow. “I am going to bid Jenny good bye, aunt.”
“Then you can tell Jenny to bring ben the tea, Claud,” said I, “for it is wearing on in the afternoon, and you will be the better of it, after your long drive.”
The which Jenny did; and after they had abode with me till the night was far on, they set away in the darkening, the three of them, my niece Mary having her heart lightened as I thought, and Willie Elder, like a wild lad as he was, keeping up a continual mirthfulness all the way.
And it was a bonnie night as mortal could have wished to see — with a bit silver mist here and there upon the sky, like the veil about a queen’s head, (I have read that the poor unhappy Mary, of old times, was used to array herself so), and the moon at her full — it was pleasant only to look upon it!
Upon the next day the minister my brother, and Claud my nephew, went away, and on the Thursday, the day the young man was to take the vows of the ministry upon him, Robbie came down with the gig for me early in the morning, with a bit note from Mary, asking me to come up soon. So I dressed myself and went There was much converse between Mary my sister, and me, concerning the matter that day, and vexed she was about it, though, nevertheless, like myself, no without a dawning of hope respecting Mr. Allan. Mary had told her mother, on the Monday night, as I bade her — and Mary, my sister, had given the minister an inkling of it, so that the road was dear in a manner for the departure of the bairn for a season, seeing it was dearly the wisest thing that could be done — only Mary, my sister, was waiting to see me before she would decide.
So having settled that, I returned again to Sunnyside, Mary making a paction with me, that she would be down in the middle of the week, when the minister, my brother, came home (he was to preach at Dourhills on the Sabbath, and introduce Claud to his charge), seeing he was to bring with him satin for a gown, which Miss Janet Selvage was to make, for Mary had worn the silk of the changing colour a good while, and needed a new one to be her best.
So she came upon the Tuesday, having a kind of flighty cheerfulness, that I liked not much to see, because it was appointed that she should go to Dourhills upon the next Monday. Also she left the satin with Miss Janet, (it was a good fabric, and of a becoming and thrifty colour), under a promise that it would be made in a right and handsome way, in time for Robbie taking it up to the Manse with him, on the Saturday forenoon, when he was doing other errands in Burrowstoun.
I mind not anything more that needs to be mentioned, for the next eight days, except that Miss Janet implemented her bargain, and the gown fitted and became the bairn, fine. And upon the appointed day, which was Monday, Mary went away in the inside of the coach, Claud being trysted to meet her in a town nearhand Dourhills where the coach stopped. So we were again in quietness.
I did not wonder, a day or two after that, when I saw from my window, the young man, Mr. Allan Elphinstone, riding quick, and in a hurry, up the brae to Sunnyside. I had not seen him since Mary told me her story; and I discerned by the face of him, whenever he drew near enough to be seen, that he was coming in haste and in trouble to question me concerning the bairn, so I put up a supplication within myself, that I might be made wise to speak a word in season, to the misguided young man.
He came ben, as it seemed to me, even without asking Jenny whether I was in or no.
“Miss Maitland,” he said to me, the very first word he spoke, “where is Mary?”
“Mary is away from home, Mr. Allan,” said I, “but sit down and rest you. You will have come all the way from Lilliesleaf, and it’s a long ride.”
“Where is Mary, Miss Maitland?” said the young man, as if he had not heard me speak.
“The bairn was but delicate in her health, Mr. Allan,” said I, “and she has gone to another place for a change — but sit down, and wear off this hurry. You have not been at Sunnyside for a while.”
Mr. Allan sat down, and looked at me in a bewildered way — and then he said:
“Is it for me, Miss Maitland I is it I who have driven Mary from Pasturelands?”
“Whisht! Mr. Allan,” said I, “wherefore should you be grieved in your spirit, at either me or the bairn? There is not one of us, Mr. Allan, that would not seek your welfare, as much as if you were our own.”
“And yet you prevent it!” said Mr. Allan, starting up off his seat, and travelling about the room. “Mary would not have done this, had she not known what the world says you did. I know — I am sure! Forgive me, Miss Maitland! I did not mean to grieve you, but I do not know what I say!”
“Mr. Allan,” said I, “I know not where you may have heard that old story; and truly it is a thing the world has small concern with, and no mortal has ever heard it from me. But think you, I would have done that, which was a sore thing to do, if there had not been, in my own spirit, a reason sufficient? Mr. Allan, the world had little hand in the upbringing of the bairn, Mary Maitland, even as it had little hand in mine; and if we have both (and truly Mary had made her own judgment before she ever said a word to me), done things hard to the flesh, you may think at least that we had our own reasons, and thought them not ill ones.”
Mr. Allan got a calmer manner as he heard me say that.
