IT HAPPENED, ON the next morning, that my brother, the minister, was away early to a neighbouring parish, to preach for one of the brethren, it being the Fast-day before his Sacrament, and the letters from the east country came to us while he was away.
There was one to Mary, my sister, from Claud, and also a big and thick one addressed to “Miss Grace Maitland, of Oakenshaw,” which I had a dear perception was either in Claud’s hand also, or just in a wonderful degree like it; and the moment Grace got it into her hand, she went away quietly up the stair, seeing that Mary and me were taken up about the other letter.
I think not that I have room to put here what Claud said in his letter, but it was telling us about the call from Thrums, and that he was troubled in his mind concerning it, as to what it was best to do. We had converse about it also, Mary and me, and both of us agreed together, that it was scarce the young man’s duty to leave a place, where his Master had opened to him a large door, (for the folk of Dourhills had all come out with him, and were uncommonly fond of him), even to go to the town of Thrums, though truly there bid to be a great field there also. And after a while Mary, my sister, went out of the room, having some errands to send Betty.
So I was sitting my lane, meditating upon all these things, when Grace came back again, and sat down upon her seat, without saying a word about Claud’s letter, which was a strange thing. I know not what it was that confined me, but I was in a kind of constraint, and asked her not, till, at last, the bairn gave a feared look at the door, and then she said:
“Aunt, I know now why Claud desired to leave Dourhills.”
“Do you, Grace, my dear?” said I, “and what was the reason, then?”
The bairn drooped her head low, and made no answer.
“And have you just new found it out, Grace?” said I.
Grace gave a glance up at me.
“Not altogether, aunt,” she said, “I attained to a kind of glimmering of it the day Mary was married; but now—”
“I am sure, Grace,” said I, “it’s no like you to hesitate in such a manner as that, when it’s only me you are speaking to.”
Grace gave a kind of strange laugh, and opened the desk that stood upon the little table in the window.
“Are you going to write to Claud, my dear?” said I.
The bairn nodded her head, and a moment after, she came round to me, and put her letter in my hand, and stood herself beside me, leaning upon my shoulder. It was a bit small sheet of paper, and upon it were just the words:
“Dear Claud, “Come to Sunnyside.”
“GRACE MAITLAND.”
“Dear me, bairn!” said I, “is that all you are going to write to the young man?”
“What more would you have me to say, aunt?” said Grace.
“Truly, bairn,” said I, “you have taken effectual means that I should not know what more you might say. Think you it is right, Grace, to let me be this way in the dark?”
Grace leaned down her head on my shoulder. “And what can I tell you, aunt,” she said, in a low and troubled voice, “but just that I suppose it must — that there is no other thing for it.”
“For what, my bairn?” said I.
“You are strangely slow of apprehension to-day, aunt,” said Grace, without lifting up her face. “Has no one been able then to guess Claud’s secret — not even you?”
“Truly, Grace, my dear,” said I, “it is long since I saw that the spirit of the young man was sorely troubled within him — and it was no hard thing to divine the cause, and more folk than me divined it, but it was not like that I should tell you that. Oh! Grace, my dear bairn, if it had not been for that weary Oakenshaw!”
“Ay, aunt,” said Grace, in a mocking grave way, “it is a sad thing, that Mammon of unrighteousness. To think of even Claud himself wanting Oakenshaw!”
“Grace Maitland!” said I; “it’s no possible that any mortal could know him so long, and have such a thought as that.”
The bairn bended her knee on my footstool, and looked up into my face — being for the moment too earnest and grave even to think shame.
“No, aunt,” she said, “it is not possible — be thankful for me — that no mortal could know Claud Maitland so long, and not trust to him with implicit confidence — as I do.”
And, with that, the bairn laid down her cheek upon my hand, and there was a long silence. Truly, my mind was filled with a secret and silent thanksgiving, for was not the Lord dealing bountifully with all the bairns.
But, by and bye, I felt a tremble in the frame of my Grace, and I thought it was not right to let her remain quiet so long, and it such a troublous moment, for the bairn’s spirit was stirred within her, and so was mine. So I said, though all the time I was liker greeting than laughing my own self, “And I am misdoubting, Grace, my dear, that my new silver-grey gown will not get leave to stay quiet in the press many days.”
