THE NEXT MONTH after that was an especial epistolary time. I think not I ever got so many letters in one while before, for between Grace and Mary, they keeped me that I had one mostly every morning.
For Grace, the bairn seemed in a state of darkness and perplexity, as folk might be, groping in a dark room, and knowing all the time that the opening of a door or a window, if they could but win to it, would bring light. It seemed to me, that her kindred, among whom she was dwelling, bid to have some reason for keeping her as she was, for she said it was like as if they set a watch upon her, to keep her from getting out any place, without some of them with her, so she had never had an opportunity of seeking out Mr. Monteith.
And the letters of the bairn Mary, brought tears into my eyes often; no that the general tone of them was so mournful, but now and then, at the end, there would be a question, no plainly about Mr. Allan, but aye as I could understand, the which was a plain evidence to me that the heart of the bairn was clinging to some hope concerning the young man. And truly, it did seem to me, that what had passed had wrought a change in Mr. Allan. For the answer of Mary, seeing he also had a perception as well as us, that it was given against her own heart, and only because she could not be wedded to any but a god-fearing man, had wakened the lad to consider in a right and serious manner the one thing needful, which the bairn descried the want of. Also the misfortunes that had come to pass in Cruive End, had given him a view, as I thought, of the vanity of trusting to his own strength, or to the strength of any frail and sinful man.
He came many times to see me in that season, and then he would just sit for maybe an hour at a time, sometimes no speaking half a dozen words all the while, but aye, as it seemed, ruminating in his own mind. He had been uncommon kind to the Bissets in regard of Sandy, and had employed him, and also his father, building a new bridge over the Sedgie Burn, at the place where it is widest. And also, when the other lads were examined before the Sheriff, Mr. Allan had got an advocate from Edinburgh to plead for them, and there was good hope that George Gellatly would get clear off, Mr. Allan coming under a bond for him, and that Robert Blair’s punishment would not be heavy, seeing it could be proved, that it was all a plan of Peter Young’s, and that the lad, being young, had just been led away. But that was not settled at the time I am writing about.
So the autumn went by, slow enough, as I mind thinking at the time, though, seeing there was little come to pass in it, it looks short now, when I turn back to it in my memory. The crops were mostly all in, for it was a good year, and the month of October was drawing near its close, in a melancholy manner to me and Jenny my maid, seeing we were so much alone, and no even Mary coming glinting in upon us now and then, to comfort our hearts, as she had done the winter before. The October time, when the days are drawing in, and the long nights beginning, has ever been a favourite time of mine; for though the heart rises with a blythe summer day, yet the summer night, pleasant as it is, brings aye a lone and sorrowful feeling into my spirit, I know not wherefore.
Nevertheless, that October was in no manner a season of cheerfulness, for seeing the bairns, poor things, were in their tribulations, it was not to be expected that my mind should be without a burden. So it chanced that I was sitting by the fireside, myself, sewing at a seam (it was a garment for a baby if I mind right, for Beenie Throuither, the foolish bairn, who was married upon James Edie, the hind, just before Grace went away, had had twins, and having only a scant providing for one bairn, and no thought of two, needed to be helped upon the occasion) and no in any very blythe frame of mind, upon the afternoon of one of these gray October days when the month was far on.
It was ever a most quiet place, Sunnyside: if there happened to be anything in the town, either of rejoicing or lamenting past the common, you might hear a soft and far away sough of it, but when things were in their ordinary way, as they were at that time, there was no sound came through the thick thorn hedge, and except for the fleeing about of the leaves that had fallen, which was but a melancholy sound, and Jenny’s croon ben in the kitchen, which was a pleasant one, though she was no great singer, there was quietness all round about me.
So I sat there and sewed, as I was saying, most part of the afternoon, till just when I was thinking of crying upon Jenny to bring ben the tea, I heard some kind of a conveyance stop at the gate, and then somebody came to the door. I was feared that it might be Mrs. Elphinstone, so I just sat still and listened, and lo! at the very end of Jenny’s croon, there uprose a perfect Babel of noises, so that I thought not but Jenny was losing the pickle of ordinary sense she had in condition times. So with that I went cannily to the window and looked out, and I had only time to notice that it was a post-chaise that had driven to the door, when somebody came fleeing into the room, and I was straightway gripped on either side. I know not what came over my eyes.
