THE WINTER THAT past, after that, was a most quiet and pleasant season — a lown and sunny time after the storm, just sent, as it seemed to me, that we might get a rest and be refreshed in our spirits, before new things came of a troublous nature; for truly, joy, in a manner, is troublous, as well as affliction, and sometimes wearies folk more.
There were various threats put out by Grace’s father and her aunt, about having her brought back to them. Also Mr. Monteith wrote to Grace, saying that Sir William Martyn had asked his leave to pay his attentions to my bairn; nevertheless, we were not moved with any of these things, for Grace had written to Mr. Monteith about the visit of her father and Mrs. Lennox, and Mr. Monteith had signified to them, that if they meddled with the bairn, it would be a needful thing for him to let the world know their ill deeds concerning the siller. So we were freed from the fear of them, and abode peacefully in our own house, Grace and me, as we had done before there was any word of these changes.
And for the family at the Manse, they also were dwelling for a season in quietness, for greatly against Mr. Allan’s will, the marriage was put off to the spring of the year, both as being a more seasonable time, and in tenderness to the trembling of the bairn Mary, who had a measure of fear concerning it, that it troubled me to see. I know not what spirit could have hardened itself against Mr. Allan, seeing the way that he laboured, no to win the bairn’s confidence only, but to abound in good works, as became one that the Master of us all had gifted with many good gifts; and truly, it was a joy to behold the blytheness that was upon the young man’s countenance. The young folk about, who had a knowledge concerning the matter, that is, the Bourtree bairns, and sometimes even Grace herself, would uphold with me, that the cause of his blytheness was altogether Mary. But although it’s no to be denied that Mary, seeing she was a most pleasant bairn, might be the occasion of a reasonable measure of rejoicing, yet it was my thought that the young man’s heart was also glad within him, in that his feet were, in a manner, dear of the snares and perils of the ill road, and his steps were being directed in the ways of godliness. For, oh! that young folk would but aye mind and understand the pleasantness of that one right way, wherein He has gone before us, who is the Wisdom and the Power of God.
From the young man, my nephew, Claud, we aye heard, now and then; indeed, I think not but after Grace came, his letters were more frequent to me; and it was dear he was in but a dull frame of mind, being far away, and alone.
The young lady, Grace’s cousin, was also still living at Oakenshaw, and Claud had seen her, and been in the house; but seeing they were in no manner like him, either in disposition or up-bringing, it was not to be expected that there could be much friendship among them. So, as I was saying, in a peaceable and quiet manner, the winter went by.
It was a serious season that, and one of much thought and many consultations in most of the Manses in Scotland, and in ours, no less than the rest. For it was not to be thought that my brother, Claud, having the godly name of our forbears for his heritage, and being filled with a right fear and reverence towards his King and Master, who had dealt so bountifully with him, was like to be found lingering among the faint-hearted, or building upon a carnal and worldly principle, like them that gainsay the government of the only Head of the Kirk.
I think not that it is in any manner needful for me to write down any history of the Kirk’s trials here. Truly, it is an old story in our country of Scotland; and if there should be folk of another land reading this, doubtless they may learn concerning the matter, from many books and histories, in especial from some, most pleasant to read, which have been written by two ministers (father and son) of that people, who in my young days were called Old Light Burghers — a history, the reading of which, I doubt not, will be to edification, to such as, by reason of belonging to another nation, or by reason of neglect in their up-bringing, may want a sufficiency of knowledge to distinguish between the old and stedfast Kirk herself, and them that do sometimes iniquitously bear her name.
But it is not my thought to meddle with the deep things of the Kirk in a simple history like this, more than just to say, that it was very greatly in our minds that winter, seeing that no mortal, abiding in the flesh, and having carnal wants like all humankind, could lay by the temporal providing of Kirk and Manse, and Stipend, without a thought of anxiety; far less, that a minister of the ancient and pure Kirk of Scotland should look forward, and think of a time, when maybe her holy places would be made desolate, without lifting up his voice to the Lord, with tears and supplications, crying out for the peace of Jerusalem.
So the satisfaction wherewith we regarded the prosperity that was like to be the lot of the two bairns, Grace and Mary, was tempered with trouble regarding the Kirk, and also the thought of private mishaps and hardships that might maybe befall ourselves, for I knew the minister, my brother, would struggle sore, before he would be indebted either to Mr. Allan, who was to be his son-in-law, or to my bairn, Grace.