“Miss Maitland,” he said, and he sat down upon a seat near me, “do not think I dispute that. Forgive me for speaking of your own history, and at least believe that, bad as I am, I am not bad enough to think lightly of your lifelong protest. But Mary — I do not excuse myself. I plead guilty to folly — but surely that was not enough to separate her and me.”
“Mr. Allan,” said I, “think not that I want to speak hardly to you. An you were one of our own bairns, your weal could not be nearer to my heart — but Mary, in her upbringing, has been learned to call the like of that folly, Sin!”
Mr. Allan leaned down his head upon his hand.
“I do not object,” he said; “call it sin, and what then?”
“Then, Mr. Allan,” said I, “the burn, Mary, has been trained, so far as mortal can be, to hate the very appearance of evil. Since ever she knew spoken speech, she has heard that it was an ill thing and a mad thing to outstep the way that God has made for us. We are all of a sinful nature, Mr. Allan, and so is she, but the blessing of Him that redeemed us, has been upon the bairn, and so far as mortal eyes can read His writing, the Lord has put His name upon her. Think you then, in your own spirit, what she would be like to thole worst in one that was near and dear to her?”
Mr. Allan looked into my face in an earnest way, but spoke not.
“Oh, Mr. Allan,” said I, “it’s an ill thing to forget God. There may be a pleasure here, and a pleasure there, wanting Him — like poppy flowers among corn — but what would you think of the husbandman that would root out the young wheat, that the red poppy heads might be the bigger and the bonnier? You are but young yet, and the world is bright to look at before you; but oh! Mr. Allan, take heed to your ways, that you may have Him with you that is the King and the Lord of all!”
Mr. Allan put his hands over his eyes and we sat there for a while, and never spoke a word, neither him nor me.
“Miss Maitland,” he said at last, “did this grieve Mary?”
“Sorely, Mr. Allan,” said I.
“And was she angry?”
“I know not, Mr. Allan,” said I. “I heard no word of that, and truly, I think that anger is not like to flourish, under the shadow of a great and sore grief.”
It is wonderful to note whiles the likeness that there is in bairns’ minds one to another, There was a glint of pleasure in Mary’s eye when I said to her that the lad, Mr. Allan, would mend, and now there was a light flashed upon his face, when I bore my testimony that what the bairn had been constrained to do, was against her own heart.
So he rose up off his seat again and walked about the room, meditating, as it seemed to me, in his own mind. It chanced that there lay upon my little table which stands in the window, a testament that belonged to Mary, being a small thing, in a binding of blue morocco, with gilded edges, that I had given to her myself upon her birthday when she was a little bairn. Mr. Allan lifted it up and looked at it, and seeing her name written in my band, and also two or three “Mary Maitland’s” in her own writing upon the first leaf (for as I have said she was but a very young thing when she got it), he gave a bit glance at me and then he held it in his hand, and when he went away took it with him.
“Mr. Allan,” said I, when he was bidding me good bye, “you know not what a joy and a pleasure it will be to me to see you setting a godly example in the countryside, as it is right you should do; but, oh! Mr. Allan, when your thoughts turn to the good way, let it be for the sake of Him who spared not his own life for us; and no for the sake of a frail mortal bairn.”
Mr. Allan gave a kind of troubled smile, and said something, I could not hear right what, about both being best, and with that he went his ways, leaving me in a state of sore dubiety for fear he might, through his thought of Mary, be going away to make his wall with un tempered lime, as it is written in Jeremiah, and to say to himself peace, peace, when there was no peace; but truly, it was all in a most wise and kind Hand, and I aye comforted myself with that thought.
We got word from Mary a day or two thereafter, when she was safe settled at Dourhills with Claud, saying that they had got a little house close to the banks of the Dour water, the which Mr. Kirkman in a very kind manner had put furniture into.
It was a very quiet place, Mary said, (for there was a letter to me myself, forbye the one to her mother), with much wood and water and few folk, only that there was a young family at Dourbraes, and Mr and Mrs. Kirkman were uncommon kind. Also Mr. Smail, the minister, had a son and a daughter stopping at the Manse, the young man being the Doctor, and well inclined, as Mary thought, to be chief with Claud. But far more than that, Mary told me, to my great wonder, seeing Claud had never said a word about it, that in the parish — Claud’s parish — was the house of Oakenshaw, and the water that Grace had spoken of was the very water of Dour, upon the side of which the bairn Mary was sojourning! Truly we are compassed with wonders!