“Mary!” said I, “bairn, is this you?”
But there was one also on my other hand; Bless me, it was my dear bairn Grace!
I could not say a word. The two young things were there, I had only a perception of that, and by and bye, they set me in my chair, with their arms, poor bairns, meeting round about me, and it was hearing a sob from one of them — I mind not whether it was Grace or Mary, that brought me to myself again.
And the joy of the two was just like to overwhelm me — in especial Mary’s — for the brim Grace, though she had gotten a womanly look that made me wonder, just lifted in her stool, and sat down at my feet, the way she had done when she was a little brim, and drew my hand over her shoulder, and seemed as if she would have been content to it that way for hours, and was not caring for speech; but Mary was mostly out of herself. It seemed to me that she could not bide still, nor be silent a moment. And no mortal can tell the joy and the trembling that were together within my spirit.
“Grace, my dear bairn,” said I, “how is it that you have gotten home? My mind is troubled within me for all my joyfulness. Have you come away in a secret manner? Tell me, like a good bairn.”
Grace looked up into my face with eyes like sunshine, and the blythest smile I ever saw.
“No, aunt,” she said, “I have not run away.”
“But, Grace,” said I, “it’s no right to tantalise me in this manner. I can scarce believe my own very eyesight; and till you have tolled me, I cannot be sure in my spirit, that the Lord has indeed brought my own bairn back to me.”
“There is no fear, aunt,” cried out my niece Mary. “Grace is quite safe, though everybody in Burrowstoun was a Lennox. Grace, begin at the beginning, and tell my aunt the whole story.”
Grace laughed.
“Aunt, I have come home, my whole great self — clothed with the mightiness of Oakenshaw — and only encumbered with a guardian, who has committed his guardianship into your most kind and gentle hands.”
“To me?” said I, “was it your father?”
“No, aunt,” said Grace, lifting up her head in her old stately way, “a charge that had been in his hands would do but little honour to you. It was not my father.”
“Whisht, bairn!” said I, “it is your part to honour him, whatever other folk may do.”
“But the story, Grace, the story!” cried out Mary.
“Are you not weary of hearing it, Mary?” said Grace. “Aunt, Mary is the most unsympathetic of girls. All yesterday and all today, has she been rejoicing over the troubles of a young lady, to whose kindness I owe my freedom — my well-beloved cousin, Harriet Lennox.”
“Bairns — bairns!” said I, “is it your purpose and intent to bewilder me altogether? What has that to do with Grace coming home?”
“Will I bring the tea, mem,” said Jenny, opening the door, and looking in with a blythe face. “Miss Grace is sair changed, I reckon, if she doesna like her tea; and the strange young woman, that’s ben the house, says that neither Miss Grace, nor Miss Mary, have tasted a thing since seven o’clock in the morning, but a bit nip of nonsense biscuit, — and the like o’ that is out o’ the question for young folk!”
“Yes, Jenny,” said Grace, “by all means bring the tea. Mary and I were a great deal too pleasantly occupied on the road, to think of such vulgar things as eating and drinking. My aunt says ‘yes,’ Jenny, bring the tea.”
“And there’s the strange man, Miss Grace,” said Jenny; “he’ll no bide to get a meal o’ meat, for he says he maun meet his maister, somegate up the country the nicht, and he’s wanting to ken if you have ony word.”
Grace started up, and got her purse, and took out, I know not how much, but I saw the glittering of golden coin, and said she bid to go and speak to the man, who was a servant, in a douce and becoming livery, that had been sent to take care of the bairns, as I heard after. So I bade Jenny try and get him to take something to refresh him after his travel, and both Grace and Jenny went out of the room.
“Mary,” said I, “what is it that has wrought this? Has our Grace truly come home, no to go away again?”