So we had settled it between us, Grace and me, that if the worst did come, the minister and Mary, my sister — who would come straight to Sunnyside whenever they left the Manse, seeing we had ever been of one spirit, and they knew well that what was mine was theirs also — should be eased in divers manners, hidelins, as it were, that they might feel the change as light as possible. It was settled likewise that our Mary, poor bairn, was to be married upon Mr. Allan, in the end of April, or the beginning of May.
So upon the second day of April, just when the sun was getting a measure of brightness, and the country growing green, Grace, and Mary, and me went away together to see the house of Oakenshaw. It had been a visit long spoken about, only there had come in first one cause of delay, and then another, though I am necessitated to say, they were mostly of Mr. Allan’s making, because Mary would not hear of him going with us, till Grace would not be put off any longer, seeing it was dear that if we did not get Mary then, we were not like to get her again.
So Grace wrote to her cousin, young Mrs. Bellendean, saying we were coining, and Mr. Monteith, (for she told him also), sent his carriage to take us. We left Sunnyside early, and got to Oakenshaw, without any uncommon hurrying, in the darkening of the same night; and, upon the road, just before we came to the gate of the house, the two young things cried out to me, that there was Claud walking upon the footpath; and truly it was Claud, though, being in the dark, I would not have known him.
The house of Oakenshaw was bright with light, when we came to it, and there were servants going about, and all the signs of a party of strange folk being in the house; and though the housekeeper (a very sober and discreet-looking woman of years — maybe as many as my own), and a servant-maid were waiting to receive us at the door, I think not that any stranger could have fancied that it was the mistress of the house that was coming to it so, and that the folk who were feasting within were but dwelling there at her pleasure.
So the housekeeper took us into a plain room, very little either bigger or finer than my own parlour, and upon the wall of it, was the picture of Grace’s mother, that Claud and Mary both said was so like the bairn herself. And truly so it was — to be a painted picture, I never saw the like of it. So Claud stayed with us till the night was far on. Woes me! but the young man was grave, and thin, and white; it bid to be with living so far from home.
“I wish Claud was nearer Pasturelands, aunt,” said Mary, to me, when he was away. “How pale, and how grave he is now; I am sure it would grieve my mother to see him looking so.”
Grace was sitting with her face away from us.
“Truly I am pained for him also, Mary, my dear,” said I. “He has been giving himself overmuch to thought and study, I am feared; but the while he is home with us, we must take good care of him.”
Seeing it was to the wedding of the bairn he was coming home, that word of mine made her hold her peace; so, for a while, the converse turned on other things; but after, when I was speaking to Grace concerning her cousin, it seemed as though she had not been listening to me, for she said:
“I must ask Claud what ails him at me. If I have done anything to offend him, I shall submit to be rebuked; but is it not strange, aunt, that our Claud will not speak to me?”
“Wherefore would you say such a thing of the poor lad, bairn?” said I. “Unless it was that he was greatly taken up with the picture, I know not that any in the room had more of his converse. It’s my thought the lad was dreaming.”
“Poor Claud!” said Mary, speaking low, and she gave a sigh.
So there was little more said concerning him at that time. Truly we have all our own troubles.
We did not see the young lady, Mrs. Bellendean, that night; but the next morning, long after we had gotten our breakfast in the plain parlour, that had been Grace’s mother’s room, she came to us. She was a young lady of a beautiful countenance, but with a light and gay manner that I liked not; and truly her demeanour towards my Grace and us was liker as if we had been poor visitors of her own, than anything else. However, Grace, in her quiet way, soon let the lady see how she esteemed us, and also that she was in no degree inclined to be made a stranger in her own house.
Young Mrs. Bellendean had a grand and haughty look with her, like her mother, and my Grace, for all her stateliness, was ever as simple as a bairn: nevertheless, it was no hard thing to say beforehand which was most likely to command the other. The young man upon whom Grace’s cousin was married, had a measure of outward good looks, but, as it seemed to me, uncommonly little within. Truly it was a matter of wonder to us all what the young lady could have seen in him, to make her do as she did, only there is aye much truth in the old word — it is good gear that pleases the merchant.