Furthermore, Mary told me that Mr. Kirkman said, the lands and the great dwelling-place belonged to Grace’s mother for her own hand, and the Edinburgh gentleman that had been her guardian, had caused the law papers (I am only writing down what the bairn said, for I myself know little concerning the like of these matters) at her marriage, to be so drawn out, that she had still the power to bestow her own possessions as seemed good to her, only seeing her death, poor young thing, had been sudden, Mr. Kirkman knew not whether she might have set her house in order, but he thought it was like to be her wish that her bairn should be free of her father’s hand, seeing he was an ill man. But it was only his thought Mr. Kirkman could tell, and in that there was no certainty. So we just remained as unsatisfied concerning my Grace as we had been before.
And just upon the day, that I got Mary’s letter, Mrs. Elphinstone came to call upon me, a thing which gave me surprise and no uncommon degree of pleasure, for besides that the friend of my youth was sorely changed, the matter between Mr. Allan and Mary made it a trouble to me to meet with her. So our converse began just with ordinary things — the weather and such like, and me asking about her health, which had been but ill; and at last she said to me in a bitter way:
“You would bear of the event shortly to take place at the Castle, Miss Maitland?”
“No,” said I, “I have no troke with anybody nearhand the Castle, and unless it was a thing public to the whole countryside, it is not like to come to me.”
“Oh! it will soon become public enough, doubtless,” said Mrs. Elphinstone; “Lady Julia is about to be married. I daresay you will be astonished, Miss Maitland, that I am not more nearly interested in it. I confidently believe I might have been, had not that foolish boy, Allan, stood in his own light.”
It was not like that I could find much to say after that.
“Lady Mary and I had quite set our hearts upon their union,” said Mrs. Elphinstone, with the kind of bit turn of the head, that folk give when they are speaking in a covert way at other folk, who have done ill to them, “but they say these things go by destiny, and Lady Julia, it seems, has decided for herself. She has a perfect right, of course. Allan Elphinstone of Lilliesleaf is not likely to be an unsuccessful suitor.”
“And who is the gentleman, Mrs. Elphinstone?” said I.
“A poor cousin of her own, heir presumptive to a barren title,” said Mrs. Elphinstone. “I believe it would be immensely better for young people to have these things arranged for them, on a general principle of suitability — it is a precarious happiness, indeed, that rests upon the romantic inclination of an infatuated youth or a foolish girl; but young people that are reasonable in all other respects, seem to think they have a right to be perverse on this. I have seen my Allan positively rude to Lady Julia, because, I suppose, he suspected that I wished him to be the reverse.”
“Truly, Mrs. Elphinstone,” said I, trying to put on a smile, though I felt in no manner well pleased, as may be thought, seeing Mr. Allan had told me that his mother knew about him and Mary, “bairns will be bairns, and doubtless we have all had the like feelings in our season.”
“I cannot say, Miss Maitland,” stud Mrs. Elphinstone; “but this is an extraordinary age. Walls of separation, that in my youth seemed invulnerable, are being cast down every day. I suppose there is nothing for it but submission.”
“I am feared you have been vexed, Mrs. Elphinstone,” said I, for it troubled me to see how the poor, pale, invalid woman was chafing in her own spirit.
“Oh, no I by no means,” said Mrs. Elphinstone, in a proud and mortified way. “Lady Julia, of course, having the Earl’s consent, has little occasion to trouble herself about mine; though I am very well assured she might have been Lady Julia Elphinstone by this time, had Allan taken proper advantage of his opportunities.”
“I am doubting we are going to have rain,” said I, being anxious to turn the converse, as it was far from pleasant to me. “There is a big, white cloud throwing its shadow on the sky; and the country is not out of the need of it either, if it be just a shower, and away. It’s ill pleasing husbandmen with the weather.”
Mrs. Elphinstone made little answer to me, being taken up with her own thoughts.
“I have been seeing Mr. Allan so seldom for this while,” said I, “that I have never got him asked about Cruive End. Do you know, Mrs. Elphinstone, if the young gentleman has seen the improvement on the folk that he wished.”
“I really cannot tell, Miss Maitland,” said Mrs. Elphinstone. “I have but little faith in these schemes of improvement. One hears all one’s life of some grand panacea that is to lift the poor out of their grovelling state, and make all mankind equal; but so far as I can hear, Allan has not even succeeded in making his protégés clean.”
“It’s no my thought, Mrs. Elphinstone,” said I, “that any plan can make mankind equal, seeing the very Gospel tries it not, in a worldly way. And the gifts of the Almighty in creating are even like His gifts in Providence, diverse, and in no manner equal to all. But Mr. Allan made a promise to me to take measures to have the Word carried in a more effectual manner among them.”