“Grace will tell you all the story herself, aunt,” said Mary; “but she is free from these people in Edinburgh; and Mr. Monteith will let her live here, or wherever she likes, if you are with her. Aunt?” — and the bairn, after speaking that very quick, stopped in a perturbed manner, and looked in my face.
“It’s my prayer and hope that everything will wear round right, Mary,” said I. “Truly, it looks to me as if the dew was falling upon the pleasant young man that brings blessings with it. But what has Mr. Monteith to do with Grace?”
“Everything, aunt,” said Mary; “and her father nothing. But here she is. Grace, you have no idea how curious my aunt is; but the story, the whole story — begin at the beginning.”
Grace laughed.
“Aunt, I am afraid you are growing angry with us for carrying this so far. I am to have no bondage in future, but the pleasant one of your own will, and, for a time, Mr. Monteith’s. Mr. Monteith is—”
“The story, Grace — the story,” said Mary.
“Tell me the story, then, Grace, my dear,” said I, entering into the blytheness of the bairns, “seeing it will not content Mary if I hear it any other way.”
But Grace had not begun, when Jenny came in with the tray and the tea.
“Eh, mem!” said Jenny to me, “wasna it a providence that I bakit the scones, and Miss Grace sae fond o’ them? and soupler anes never came off a girdle. But the strange young woman, Miss Grace? I’m doubting she’ll hae been used wi’ a muckier house, for she gies strange glances, and maybe she wadna like to sleep in my bit place. Maun I pit her into the best room?”
“It is Jessie, my maid, aunt,” said Grace, “whom I have mentioned to you so often. She will soon get used to Sunnyside, Jenny, and you will like her, I am sure.”
“But will Miss Grace and Miss Mary bide in their auld room?” said Jenny. “And what maun I do wi’ the strange young woman?”
“I will tell you after, Jenny,” said I; “there is plenty of time, and the bairns and me will consult about it; but be careful of the stranger and make her as comfortable as you can.”
So Jenny departed out of the room, being greatly pleased because Grace was praising the scones; and we sat down at the table. So I craved a blessing myself, and then Grace began:
“Well, aunt,” she said, “as I must begin at the beginning, and tell my story in due course, on Monday last, (it was the Thursday afternoon that), I was sitting in my own room alone, when I had a visit from my cousin Harriet, looking so particularly gracious, and speaking so condescendingly, that I felt assured she wanted something. Harriet, you know, aunt, has always been my especial patron in Mrs. Lennox’s family.”
“So you have told us in your letters, Grace,” said I.
“Harriet did me the honour to enter into conversation with me,” said Grace, “and began with asking me about you, aunt, to conciliate my favour, I suppose, to the request she was about to make, and so gradually introduced it:
‘Cousin,’ she said, ‘I want you to be my confidante; Madeline is so selfish, and Fred says he is quite sure you will help us.’ Having no idea of what the duties of a confidante were, I made no professions, and Harriet went on.
“‘You know, cousin, Fred Bellendean, poor fellow! is very — very much attached to me, and mamma is so heartless — so cold — I don’t believe she ever loved anybody all her life, and she forbids me even seeing him, because Fred is not rich. He is Bellendean of Bellendean, you know, and has a good estate; but when he came of age, he was generous, poor fellow! and got into debt, and so his estate is in the hands of a set of horrid trustees, who have let Bellendean to some vulgar rich person, and mamma has forbidden him even calling.’
“Harriet paused to take breath, and cried a little.
“‘But, Grace, dear,’ she resumed, ‘it’s not at all likely, and I am sure you would not think it right, that Fred and I should give up our own happiness for mamma. So, if you will only help us, we shall not need to care for her.’
“‘Harriet,’ said I, ‘I am sure you know very well that anything I could say to my aunt, would only make her opposition stronger.’
“Harriet stared at me with a look of perfect amazement, and then laughed vehemently.”
“‘Upon my word, Grace!’ she said, ‘that simple, sheepish look of yours is inimitable. You surely cannot imagine that I would think of asking your intercession with mamma?’
“I was growing very much astonished, and I suppose looked so, for Harriet indulged herself in another long, but somewhat nervous and hysterical laugh.”