The bairn raised her head at that, and went and sealed her bit note in a wonderful composed and quiet manner, for deep waters are ever still — and my heart began freely to rejoice within me.
So, after that, I asked her if the letter she had taken out of Claud’s band the night before Mary was married, had anything to do with this. And the bairn, doubtless thinking shame, as was but natural, to speak much of these matters, let me see a bit of the paper which Claud had been so feared about her getting. And what should it be but a letter written when Grace was in her tribulation in Edinburgh, in the house of Mrs. Lennox, asking her — but truly, I am no going to write down all the daft-like words that young things say to one another — to let him go and speak to her father, because he was sure she did not care about Oakenshaw for its own self — and saying that he was now placed, and had a dwelling of his own, and how his heart would rejoice within him if she was there — and much more of the same kind.
The date upon it was a while before Grace came home — and either the young man had been feared, or she had come to Oakenshaw before he could get it sent away. And no wonder that he looked sore grieved and disappointed then, when the wealth and the great lands of Grace came in between the bairns — and so they might have been sundered all their days, if that letter had not got in among Claud’s sermons, and so come into Mary’s hands. Truly it is wonderful to notice how folk’s whole life will whiles turn upon as little a thing.
“Must I no tell them, Grace,” said I, “Doubtless they have all been sore vexed about Claud, poor man. Will you no let me tell them?”
“No, no, aunt,” said Grace, “not till Claud comes.”
I did not say nay to the bairn, but for all that I made a paction with myself to take no vows upon me, anent the matter.
And it was not long till Claud came. I cannot say that we were altogether without preparation for him at Sunnyside, nor that the minister, and Mary, my sister, were greatly astonished when Jenny gave a skreigh at the door, and the blythe face of the young man looked in upon us.
Truly it was a pleasure to look upon him, for it has ever been a distinguishment of our family (I am meaning, the men of us), to have a look and a manner out of the common, there being ever (for we have pictures of many of our forbears, since the time of the Glasgow Assembly; and for my father, and my brother, and Claud, my nephew, I could judge of them with my own eyes), more of the spirit in the face, than is ordinary among men.
So, after that, the secret was keeped no more; and, in due season, every thing was settled. But seeing Grace wanted eight months of the years that are recognised by the law, as of discretion, and it was her desire that nothing should he done till then, the young man, Claud, departed again for his parish, and we had another short season of quietness.
I understood well, that one reason for my dear bairn wanting to be complete mistress of herself, before that came to pass, was a thought, that neither Claud, my brother, nor me, would like to have much troke with her guardian. However, I thought it was right that he should he told, and after much converse with the minister, my brother, he consented at last to write to him.
I think not it is needful in any way, now, when we are both old, to enter into a forgotten history about Harry Monteith and myself; but Claud, my brother, had aye regarded him with a measure of anger, the which had never been in my mind, for the sore grief I was in, concerning his fall and temptation, was no of a kind to suffer wrath mingling with it. So Claud wrote at last, and got back a letter written in a spirit of humbleness, the like of which I never thought Harry Monteith could have been subdued to, and which made my heart (an old fule-woman as I am, that should have known better) swell within me. Something he said of old days, and what had been his own weird sinsyne, and that it would ill set him, of all men, to think little of a son of Pasturelands; and there was much praise of Claud, whom he had seen at Dourhills — and a word at the end, saying how it would gladden him to see us, if we could forget the past so far. Forget it! truly it needed not that There was no word of Claud going to Thrums, after the matter was settled between Grace and him, for he had but the one thing that made him desire to leave his own parish, and that was now changed into a great and strong reason for staying; and William Elder told me no long after, that the people of Thrums, finding that they could not get Claud, were going to call Mr. Shepherd of Rures, and that Mr. Shepherd had made up his mind to go, seeing, as the mischievous lad, Willie said, he was ill with disease of the heart, which, being the occasion of some mirth to the young folk, and various looks at Mary, I understood to mean some bit touch of disappointment, and no a serious bodily disease; for the bairns were good-natured bairns, and would not have laughed at the like of that.
It would but weary a stranger if I was going over all that happened in our household through that winter. Truly, it was a most quiet season, and I mind not that there was much in it, past just the common life of a douce and sober family.