We abode, I think, a fortnight at Oakenshaw, keeping mostly, when we were in the house, in the plain room, and leaving the rest to the young stranger folk, upon whom there seemed to have fallen a kind of bondage, because of us, though none of us meddled either with them or their visitors. So, by reason of that, Grace thought it would be best to leave the place soon, seeing it was by her will her cousin had come to it, and they could have little of what they, poor things! called pleasure, the time that we, a quiet and content family, abode under the same roof; and, besides that, there was another reason for hurrying.
There is an old freit in the countryside that ill fortune ever follows them that are married in May, the which Mr. Allan had got into his head, and so gave the minister, my brother, no peace, till he got him to write to us about having the day set in the month of April — no that I think the young man, Mr. Allan, believed the old word of the country, but just it was an excuse for bringing us back the sooner. So, in a fortnight, we began to make our preparations for returning to Sunnyside.
It happened that my nephew, Claud, and me, were walking down by the Dour Water, within the grounds of Oakenshaw, communing our lane concerning the things that had come to pass in the family, just the day before we were to travel home. “I don’t know if I will continue in Dourhills, aunt,” said Claud to me, in a downcast way.
“Dear me, Claud,” said I, “I thought you liked the parish.”
“The parish is very well,” said Claud, “I have no fault to find with it, but—” and the young man stopped suddenly.
“Claud,” said I, “will you be doing your right duty to your Master and to the Kirk, by loosing so soon the bond that has been made between you and the people of Dourhills?”
Claud gave himself a quick turn, as if that view of it pained him sore, and he said to me, in a troubled way, “If the event comes which we expect, aunt, the bond will be broken, whether I will or not.”
“I understand you not, Claud Maitland,” said I. “If it’s your meaning that the stipend will stop, and men will no more call you Mr; Smail’s helper, then you will say true — but it’s no my thought that you took your ordination from the heritors, or that you are the less a minister of the pure Kirk, that your forbears lived and died in, because you are no to get Mr. Smail’s siller any more.”
“I do not mean so, aunt,” said my nephew, Claud, “in the slightest degree. Certainly I hold leaving the church, and leaving the establishment, to be two very different things; but the servants of the church are not confined to one locality. I may serve my Master as well in another place.”
I looked into the countenance of the young man, upon which there was a shadow of perplexity and trouble.
“Is it because it is so far away from home, Claud?” said I.
Claud did not turn to me, nor meet my look, but he said, low:
“No, aunt, I can scarcely hope to have my choice in that particular — but I do not need to hide it from you. It were most unwise, most fatal to myself; how could I, aunt, remain in Dourhills, and Grace in Oakenshaw?”
We came to a turn of the road at that moment, and her name was not off his lips when my bairn herself stood before us, very white in the face, yet with the shadow as of some ruddy light trembling and moving upon it.
“Claud,” she said, in a strange, low, feared voice, “why must you leave Dourhills, because Grace is in Oakenshaw?” The young man made a motion with his hands in a beseeching way, as if he was in a despair, and durst not answer, and the bairn looked at him, and put up her hand to her cheek that we might not see how it was beginning to burn, and then she tried to put on a look as if she did not care, and cried to me to come and see about the sorting of my things for our homegoing. And so we left the young man, and I had no more converse with him at that time.
And upon the next morning, we took our departure from Oakenshaw, Claud being with us. It was an uncommon quiet travel, for though Grace started now and then out of her own thoughts, and spoke for a while in a mirthful way, it was dear her mind was taken up otherwise — and Claud, who was sitting opposite to her in the carriage, durst not lift his eyes, as it seemed, but sat leaning back into the corner, with a dowie and melancholy face; and Mary, besides being much taken up about her brother, had also doubtless her own bits of cogitations — and I was greatly concerned about them all.
We would be near ten miles from the Manse, (for Grace and me were to abide there till after the marriage), and night was drawing on, when I saw Mary start in her corner, though she did not speak. And truly, in a moment after, there was Mr. Allan at the side of the carriage, who had come out so far, to convoy us to the Manse. So for the further part of the way, there was some converse between him and me, and the bairns got the time in quietness for their own divers thoughts.
It was upon a Tuesday that we came home, and that day week was fixed for the bridal of the bairn, Mary, seeing it was little use putting it off when we knew it bid to be.