“Dear me, Grace!” said I, “what could the young lady mean?”
“I soon became aware of that, aunt,” stud Grace. “If all Harriet’s intentions have as pleasant results she will be fortunate; but — well, never mind, Mary, I will go on in the most methodical manner possible. Well, aunt, Harriet continued:
“‘We have got all that arranged, Fred and I — trust us for that. Did you never hear of Gretna Green, Grace? — but if you are only a reasonable, kind creature, cousin, as I am sure you will be, we may be so comfortable.’
“I could only ask in still greater astonishment what she meant.
“‘Why, it’s very easy seeing what I mean,’ said Harriet, peevishly; ‘I have told you that these odious trustees have shut poor Fred out of his own house — let it to some low tradesman — a Glasgow cotton-spinner perhaps! and you know, cousin, I am quite sure mamma will be very angry, and will not let us come here; indeed, I don’t wish it either — and to go to Fred’s lodgings, or to some miserable two-roomed cottage would break my heart; now if you would only let us have Oakenshaw, I should be so happy?’
“‘But I have no power over Oakenshaw, Harriet,’ I said. ‘Is it not my father you should ask; you know whether Mr. Maitland is likely to favour your scheme or not?’
“‘Don’t he silty, Grace,’ said Harriet, impatiently. ‘Mr. Maitland, indeed! I should as soon think of asking Madeline — she had a penchant for Fred once herself you know, and no one could conceive how spiteful she is — and I’ll tell you, Grace — only remember mamma and my uncle would kill you if they had the least idea you knew — Mr. Maitland has no more to do with Oakenshaw than I have; not so much, indeed, for I am sure you will let us have it till we can get Bellendean.’ You may imagine, aunt, how I started. ‘It would be very hard, cousin,’ said Harriet, ‘to be disappointed now, when we have everything arranged, and Fred and I, (poor Fred! he is so very, very much attached to me!) have been so long engaged; and the lease of Bellendean will be out before you come of age — at least, not very long after — and I am sure if you had asked me such a thing I couldn’t have refused you.’
“‘But how could I, Harriet?’ I inquired, ‘if I were willing. How could I give you Oakenshaw?’
“‘Only a word to Mr. Monteith, Grace, dear,’ said Harriet, ‘and I am sure Fred and I would never forget your kindness.’
“‘And what has Mr. Monteith to do with Oakenshaw, Harriet?’ I asked.
“‘Why, everything, to be sure!’ exclaimed Harriet. ‘Isn’t he your guardian? and has he not been receiving the rents in trust for you ever since Mrs. Maitland died, all but that paltry three or four hundred a-year for your education. You will do it now, Grace, I am sure you will!’
“Your guardian, bairn!” said I: “is it possible, Grace?”
“I could hardly believe it was possible at first, aunt,” said Grace, “but there was no disbelieving Harriet; she was too anxious about her own object to care for her mother’s. I don’t know how much longer our conversation might have continued, Harriet supplicating with all her might, and hinting at the motives of my father and Mrs. Lennox, even more plainly than I wished; while I, in spite of my own excited feelings, tried to dissuade her from her purpose — when I was suddenly summoned to my aunt’s presence. Harriet grew very pale, begged me to ‘say nothing to mamma,’ and said she would remain in my room till I returned. I went with some trepidation, which was by no means diminished, when I found my father beside my aunt. They were exceedingly gracious, however, my aunt telling me that she had sent for me to say, that I was to accompany them to the country on Friday; and bidding me consult with Madeline and Harriet about my dress, which Mrs. Lennox said was too plain. My father also made some suggestions as to the colours becoming my dark complexion, in a tone of such unparalleled kindness, that I wondered what was coming next.