But the summer came at last, and the appointed season when the bairn, Grace, and the young man, Claud, were to cast in their lot together. All that winter, the young lady, Mrs. Bellendean, and her good man were abiding still at Oakenshaw, but when it came near the time when Grace was like to need the dwelling herself, the bairn was troubled about it, seeing that the two families could have little comfort dwelling under the same roof.
So Grace’s guardian behoved to be consulted again, and after various letters back and forward (for Harry had never ventured the length of Sunnyside), there was a plan fallen upon at last, and that was, by means of Grace’s siller, to make an arrangement with the gentlemen that were trustees upon the property of the young man, Mr. Frederic Bellendean, that he might get his own house to abide in. For Grace said truly, that the income of Oakenshaw was more than enough for Claud and her, and that the lying siller might well be employed so. And in that manner it was done.
Mr. Bellendean and his young lady flitted away out of Oakenshaw, a month, I think, before Grace’s birthday, and just one week before she was married. And during that seven days there were divers things done to the house, and much new furniture put in, to sort it for the young folk, who were like to have their abode there for all the rest of their lives.
And so my dear bairn Grace was married — and seeing I have had occasion, no long since, to speak of the bridal of Mary, I see little need for going over it again. Truly, it is to be thought that having two marriages in the family with little more than a twelvemonth between them, would make much stir among us, being, as we were, a most quiet people. When the Elder bairns once begin, I wot well there will be little peace in Bourtree for a long season, seeing there are so many of them, and we are thinking to hear of Janet every day. And so all the bairns were away — weary on that changeful time, that I should say so! I think not we were ever so blythe as when they were all playing about the fire-side.
And Harry was at the wedding! I knew well, myself, that I was old, and wearing on to the end of all troubles, but truly, it is a sore shock to be keeping aye a young appearance in your memory, and when you look upon the person with your own eyes to find him grayheaded, and laden with years. No that he was so old-like either, but only there was a great change.
I think we scarce spoke the one to the other, for, besides that my spirit was greatly moved at the sight of him, and at the sound of his voice, (for in it there was little odds), I was also much taken up with Grace, and when the young folk went away, Harry abode not long after them.
I saw it was not what he wished, that him and me should meet after so long a space, in the midst of blythe bairns of another generation; and I thought, by his look, that their mirthfulness was mostly a pain to him, and so he went away.
Doubtless it has been a blessing to me oftentimes, that I could not get away out from among other folk, and be my lane; and wheresoever there are bairns, it is a marvellous thing how they will ever have me, a douce eldern gentlewoman, in the midst of them. So I did not get much space, at that time, to give my thoughts to the meeting we had had.
There had been a paction made between Grace and us, that we were all to go to Oakenshaw, three weeks after that, to be at the rejoicings on occasion of her coming to years, and I was to abide there, at least, for a season; which Jenny, my maid, was in no manner pleased with, seeing she liked not that I should leave my own house for long. Only we made her better content by telling her she might bring in Lilly Robb, the daughter of her sister, who had been left a widow, with a heavy handful of young bairns, to help her in the house, and, indeed, to be, in a manner, a maidservant to her, seeing that Jenny, like myself, was wearing into years, and both the bairns and me were desirous that she should have a measure of comfort in her evening-time — no that she would ever be content with idleset, but it would aye be a pleasure to her to learn Lilly, how to go right about the work of the house.
It happened, two days before we were to go to Oakenshaw, that Mary, my sister, had a necessity for some small articles out of James Selvage’s shop, and we went out in the afternoon to get them.
We were not half down the brae, when we met with Mr. Allan and a stranger man with him, and so, as was natural, we stopped, and fell into converse. Mr. Allan asked if the minister was in, and gave a kind of disappointed look, when he heard he was up in the parish, visiting his folk.
“For,” said Mr. Allan, “I wanted to have a family consultation on the subject of Cruive End, and that we can hardly have without our Moderator; but what are your arrangements for our journey of Wednesday?”
“I suppose we will go by the coach,” said Mary, my sister, “it is too long a journey for a gig-”
“That was part of my errand to Sunnyside to-day,” said Mr. Allan. “We forgot to speak of it before. You will come to Lilliesleaf — nay, I shall never be able to face Mary again, if I take a denial — to-morrow, and we have horse power amply sufficient to convey the whole family of us to Oakenshaw. See what good society does, aunt; I am quite commercial in my language already.”