I forgot to say at the right place, that we had been in, two or three times, to Edinburgh, the while we were dwelling at Oakenshaw, getting the needful things; and nothing would please Grace, but that Mary’s wedding-gown, poor bairn, should be a present from her — and a very fine gown it was, of rich white silk, and made in the best way, by a high Edinburgh mantua-maker. Truly, it was a most beautiful and suitable apparel for such a season, though I was mostly feared within myself that it was too fine for the daughter of a plain country minister, even though she was going to be married upon a Laird — only, for all that it was so rich and delicate, it was as simple as the garments of any bairn; and so I was content.
Upon the night before Mary was to be married, it chanced that, all things being sorted and ready, we were all sitting together in the Manse parlour, Claud being at a table by himself, pretending to pick out a sermon from many that were before him, to preach upon the Sabbath day. I was sitting upon a chair near him, and Mary and Grace came together to his table, seeing the bairns wanted to slip away cannily to their own chamber, for we could not get Mr. Allan out of the house. So Mary leaned over Claud’s shoulder, and began to turn over his sermons also, and suddenly I heard her say, reading like from some paper before her:
“‘My dear Grace.’ Grace, there is a letter for you.”
Claud started, crushed up a paper in his hand, and turned very red, saying between his teeth: “I did not know that was there.”
I looked at Grace, wondering what she would do, and Mr. Allan having by this time come beside Mary, the other two were in a manner alone. So Grace looked at Claud in a grave manner, and laid her hand upon his hand wherein the paper was, and said:
“Is it for me, Claud?”
The young man muttered something, I heard not right what, about “an old madness,” and straightway Grace opened his fingers, (truly, I thought the lad was in no manner unwilling,) and took out the paper, and then she drew Mary’s arm within her own, and, though Mr. Allan resisted that, the two went quietly away.
So the day came, at last. It’s no in my power to say that there was any bye-ordinary cheerfulness in the family upon the occasion, for it was a heavy thought to us all, that the bairn was going forth out of the midst of us, to be henceforth, in a measure, a stranger to the house of her fathers; but there were the young £lders, that had no such thought, and Mr. Allan, who was full of rejoicing, and the other young folk that were with him, the blytheness of them causing that our mingling of a quiet lamentation should not be noticed.
So we got the ceremony over. My Grace, and Janet Elder, and Marion Blythe, and a young lady, a cousin of Mr. Allan’s, from the East country, who had come to Lilliesleaf for the occasion, being all bridesmaids. And when it was done, the two went away in a new carriage, and before I could think of anything but the white face of the dear bairn, they were far away on the road to the old house of Lochlee, which had been sorted for them — no the one Mrs. Graeme abode in, which was a dull place near at hand, but an old dwelling upon the banks of the Loch, from which the land got its name, which was about twenty miles away, and situated in a most pleasant country.
And truly, I had a sore drither concerning the matter, when the bairn went away; for the like of that, though it may well be a cause of joy and rejoicing to young folk, that care only about the ploy, yet it has tribulation in it likewise, to such as the Minister, and Mary, my sister, and me. For it is a sore thing to think of the bits of bairns, that you have carried in your arms, and watched in their cradles, going forth to enter upon the tuilzie of this world, and be mixed in with its troubles for their own hand, in especial when the bairn is a bairn of a delicate and easy moved spirit!
I have often marvelled within myself, to hear of young things leaving kin and home, and going far away, over the great and broad sea, by reason of being wedded to a stranger man. Truly, it has ever been a matter of wonder to me, what manner of spirit they were of, that had strength to do the like of that, or what was the thought concerning it of the friends at home, that were wearing up into years like me, when the ship sailed over the great waters, and they found the bairn gone! There was pain to us, in seeing the dear bairn, Mary, go forth in prosperity and hope to a near habitation, but if such a weird as that had been appointed for us, I know not how we could have borne it, at all.
But I had to rouse myself out of my meditation, by reason of there being many folk in the Manse, and truly, in such a youthful company, it was not easy to keep in a quiet way of thinking. There were the Elders, and the Blythes, and the Forrests, of Woodlands, and various more, whom it is not needful to mention, a blythe company, in which I needed to put in my word, seeing that Mary, my sister, had gone up the stair to be her lane awhile, and Grace and Claud, both of them, I know not how, had disappeared out of the room.
They went to the door to see Mary away, and, doubtless, were looking out upon the road after her, as was but natural. Mrs. Elphinstone also was at the Manse, among the rest of the folk, and blythe and well pleased she looked, which was a great comfort to me.