“At last he took up a pen, and seemed to be writing his name, carelessly, two or three times, and then he offered it to me saying: ‘I believe, I have never seen your signature, Grace. I must have you write to me when I leave Edinburgh. See, sign your name here, I shall have your autograph at least.’ I took the pen with some little apprehension, and noticed he withdrew the paper on which he had been writing, and gave me another folded in a peculiar manner, desiring me to put my name close to the fold. I got curious, and managed to turn the paper itself half over. It was written, on the other side, in a stiff upright hand; and, to tell the truth, aunt, looked exceedingly like one of those law papers which we used to see in the hands of our father, and Mr. Elder, of Bourtree, when Mr. Blythe of the Meadows, died, and seemed to want nothing but the signature, which my father was so kindly pressing me to affix. He observed my hasty and frightened glance, and held the paper tightly down before me. I said there was some mistake — he could not want me to put my name there.
“‘Pshaw! an old letter,’ he said, ‘come Grace, don’t be a little fool. Do what I desire you. There now — don’t falter, write boldly.’
“I put my pen to the paper and then stopped again. ‘If you will tell me what it is, Sir,’ I said, ‘I will sign it immediately.’
“I saw Mrs. Lennox and him exchange glances, but he kept his temper wonderfully.
“‘What fancy is this you have got into that foolish little head of your’s, Grace?’ he said, ‘Why, what possible good could your signature do me? Come, let us be done with these heroics, and give me your autograph.’
“What good indeed, I should have echoed an hour before; but fortified by Harriet’s communication, I kept my position, and said as respectfully as I could: ‘If you will read this to me, sir, or suffer me to read it, I shall sign it at once whatever it may be, but I cannot do it in ignorance.’
“My father glared at me — positively glared, and then seizing my hand, brought the pen hastily down upon the paper, and tried, though with an affectation of playfulness, to make me sign, producing, however, to my joy, only a great blot — on seeing which he dashed me away, and tore the paper into fragments in unconcealed rage.
“‘Go to your room, Miss Maitland!’ commanded Mrs. Lennox. ‘We have, truly in these days, most edifying instances of obedience. I did not believe self-conceit and importance could go so far. Go to your room. We shall not desire your further company to-day!’
“So I made my escape. But really, aunt, I am almost out of breath, and my story is not more than half done.”
“Take a rest, Grace,” said I, “and your second cup of tea, like a good bairn, before it gets cold — although, doubtless, I would like to hear all the story.”
“Well, aunt,” said Grace, “when I went up-stairs again, I found Harriet waiting for me in alarm, and was immediately questioned as to what I was wanted for. I told her it was nothing in the least referring to her, but that my father had wanted my signature to a paper.
“‘Oh! don’t for the world sign anything for my uncle,’ exclaimed Harriet. ‘Why he might borrow great sums of money, and leave you to pay it when you came of age. He would think nothing of squandering all you have, and I declare I could not think of your money being spent as my uncle would spend it — you who have such an abhorrence of a life like his. I am sure, Grace, it would be very different with Fred and I, if you were helping us — we should be so happy and comfortable. And then, cousin, if we were at Oakenshaw, you could come and live with us. I am quite sure you don’t like to live here, mamma is so ill-natured.’
“I think your tastes and mine would not agree very well, even in Oakenshaw, Harriet,” I said. “And then, to elope — it is so unwomanly — so wrong—”
“‘Yes, Grace,’ said Harriet, rising, with a more elevated expression in her face, ‘if one were leaving a delightful home like what one reads of in novels, with mother and sister so tender, and so pious, and so good. I don’t think one would have run away from that Sunnyside you were telling roe of, but it is so different here. Mamma has no objections to Fred, except that he is poor; and how much do you think either Madeline or she would care, if they were never to see me again? now, it is quite another thing with Fred. Now, Grace, will you let us go to Oakenshaw?’
“And did you, Grace?” said I.
“I did not say ‘No,’ aunt,” said Grace; “I could not in gratitude, and so Harriet left me, telling me she took my silence for consent, and that ‘Fred’ and she would be safely lodged in Oakenshaw on Thursday. She promised to visit me again in the evening, and tell me all their arrangements. So, after Harriet had left the room, I consulted Jessie as to the possibility of making our way to Broadlee. Jessie did not know where it was, but thought if we got ‘a noddy,’ there was no fear of us. So we waited till we heard my aunt go out, and managed to steal away unperceived, after many reconnoitrings, and in due time, with the assistance of the noddy, we reached Broadlee. And with that, aunt, commences the second fytte of my most eventful history.”