“And what is making you commercial, Mr. Allan?” said I.
“Oh! Mr. Bogle will expound my last and grandest scheme to you to-morrow, aunt,” said Mr. Allan, with a motion of his head towards his companion, who was a man of a douce and sensible aspect. “I am about to commence business, in behoof of myself and my respectable tenantry of Cruive End, as — don’t be horrified — a cotton spinner!”
“A cotton spinner!” cried out both Mary my sister and me, in one breath.
“Verily,” said Mr. Allan, laughing, “nothing less. And this water of ours, which, like myself, has been idling all its life, must, like myself also, learn to be useful in its maturer years. I am perfectly serious, aunt. Mr. Bogle is the apostle of a system of reform, as different as possible from that of Novimundy; a system which does not undertake to make our Cruive End idlers, sentimental florists and makers of poetry, but, if they choose, independent men.”
“Mr. Elphinstone elevates my office,” said Mr. Bogle, in a modest way. He was a man of slow speech and diffidence, but had the manner of one who knew well what he was speaking about. “It’s easy to see that idleness is the mother of much ill, and all that I would seek to do, would be to give the folk work, and the means of eating honest bread.”
“Is your plan at Malcolm’s Moss no thriving, then, Mr. Allan?” said I.
“Thriving!” cried out Mr. Allan, “most certainly it is. Does not John Delvie, my first colonist, (decidedly the leading man in the village of Mary’s Knowe, I can tell you, aunt,) threaten to reap a patch of oats this year, finer and more abundant than Simon Murray’s pet field. But we must work with both hands, before Cruive End redeems itself. We are on our way now to examine into the capabilities of the Water, and shall be better able to lay our plans before you to-morrow.”
So we parted. And Mr. Allan and his new acquaintance, Mr. Bogle, went on their way.
So, on the next day, being all ready for our journey, we went to Lilliesleaf, seeing that the mindful young man, Mr. Allan, had a carriage down for us early in the afternoon, and a blythe welcome we got. Truly, it would have been a pleasure to the greatest stranger, to have seen how the invalid lady, Mrs. Elphinstone, had brightened with the company and tendance of my niece Mary. The bairn had carried in a new air with her into the house, and it seemed to me that the restless, and discontented, and worldly spirit, had, in a measure, departed out of the breast of the friend of my youth, and without doubt, it was aye my prayer, that the spirit of peace and of godliness might ever be dwelling about her.
So, at the dinner, the Glasgow gentleman, Mr. Mungo Bogle, was with us, and though he was a thought shame-faced, and looked, maybe, as if be were not used to be in such a house as Lilliesleaf, yet it was dear to see that he was a man of judgment, and with wonderful little of what was vulgar about him, considering that he was a West country man. So we got Mr. Allan’s grand plan, (blessings on him! the kind heart was aye shining through all his purposes,) which was to cause build a big cotton mill, by the water side, that the idle folk of Cruive End might have work.
As I have said before, they were a tribe of dyvours, and such have ever many bairns; and the new generation, as was but natural, seeing they were left to grow up in idleset, and to follow the pleasure of their own will, was like to be worse than the old one. So Mr. Allan had the thought, (it was in a converse with James Laidlaw, the carter, that it first came into his head — besides the pleasure of seeing the half dozen families at Malcolm’s Moss thriving so well), that to get them set to daily labour was the best thing he could do, for there was want among them oftentimes idleset and wastry being near friends; and he had found out that just giving them siller in the way of an awmous, was destroying the little good that there was among the folk, even the natural striving to maintain their bairns in the sweat of of their brow.
I know not where Mr. Allan had fallen in with Mr. Bogle, but truly, having devised that plan, it was a good Providence that sent into his way one that both knew about the labour, and would make conscience of carrying it right out. It was also a good Providence for Mr. Bogle himself, who was a young man, with a small family. He had given up a situation he had, as manager of some great mill about Glasgow, to begin for his own hand, him and another such like as himself, with maybe plenty of skill between them, but little siller, and so, in the natural process of time (doubtless, there was little else to be expected) the two failed. Mr. Bogle’s partner was away to America, that city of refuge for dyvours and broken men, and the young man himself, with a delicate wife, and three or four small bairns, was just thinking, with a sore heart, that he bid to go there too, when Mr. Allan fell in with him, which, as I have before said, was a good Providence for them both.