It so happened that Grace and me, being to sleep in one room, fell into a converse that night. I was laying by my gown (it was silk, of a silvery gray colour, like the bark of a beech tree, and was the same as Mary, my sister’s — we had both got them from Edinburgh for the occasion, and they also were a present from Grace), and folding it up carefully, that it might get no scathe from being put into small buik.
“Grace,” said I, “when think you I will wear this fine gown again? No till you yourself go away from us, even as the bairn, Mary, has done!”
Grace did not answer me.
“Do you no hear what I say Grace, my dear?” said I, looking about to her.
The bairn had loosed down her hair, and it was all hanging loose about her face, and hiding it from me.
“No, aunt,” she said, “I did not hear.”
“Will I say it over again, Grace?” said I.
“No, aunt,” said Grace again, “I will not trouble you. I have heard so much to-day, that my brain is bewildered.”
“Of what, Grace?” said I.
The bairn gave a glance through her hair, and played with it about her face, so that I could see nothing but the long dark veil that it made, and the eyes through it, shining half out, like stars among clouds: and then she said, speaking low, “Divers things, aunt — so many, that I could not tell you all. Aunt, will you tell me one thing. Why did Claud think it needful to leave Dourhills because I was in Oakenshaw?”
“Truly, Grace,” said I, “that is just the one question, above all others, that it’s no in my power to answer you.”
“Claud never told you, then,” said Grace. “But, aunt, have you no idea? I wish very much you would tell me.”
“My bairn,” said I, “there are some things that it is far best no to inquire into the inmost of. Claud never said a word to me. And, truly, seeing I am a quiet woman, and have little experience of the private thoughts of the like of him, it’s not to be expected that I could find it out for my own hand.”
So, after that, we fell into converse about Mary, and Claud was not mentioned again: neither did the bairn say a word to me about the letter she had taken from him the night before. And, truly, there was a measure of restraint upon my spirit, so that I liked not to ask her about it.
In the end of the same week, we went home again, Grace and me, to Sunnyside: and also the young man, Claud, my nephew, went back to Dourhills. I think not but the short sojourn in the Manse had been blessed to Claud, for, without doubt, there was far more of his old blythe look in his face, when he went away, than when he came with us from Oakenshaw.
It might be the solemnities of his work as an ordained minister of the Word, that made him so douce, though truly, I was in no manner pleased to see it, for it’s ever my thought that the most God-fearing man should he the most blythe man. However, I was not without my hopes, that in one way or other, the cloud would pass from him.
So the summer time drew on, and that May season passed away. Truly, it was a season to be held in great remembrance; but, as I have before said, it is not my purpose to speak of the solemn and great things of the Kirk in a simple history like this, pertaining only to our own family and folk. But my brother, the minister, and Claud, my nephew, and many of their brethren — as is known to the world — left their temporal providing at the appointed time, and came out with the pure and free Kirk into the wilderness; for who would heed to green pastures and still waters, if the light of the Lord’s countenance was lifted away?
So, having left the Manse, and made a provision for the meeting of the folk upon the Sabbath day, the minister, and Mary, my sister, came down, and took up their abode at Sunnyside, promising to stay with us there, until, in the reasonable course of things, there could be a new abode budded for them, in the bounds of their own parish; for it very soon became a clear thing to us, that the Head of the Kirk purposed not to remove the candlestick from our land of Scotland, at that time; but rather that he would have the light shine more dearly, and for that end, had poured out a spirit of liberality upon the folk, the like of which was never seen, and which made men stand still to wonder, at the great things that the Lord was bringing to pass among us.
It behoved that the pulpit of the vacant kirk, that my brother Claud had left (for truly, vacant was the only right word, seeing it wanted both a minister to preach and a people to hear) should be filled, and the presentation was the Earl’s. So it was natural that we should have an interest in hearing who was to: get it; and it may well be thought the wonder we were thrown into, when my brother, Claud, came in one day, and told us that the presentee to the kirk and parish of Pasturelands, was the old Dominie, Reuben Reid.
He could not get us to believe it was possible, for even if it had been pride, and no better thing, they might have laboured to get as right a successor to the minister as they could, and truly, though I say it, that maybe should not, they might have looked far before they got a man like Claud Maitland, of Pasturelands. But the like of Reuben Reid! — I never heard of so unwise a thing.