“And that is just the part, Grace, my dear,” said I, “that I am most anxious to hear about, only the tea will be cold for Jenny; and we will send it away first.”
So I gave thanks, and when Jenny had taken away the tray, Grace began again. “We found Mr. Monteith at home, aunt, to my great satisfaction, and he received us most cordially, but was perfectly amazed when I told him the ignorance I had been kept in, and as indignant as amazed.
How did you find all this out, Miss Grace?’ he asked. ‘I was giving you credit for being a distrustful little monkey. I beg your pardon, but you know my privileges now, at least. How did you find it out?’
“I stammered something about my cousin, for I did not want to betray Harriet, after her good offices.”
“‘Your cousin? come, that’s not so bad,’ said Mr. Monteith. ‘Which of them, Miss Grace? I shall owe her a kindness for it.’
“My cousin Harriet told me, on the occasion of confiding to me an important secret of her own, Sir,” I said, half wishing he would ask me what it was, for I did not feel very comfortable about encouraging Harriet in such a scheme.
“But he only laughed, and said, ‘Well, well, some love affair, I fancy — she should have her hands frill,’ and then, growing suddenly grave, he went to his writing-table, opened an inner drawer, and taking out a letter, put it into my hands, without saying a word.”
“And what was the letter, Grace?” said I, noticing that the bairn stopped in a confused manner, as if she thought shame to say any more.
“I am ashamed to tell you, aunt,” said Grace, “it was addressed to Mr. Monteith and signed ‘Grace Maitland,’ and conveyed a request that he would give Mrs. Lennox a hundred pounds for me, as I wanted to make a present to an old friend.”
I lifted up my hands in wonder and astonishment, and the bairn held down her head in a shamefaced way, as if it was a grief to her even to tell about an untruth like that.
“A hundred pounds, bairn!” said I. “Bless me, that is more than three times as much as Mrs. Lennox used to send for you in a whole year.”
“Mr. Monteith asked me, aunt,” said Grace, “if that was my writing, and, of course, I told him it was not, and mentioned the attempt of the morning.
“‘Like a law-paper,’ he said. ‘I don’t see what good that would do them, as you are a minor, unless it was to impose on somebody.’
I mentioned Harriet’s suggestion.
“‘To borrow money?’ said Mr. Monteith. ‘Well, it might be so. I stood out so long about these last drafts of yours, (for that is but one of many billet-doux which your aunt has done me the honour to write in your name) that I suppose Mrs. Lennox would think there was no more hope from me. Upon my word, Miss Grace, I was inclined to call you a most extravagant young lady. To borrow money — humph, that cousin of yours is too sharp for a girl.’
“We had some further conversation on the same subject, and then Mr. Monteith asked me if I was going to stay with him till I was old enough to take possession of Oakenshaw, saying he would get a widowed cousin to reside with him if I did so, and urging me very kindly to remain in Broadlee. I thanked him, aunt, but said, I had a very dear friend, parting with whom had been my greatest trial, and whom I earnestly desired to be with again; and on his inquiring your name, I told him.
“Aunt, I never saw a face change so. He had been smiling and looking at me with a particularly kind expression. Now he started, turned grave, threw himself upon a chair, and sat in silence, looking at the ground for I do not know how long.”
“What said he, bairn?” said I, though there was a mist gathering before my eyes, and I perceived not right where I was, nor anything, but that the bairn’s voice trembled.
“He said nothing, aunt,” said Grace, “for many minutes, and then he raised his head and tried to look as easy as he had done before, and said, ‘Margaret Maitland engrafted on Grace Hunter — a rare combination!’
“And then he asked about you, aunt, most earnestly, and told me, not as you would have done, but with something of testy impatience, that he was alone in Broadlee, and you in Sunnyside, all for a punctilio; and then he paused suddenly and said he did you injustice, and begged ray pardon — it was a subject he never could enter upon. So now, aunt, you know who my guardian is.”