So we had much converse about it.
“And Mr. Allan,” said I, “it’s my hope you will not be led into doing, what I have read in books is done in the like of these places — that is, — shutting in the poor bairns to labour for a whole day, when they are no at an age fit for it. — I would like ill to see the bits of faces, white and shilpit, as I read they are in the great towns.”
“And the girls,” said Mary, my sister, “I am afraid they will be but indifferent managers of household matters, if they spend their youth labouring there.”
“And that is a very important consideration, Allan,” said Mrs. Elphinstone. “The crowded mill will be a worse place for the daughters of Cruive End than the cottages of Mary’s Knowe.”
“I have heard that the workmen of these Glasgow factories are not the best people in the world for improving a country place, Mr. Bogle,” said the minister, my brother. “Shall we reform them, think you, Lilliesleaf, or will they corrupt us?”
“One at a time — one at a time,” said Mr. Allan, laughing, and looking round upon us. “Upon my word, this is dreadful! A perfect avalanche of objections. Mr. Bogle, discretion is the better part of valour. Shall we fly?”
“Defend yourself, Allan,” said Mary.
“Our mill shall he a model mill,” said Mr. Allan, blythely. “Good our aunt, to answer your objection, we shall eschew children. Mothers both, we shall endeavour, so far as it is practicable, to do without what Reuben Reid calls, the unstable sect of young womankind — and most honoured father, Mr. Bogle, undertakes to choose his nucleus of good workmen for their morals and conduct, as well as for their skill. So now I have discomfited you all — I protest, ladies and gentlemen, that our mill shall he a model mill.”
Mr. Bogle shook his head, and put in his word in a modest manner.
“I am greatly doubtful, Mr. Elphinstone, if you are going to make an amateur concern of it, whether it is likely to pay.”
“Out upon the mercenary objection,” cried Mr. Allan. “We will try, Mr. Bogle — we will try; and then, whatever accusations may be brought against me, Allan Elphinstone, of Lilliesleaf — no malicious tongue shall be able to say, that I have not made a kirk and a mill of Cruive End!”
So upon the next morning we departed from Lilliesleaf to go to Oakenshaw, being in two carriages — Mary, my sister, and the minister and me in one, and Mr. Allan and Mary, (young Mrs. Elphinstone, as I should call the bairn — only I never can mind), and Janet Elder in the other, and got over the journey in a comfortable manner. It was Mrs. Elphinstone’s desire to abide at home at that time, though she had promised Grace for another season, seeing it was the purpose of the family to dwell part of the incoming winter in Edinburgh. So the young lady from the east country, Mr. Allan’s cousin, who had been at Lilliesleaf upon a visit, was to stay till Mary and Mr. Allan returned, that Mrs. Elphinstone might not be so solitary as otherwise she would have been.
It was a mild lown summer night when we came to Oakenshaw — the clouds being still red over the hills in the west, while the white face of the moon (and truly, the sky itself was so light, that you would have thought there was little need of her) was glinting in the blue East in a modest and quiet way, like the incoming of a diffident bairn.
The country was in a bye-ordinary manner hushed and still, and the lights of Oakenshaw, as we drew near, glanced out among the thick leaves, as though they had been put in many windows, to throw our welcome further out upon the road than a voice could have done. And when we came to the gate — though there is a long road from it, through the grounds, before you come to the house — I saw two folk standing together below a tree, just past the door of the lodge, now keeped by Jessie Gray’s brother, and looking out for us.
It was Claud and Grace — the possessors of the grand house, and the fair land that lay about us in the calm of the summer night — our own bairns!
And truly, it’s my hope that it will not be counted to us — Mary, my sister, and the minister and me — if a swelling of pride rose up within our spirits that night — no pride of the worldly comforts and good things that were about us — the great and fine house, with its bright lights and adornments, nor yet the riches and wealth that had so strangely fallen to the lot of the bairns — but of the four young things themselves, with their inheritance of hope and strength, and joyfulness, ever girdling us about with the leal and kindly outgoing of their full hearts.