Nevertheless, it was not to be disputed; Reuben was the presentee, and in process of time, he got through his trials (I marvel the old man thought not shame!) and was ordained in a profane manner by candle-light, as I have heard folk say, that he might be in time for the half year’s stipend — the Presbytery of Burrowstoun (there were but two or three left of them) having just a race from place to place, ordaining and inducting the new men, in time to get the siller they had no right to.
It was the month of September when Reuben was ordained, and it so happened that I was sitting my lane in my own parlour, for the minister was up at Pasturelands, labouring among his folk, as was his wont, especially at that season of the year, when the Sacrament was drawing on, and he had many young folk to prepare for the Occasion. And Mary, my sister, and Grace, were up at Lilliesleaf with Mary — young Mrs. Elphinstone, as it was needful to call the innocent bairn now! I had been trysted to go, too, but was not well in my health, being troubled with some bit ailment, I mind not what; and so it was, that I happened to be in the house my lane. And greatly to my amazement, when I was sitting quiet, reading a book, in came Jenny, with a red and wrathful face.
“Dear me, Jenny,” said I, “what is the matter?”
“Matter, Miss Marget!” said Jenny with a kind of bit short sound, like what the pony Donald might have made, if the poor dumb beast had had reason enough to be so greatly angered. “Think ye, I will hae strength gien me to keep my hands aff him! There’s ane coming up the brae, keeping the road dear for our door, that if he had the sense of a puddock, wadna daur to pit his feet within ten mile o’ the dwelling o’ the minister! Will you gang into the garden, Miss Marget, that I may say to him, (grant me patience no to fyle my fingers on him!) that you’re no in, without telling a lee!”
“Who is it, Jenny?” said I, being in great wonder concerning Jenny’s wrath...
“It’s Reuben Reid, Miss Maiget,”. said Jenny, “the silly clavering Dominie body, that they have putten into our Kirk — atweel and it’s an honour to the Earl and a’ belanging till’t to set up the powkit atomy and his tawse in the place o’ our minister — but an ye dinna gang to the garden, Miss Marget, I’m no dear in my conscience to tell a lee.”
“At no hand, Jenny,” said I, “it would be little better than falset, even if I was going in to the garden, so you will just bring Reuben here.”
Jenny tinned round to me as if she thought I was not wise — but Reuben by that time was at the door. So she behoved to answer it, and the body came in. It’s no to be thought that I could just be as friendly with him as I had been in old days; and so at first, neither him nor me had much to say — at last the body seemed to take courage, and began:
“It is a wonderful time this, Miss Marget,” said Reuben, “a time of uncommon and great changes. Truly, as I was enabled to say in my sermon upon the last Sabbath, we are favoured to see strange manifestations of the mutable, especially in the respect of temporalities and dignities of this unchancy world. I hae been whomled by Providence into a warm seat — for though it is the overword of the dyvours of this generation, that the nobles of the earth are no mindful of merit; it’s my fortune to be a shining exampler to the contrary. It’s a bien downsitting; Miss Marget, the Kirk and parish of Pasturelands.”
“Truly, I doubt it not, Mr. Reuben,” said I, “but it’s no to be thought, that can be a bye-ordinary pleasant subject to me, seeing who it is that has laid down the same, for the sake of Him that is a better heritage than houses or lands.”
“Doubtless — doubtless, Miss Marget,” said the body Reuben, in a perturbed way; “and that’s no what I came to speak about. It’s a pleasure to be in a way of doing a kindly thing, and I came with your leave, Miss Marget, to make a bit proposition.”
I knew not how to look at the body, for truly I had not the least perception of what he could have come to speak to me about “You see, Miss Marget,” said Reuben, “it’s a heartsome bield, the Manse of Pasturlands, and truly I have occasion to lift up my song and say, that the lines have fallen to me in pleasant places — in especial as I was in the capacity, as might be said, of a cripple man, and if they had not fa’en at my feet, was not yaul enough to have climbed and grippit them; and seeing the minister has had his dwelling there a’ his days, I wad not marvel, Miss Marget, if he was sore cast down with the loss thereof.”
“Truly, Mr. Reuben,” said I, “it’s my thought you have forgotten that the minister, my brother, is dwelling in this house of Sunnyside — and I think not that we have ever made a moan in the ears of strangers concerning the Manse, which he parted with freely.”