Truly, my heart had forewarned me long since: and Harry Monteith was an old and solitary man! But it became me not to occupy myself with the like of these long-past things, when the bairns were in their joy beside me: so I said, in as blythe a way as I could, “But you are no done yet, Grace.” So the bairn began again:
“I told Mr. Monteith, aunt, that Mary was at Dourhills, and he promised to go down with me to Oakenshaw the next morning; which we did, and Mary can tell you the rest.”
“But did your aunt seek after you in no manner, Grace?” said I. “And what about the young thing, your cousin?”
“Mr. Monteith had an interview with Mrs. Lennox in the evening, aunt,” said Grace. “I begged of him that the letters might not be mentioned; and though I suppose she would be very much enraged, Mr. Monteith said nothing about it. He did not seem to have the least doubt of his own power to keep me from them, and of course that made me confident. He did not wish to speak of them at all, I thought. And for Harriet, I told him her story when we were travelling to Oakenshaw, and he laughed and shook his head — said they were both very silly, but it might be a new chance for them, and that be would not interfere. So I ventured to tell the housekeeper at Oakenshaw to receive them. Do not look grave, aunt. I owed my freedom to Harriet, and Mr. Monteith did not forbid me.”
“I misdoubt greatly if be was likely to be a good judge,” said I. “To be sure, he is a man of years now. But, Grace, my bairn, wherefore had your father and your aunt keeped you so?”
“My father, aunt,” said Grace, holding down her head, “is, unhappily, a man of little principle, and little income, and many wants, and Mr. Monteith thinks they had intended to keep me in perfect ignorance of my real position, until, by my coming of age, they had got the revenues of Oakenshaw into their own hands. When my poor mother died, Mrs. Lennox had affected great grief for her, and great affection for me, and undertaking to have me brought up in the country, as she said my delicate health required, had obtained a promise from Mr. Monteith that, in consideration of my father’s circumstances, he would not mention the way in which the property was settled. Several people knew it, of course, but the world did not; and that was all Mrs. Lennox cared for.”
“But, dear me, Grace!” said I, “if the witless folk had let you stay in Sunnyside, they might have gotten it all their own way; for what was the like of you, an innocent bairn, heeding about siller?”
“I have thought that often, these two or three days, aunt,” said Grace, “but scheming people are strangely short-sighted, and defeat themselves sometimes by over-wariness.”
“And, aunt,” said Mary, “do you not want to hear how Grace came to Dourhills?”
“Doubtless I do, Mary,” said I, “I doubt not but Claud and you would be mostly out of your wits; and lone he will be, poor lad, being left to himself.”
“It was the day before yesterday,” said Mary, “and Claud had just begun to write his sermon, and I was wondering what my mother would be doing without me at home, when Grace came in. Oh, aunt! you should have seen Claud! He threw the introduction to his sermon into the fire, though it was a very fine one, he was so rejoiced.”
“Indeed I did not think it, Mary,” stud Grace, “or else Claud has changed the fashion of his rejoicing strangely since I saw him last. I thought he was positively sad; and, what do you think, aunt? Claud, our Claud, was going to address me as Miss Maitland!”
“It was strange, too,” said Mary, in a meditative way. “I am sure, aunt, for half an hour after Grace told us about Oakenshaw, Claud never opened his lips — but sat still, and looked at the fire, and sighed. It was very strange. I did not think of that.”
It was not what you could call a strange thing, that the bairn Grace, sitting as it were, just on the fire, should have much colour in her face at that time, for all so pale as it was for ordinary; and besides that, she was just drooping her head in an uncommon manner at the moment, the foolish bairn!
“And then,” said Mary, “we came away this morning, and Mr. Monteith’s man came with us, to take care of us — and — here we are.”
“And is it really so, Grace, my dear bairn!” said I, “that you have come back, no to go away again?”
There was a smile upon Grace’s face — I know not what the bairn might mean — but she said:
“Never again alone, aunt, so long as I live; but when I go to Oakenshaw by and bye, you will go with me, will you not?”
I mind not right how I answered, for it was a confused night, for all so joyful as it was.