It is an ill thing, pride, and far be it from me to call it better than it is — but I think when a spirit that has watched the upgrowing of pleasant bairns, yearning over them in their bits of backslidings, and being troubled in their tribulations, sees them at last delivered by the Lord’s hand, and set in a pleasant and a good place — oh! I think not that the swelling of exultation can be a sinful thing, when it has ever a right mingling of thanksgiving and of praise. And to see the light shining in the blythe young faces, and the sunny and peaceful road that seemed to be spread before them — truly, I could have risen like the mother in Israel, in the old times, and lifted up my voice with gladness and with singing, rejoicing before the Lord.
So the next day there were great festivities and rejoicings, both of poor folk and of rich; for besides the great party we ourselves had in Oakenshaw — there was a dinner in the little town of Westergate, which was nearhand, of the tenants of Grace’s estate, and divers others, that either had an interest in the family, or liked a ploy. And the health of the young folk, Mr and Mrs. Maitland of Oakenshaw, was drunk oftener, I am feared, that we would be pleased to hear of.
And in the house, as I have said, we had likewise a great party of the gentry in the neighbourhood, the Kirkmans and the folk of their degree; and Harry Monteith was there, though being again in the middle of a full company, it was not like we could have much converse; only at divers times I could see him watching me, and to tell the truth, when I had not otherwise my hands full, it was not aye in my power to keep my own very eyes from wandering where he was. Woes me! among all the changefulness of this unstable world, how steadfast some things are!
When the rest of the company went away that night, Harry went not with them — and when we were gathered to the worship, and Claud, my brother, sitting among his bairns, with the prime of his own strength and manliness hardly bye, took the Book to begin, Harry gave a glance round them all, and then he looked at me. Yea, truly, I could not deny that there was a sorrowful odds between my brother Claud and him — but the blame was not mine!
And on the next day we had converse together for the first time for six-and-twenty years, and though it was painful at first, we came in time to commune with one another, as old friends, that had been long parted, no venturing to turn back that past leaf of our lives in which we had intercourse before, though doubtless both his mind and mine were full of little else. And the way we got into particular converse was this: —
We were all, in the forenoon, in a big and pleasant room, looking down upon the water of Dour, (the bairn Grace had caused that the trees should be cleared in a degree there, because the little house where Claud had had his abode, was visible from the window, standing in a bend of the water), the which was a favourite, room with Grace and Claud. And the young things, all of them, were busy speaking the one to the other, about places and folk they wanted, to see, the time Mary and Mr. Allan abode in Oakenshaw. And seeing I had a troublous feeling in my own spirit, by reason of feeling the eye of Harry upon me, I had been sitting for maybe half an hour by a table, my lane, reading a book which is just uncommon pleasant reading, although it is written upon a science, the which I know not much about, neither is it like to have much attraction for such as me, being more in the way of an adventurous and stirring man, with a sprit of travel.
So at last, I was roused by hearing Mr. Allan’s blythe voice say, “Claud, what book is that my aunt is studying so intently?”
And with that, Claud rose, and looked over my shoulder.
“The old Red Sandstone,” said Claud. “A delightful book, is it not, aunt? worthy of the poet of Geology.”
“I never heard that he was a poet, Claud,” said I; “and truly, this book is not written in verse.”
Claud gave a smile. “Poets have given up writing in verse now, aunt,” he said.
“Yes, aunt,” said Grace, “it is very melancholy, is it not? Even Claud himself is confined to prose — dull prose.”
And, with that, there was some laughing among the young folk, seeing that Claud, in his student time, had written a song upon the Sedgie Burn.
“It must be a very fascinating science,” said Claud, my brother, “and if our young men at college are not smitten with a love for ichthyolites and stratifications, they must be very unimpressionable. There is Willie Elder—”
“But he is a great conglomerate, uncle,” said Janet. “That is what we call him at home.”
“Ay, it’s all very well for our young men to go hammering among the rocks,” said Harry, “and even for our young ladies to make acquaintance with the science, but for us — for us, Miss Maitland, (he had never spoken my name before) who are travelling down, and not up the hill, how little attraction can even fascinating science have! I fear myself, to enter upon new pursuits, however trifling.”
The bairns were all looking on, and Harry’s face was turned to me.