“At no hand, Miss Maiget,” said Reuben. “There’s naething further from my mind than a wish to offend; but my thought was, in a sympathizing way, that the minister and Mrs. Maitland would take long before they were used to another habitation than the Manse.”
“They counted the cost, Mr. Reuben,” stud I, “and came from it freely, of their own will. No man had the power to take it from them, so there is the less need of lamentation.”
“But it’s a pleasant habitation, Miss Maiget,” said Reuben, “and I have heard the minister say himsel, that he never saw flowers so bonnie as the flowers in the Manse garden — and that he never thought the sky so grand, as when he looked up from the knowe, and the light of his ain fireside close at his hand. It’s a big house, Miss Marget, forbye, and at the present time, I’m a single lone man, no like to take up muph room — wherefore, as I was saying, I may come to my bit proposition.”
The body moved upon his seat in an uneasy manner, and then he began again.
“Ye see, Miss Marget, it’s a sore thing to be borne down with scrimp means, in the season of youth, for at the maist suitable and convenient time for thinking about matrimonials, I was, as ye ken, enduring captivity, baith of body and mind, in that schule at Sedgie Bum, the bonds of which I have now happily broken, upon a sma’ maintenance of twenty pound in the year, forbye the fees, the which promised nae great routh for my very sel, let alane a leddy, and may he, smouts of weans, for which reason, Miss Marget, I put on a stedfast heart and denied mysel; but now, seeing that in a good hour I have entered upon the green pastures, I see no further occasion. We’re come to discreet years, Miss Marget, baith you and me, and truly, I see not what you could do better, than just come your ways up to the Manse, and put up wi’ your auld joe, Reuben Reid, for lack o’ a better ane,”
“Me, Mr. Reuben!” said I.
“And what for no, my doo?” said the body. “There’s brawer lads in the toun, Miss Marget, and doubtless, bonnier, though I have been ca’ed no that ill-faured in my day, by folk of discrimination; but the like of that is neither here nor there, between you and me; and the position of a minister’s wife is an honourable position, Miss Marget, as you weel ken, and there’s routh of comfort in the Manse, solace to the body and solace to the mind; and as for the pecuniars — ye ken them better than me. There’s three dear hunder in the year, and they say in a dear season, its been up to fifty mair, and what could mortal desire aboon the like of that?”
I knew not well whether to be angry or laugh at the poor witless body, but what would have been the use of flyting upon him.
“Truly, Mr. Reuben,” said I, “I doubt not but you will find many folk in the world to say with you; but to change my manner of life is no a thing I would ever think of, seeing I have arrived at sober and grave years.”
“But matrimony is an honourable estate, Miss Marget,” said Reuben; “in especial with a licentiate — I am meaning, with a placed minister of the Kirk. The leddv of a minister may haud up her head with any leddy in the land, and you ken it is far otherwise with a single woman, living her lee-lane in the world: and a’ the comfort and the routh, Miss Marget, the bein and pleasant Manse, and the sure portion of worldly substance, forbye the satisfaction of hearing a sound word of doctrine every Sabbath day, from your ain gudeman.”
“Mr. Reuben,” said I, “you will mind who I am, and who you are. I would not have abode still to hear all this so long, if you had not been an old acquaintance. The Minister will be in soon, and it’s no my thought that you would like to meet him.”
“But Miss Marget — Miss Marget,” said the body, in an alarmed way, “ye haena heard the half of what I had to say. There’s the Minister himsel, he’s out o’ the Kirk, and by the guid hand of Providence, and the presentation of the Earl, I’m in; but there’s nae difference — there’s a hantle to be said on baith sides, Miss Marget, but there’s no a hair o’ difference atween us. If you came to the Kirk, you would hear that I aye gie out the Minister’s ain very psalms, and the chapters he likit best, (it’s a help to mysel in exposition, for I’ve a grand memory,) and I see no manner of reason, (aye if it should please you to be my Mrs. Reid — you may think on’t, Miss Marget, it’s a weelsounding name,) wherefore the Minister and Mrs. Maitland shouldna come back to the Manse. There’s plenty of room: it might haud us a’ brawly, and if the folk persisted in hauding by the Minister, and biding away from the Kirk, (though I am writing a grand series of discourses, the which, in my poor opinion, canna fail to shake the parish,) at ony rate it’ll be less odds, for if they’re no hearing me, they’re hearing my guid blither. I am sure, Miss Marget, if ye would but look at it right, you would see it was a most wise and weel considered plan.”