“I cannot say, indeed,” said Mrs. Elphinstone, with a manner that showed she was impatient of what I was saying. “I have something of a particular nature to say to you, Miss Maitland, and would be glad of your attention. My son’s purposes, as perhaps you are aware, involve things of more importance to your family than the improvement of a paltry village.”
I looked at her in on astonished way, scarce conceiving what she could be minting at. So she began again.
“We are old friends, Miss Maitland; and though I will not disguise that I consented to what I am about to communicate to you with some reluctance, not from any objection to the young lady personally, but from a mother’s natural ambition for her only son, the reluctance is certainly lessened by our previous connection. I believe you have already hoard of my son’s proposals to your niece?”
I bowed my head, for I was not in the turn for speech.
“Allan tells me,” said Mrs. Elphinstone, “that there has arisen some misunderstanding. Now, Miss Maitland, you will perceive my anxiety to gratify my son, from the fact that I have driven down to-day, solely for the purpose of signifying to you my consent to the marriage. I confess candidly that I have had objections, but my son’s happiness is paramount to them all.”
“Mrs. Elphinstone,” said I, “my niece Mary, has a father and a mother of her own, in whose hands must lie the judging of this matter. It is not for me to take upon myself to answer for them.”
Mrs. Elphinstone looked at me in an astonished way.
“The matter requires very little judging, Miss Maitland. Of course, my son will wait upon the young lady’s father, and make the necessary arrangements. But — at once, for the sake of our old friendship, and to satisfy Allan — I have undertaken this long drive, almost a journey to a confirmed invalid like me; and having done this, really it seems to me, Miss Maitland, that I have done all that can be required of me.”
“Doubtless, Mrs. Elphinstone,” said I; “and it needed not that, for Mr. Allan surely would not leave you ignorant that, in the present circumstances, the bairn Mary, had felt it her duty to decline the compliment he wanted to put upon her. It has been a matter of trouble and sorrow to me, seeing that Mr. Allan had won round my own heart, and I like not to see him crossed; but, doubtless, good will be brought out of it in some way.”
I never saw a look of more wonder upon a face, than was on Mrs. Elphinstone’s, but aye she tried to keep up her haughty way of speaking.
“I surely misunderstand you, Miss Maitland,” she said. “You do not mean that the young lady, your niece, has received my son’s addresses coldly?”
“I know not, Madam,” said I, “‘whether I would be speaking perfect truth, if I said coldly; but the bairn Mary, has been constrained by her own judgment, at this time, to say Mr. Allan, nay.”
I had a fear within myself that the lady, Mrs. Elphinstone, would have lifted up her voice and flyted upon me, for she just burst out: “Upon my word!” —
But then she seemed to remember herself. “Might one ask the reason,” she said, with a bitter smile, “of the young lady’s extraordinary decision?”
“Mrs. Elphinstone,” said I, “it is no my will to grieve you; but Mary, my niece, thought not that Mr. Allan was maintaining the walk he might have done. You’ll excuse me, Mrs. Elphinstone, for truly the welfare of the young man is precious to me also, as if he was one of our own.”
“Really, Miss Maitland,” said Mrs.
Elphinstone, in an angry manner, “this is going quite too far. Because my son, Allan, has the spirit that becomes his years and rank, and is not a vulgar Scottish precisian, it pleases your niece to reject him. We are honoured certainly!”
“It was neither my will nor my niece’s, Mrs. Elphinstone,” said I, “that she should be thrown in Mr. Allan’s way; and the bairn has decided according to her conscience. I see not how I am called to suffer ill names upon a godly and honourable kindred. Mary Maitland’s forbears, if they had not wealth, have ever had godliness and good fame, and the bairn herself would disgrace no house in all Scotland.”
Mrs. Elphinstone grew quieter when she saw my spirit kindling, and said she:
“I beg your pardon, Miss Maitland; but you will allow that my irritation is not wonderful. Why, what would she have? The whole world would ridicule such a decision as this!”
“The bairn, Mary, Mrs. Elphinstone,” said I, “having lived, as you may say, all her days under the immediate shadow of a pure and simple Kirk, has been more used to look to the Word for what was right than to the world, and to judge conformably thereto; and it would be ill my part to counsel her otherwise.”
Truly my spirit was stirred within me. The world, said she I as if I did not mind, in my inmost heart, how the world mocked at, and lightlied, the sin that maddened poor Helen Edgar, and made me a lone woman, desolate in the summer of my days!
Mrs. Elphinstone abode at Sunnyside a good while, and we had much more converse; and truly, before long, it became viable to me that she was growing eager ami anxious about the thing that was to have been, at first, so great an honour to the family of the poor minister of Pasturelands. I could have smiled, even though I was also troubled, for truly, mortals are inconsistent folk!