“Truly,” said I, “it is not like that I should heed much to the studying of such a dung as this, only I think not that being in years is a tight reason for no seeking a measure of knowledge, concerning things that other folk know. I have heard of great men learning like bairns, when they were far on in age, and wherefore should not we? and also I see not wherefore our latter days should be slothful. Truly, Sir,” for I feared to call him by his name, “it’s no my thought that the pure and good country wherein the Lord himself is dwelling for ever, will be; but, according to the imaginings of some folk; a place of holy idleset, and so I think it is meet to gather up all manner of right things, even the time we are travelling fast towards a better place, and yearning to win there.”
So, when I had said that, Harry drew nearer me, and we had more converse, and bye and bye, when the bairns had returned to their former cracks, we had communings concerning them, and when we parted that night, a stranger would have thought we were good friends, to have been so short a time acquaint. So ill is it to judge by the appearance, and so skilled as folk are in covering the inmost heart.
I might say much of what came to pass in that first season of my sojourn at Oakenshaw, but it needs not at this time; only that Harry Monteith and me, (he is a man of years now, and I ever call him Mr. Monteith, when I speak to him, but I know not how it is, the old name will aye come back Upon me,) have had many communings together, and I hear the bairns say, that he has grown a more content and open-hearted man.
Truly, I see little trace upon him of the mocking way, that Grace gave him the name of at first, and, without doubt, it must be a great and pleasant odds to him, to come out of a lone house to the like of such blythe firesides as Oakenshaw or Lilliesleaf. But aye when the Minister and Mary, my sister, are in the midst of the bairns, it is Harry’s wont to give woeful looks at me. I would not say, even, but what it may have been sorer to him than to me, for a woman person, when there are bairns in the family, or near hand, is never so lone as a man — but that is all past now.
I doubt not folk will wonder that I speak aye of Oakenshaw, and not of my house of Sunnyside, but truly, Grace is just an uncommon bairn for having her own will, and between Claud and her, I am keeped that I scarce have the freedom of my own outgoings or incomings, for they will at no hand hear of me going away, except whiles for a short season to comfort the heart of Jenny, my maid, or to abide at Lilliesleaf, or the Manse. For the minister and my sister, Mary, have now flitted into the new Manse, which is a bye-ordinary convenient and pleasant habitation, as good as the old one, seeing that it was sorely in want of repair, and all the heritors were sweard, but Mr. Allan, and by reason of his connection with the family, the minister would never let the necessities of the Manse be spoken of before him.
It is a matter of thankfulness to me, to say here, that the mill in Cruive End has thriven in an uncommon manner, and the new generation give glints of a better disposition, and at least, in an outward and carnal way, are like to live a more creditable life than their forbears, besides that the Kirk among them is well attended, and I doubt not, the sowing of the good seed will be blessed. Mr. Bogle is still in his place, and in a prosperous way, having got, if I mind right, three more bairns, which makes seven of a family, and seeing he has a sufficiency for them all, I doubt not that it is a matter of rejoicing to him that his quiver is filled so well.
Also Mr. Allan’s trial in the way of bringing harvests out of Malcolm’s Moss has been bye ordinary successful; and at this present time (for he has a necessity aye to be doing) he is more taken up, I think, with that plan than with the mill.
The body Reuben Reid, whom the Earl made minister of Pasturelands, was married upon his lass, Nannie — it might be two months after I went to Oakenshaw. The confident body! it is just the speech of the countryside that he offered himself to many gentlewomen; and Nannie being an orphan, poor thing, was, doubtless, overcome with the great temptation of being mistress of a house like the Manse.
And so I mind not that I have any more to say concerning the folk I have mentioned here. Doubtless, I might speak much about the bairns, but seeing they are all in a good and prosperous way, I think not that stranger folk would heed about all the outs and ins of their pleasant and quiet manner of life — though, without doubt, it is of great import to ourselves. Truly, I often find myself falling into a meditation when I am sitting in my own room at Oakenshaw, or in the room that Mary will also call mine at Lilliesleaf, concerning the good hand of the Lord, as it has been visible among us. I have been young, and now I am old, and it is a burden on my spirit to speak a word of consolation to them that may be bowed down by reason of troublous providences. And, oh! it’s my prayer for them, that they may never, in any temptation, mistrust Him, whose good will it is for a while to bruise them.
In my day I have had sore tribulations, both in my own spirit, that no man could see, and outwardly, that might be visible to all. But who is there in the whole land, that has more occasion of rejoicing, seeing that the Lord has dealt so bountifully with me and with the bairns!
THE END