“I doubt it not, Mr. Reuben,”: said I, “only, it’s no a thing that would be in any manner suitable for either my brother Claud or me.
The body looked up in my face, in a disconsolate way.
“You’re no meaning to say, Miss Marget,” he said, “in right earnest, and once for a’, that you’ll no tak me?”
“Indeed, I am, Mr. Reuben,” said I: “it’s no a thing I would think of for a moment.”
“And that’s just the reason,” cried out Reuben, “you winna look at it right.’ Oh! Miss Marget, there’s the Manse, and the stipend, and the Kirk, and I have a grand series of discourses — naebody kens the power I have in that way — and there’s a hame for the Minister and the family — and what would ye hae, Miss Marget Maitland? Is’t because I’m no braw enough, or weelfaured enough, or haena a sufficiency of the manners and breeding of this world? Woman, I’ll learn! There’ll no be a better man in the whole country side; and think ye it’s naething to hae a house, and a guidman, o’ your ain, instead of being a single woman, dwelling lone in the world?”
“Truly, Mr. Reuben,” said I, “I am getting wearied, and the Minister will be in. It’s my desire that you should take your answer. I would not flit into a strange man’s house, out of my own, if he was the greatest man that ever had his habitation upon the earth.” The Dominie sat for a space, and looked at me, with his e’en round and big, (they were grey ones, and in no manner bonnie), and at last he lifted up his hands.
“Eh me!” cried out the body, mostly like to fall down with wonder and astonishment, “but I thought a’ womenfolk wanted to be marriet!”
The confident body! as if any gentlewoman was ever like to have looked at him. Truly, I was in a manner angered, though no mortal could have seen him at that time, without being moved to laughter.
But when they all came in, and I told them, it’s my thought I never heard such a sound of mirthfulness in my house of Sunny side before. My sister, Mary, was a thought ill-pleased, like myself; but as for the minister, and the bairn Grace, they laughed till they were wearied, and Grace in especial, seemed as if she could not get it out of her head. Also upon the next day Mr. Allan and Mary came down from Lilliesleaf, having heard that I was not well; and Mr. Allan was like to go out of himself at the hearing of it, with mirth.
“Poor Reuben!” said Mr. Allan, “who could have thought that he had been suffering all this time the pangs of unrequited — Mary! Grace! make haste, there is a sight for you — my aunt is frowning!”
“And think you, they never saw me frowning before, Mr. Allan?” said I.
“No,” said Mr. Allan; “it is an impossibility, aunt. Nothing but my unparalleled impertinence could have produced it. It is a singular effect, as Hume calls the world.”
“Don’t be angry with Allan, aunt,” said Mary to me. “Allan is wild. Nobody at Lilliesleaf has been able to manage him, since Dr. Ingine opened the new church at Cruive End. When Grace asks us to Oakenshaw, we must have him to take lessons from Claud.”
It is wonderful what a little time will do.
Six months before, Mary could not have looked into my face, just to say the word Lilliesleaf; and to hear her now!
“Claud may be away from Dourhills though, Mary,” said Mr. Allan, “before Grace gives us that invitation. I have heard a rumour to the effect that the inhabitants of the town of Thrums ‘being assured of the learning, piety, and prudence of Mn Claud Maitland, preacher of the Gospel at Dourhills, have resolved to call, invite, and entreat him to undertake the office of pastor among them, and the charge of their souls.’ What do you think, Aunt Margaret, have I not been studying the Styles of Procedure in church courts to some purpose?”
“Our Claud called to Thrums!” we all cried out, and’ then there arose converse concerning that matter, seeing none of us had heard the news before; but Grace, though she started when she heard of it, scarcely spoke a word, at which I wondered.
And in a while, Mary drew me into a corner, and said she, “Aunt, do you know anything about Claud and Grace? Are they friends?”
“Truly I know not, Mary, my dear,” said I. “Grace says little to me concerning him, but doubtless they are friends; wherefore should they be anything else?”
Mary turned about with a kind of sigh.
“She might tell me,” she said, as if she was speaking to herself, “if I was not his sister. Poor Claud! Oh, aunt! if our Grace had only been anything but an heiress!”