THE PROFESSOR VISITS HIS SISTERS.
The next morning was bright and sunny, and at an early hour Donald
McPherson came to take his wife home. Jamie was to accompany her. The
ride in the fresh morning air was delightful as Donald's stout
farm-horses plodded easily along over the two miles that lay between the
homes of the brother and sister. The conversation ran mostly on
farm-work, for that was Donald's province; beyond that his knowledge was
limited. The few neighbors that they met or passed raised their bonnets,
for all had a profound respect for the man who had risen from their
ranks to become a professor in a college. Some of the more inquisitive
detained them to ask questions.
An interesting picture presented itself when they reached Annie's door.
Douce Donald, leaning on his staff, stood at the gate to welcome them.
His form was bowed with many years, but his face was pleasant and his
greeting cordial. Behind him stood his grandson and constant companion,
wee Donald, or Donald the third. In the door was Jennie, smiling, and
looking a very picture of healthy and blooming girlhood. Robin left his
hoe in the garden and hastened to welcome Uncle Jamie. Only the aged
Katy McPherson remained within, and she was not less pleased than the
rest.
Everything in and about the house gave evidence of thrift. The
McPhersons had long since outgrown every look of poverty. Not only was
there no lack of articles essential to comfort, but tokens of taste were
not entirely wanting, for Jennie's nimble fingers fashioned and arranged
many little things, which, though costing but a trifle, beautified the
home and rendered it more cheerful and attractive.
After Jamie had conversed some time with the others he took a seat near
Katy, whose hearing was "no vera gude," as she said, and entered into
conversation with her. She spoke of his excellent mother and of honest
Wullie, and her words fell not on indifferent ears.
"The warld has few men like your faither, Mr. Murdoch. Though he is dead
and gane, the gude he has dune hasna gane wi' him. Ye may be a wiser man
than he was, but ye canna be a better ane," said Katy, speaking with
earnestness.
"You are right," said Jamie slowly and with evident emotion.
"I maun say," continued Katy, "that I hae great reason to be thankful
that his influence was ever felt in my family."
Jamie, sad from his recent loss, replied with much feeling, "I see more
and more clearly, as I grow older, that the good one does lives after
him. My step-father was but a simple cottager, and yet I hear him spoken
of almost with reverence. Goodness is better than greatness, and the
memory of the just does not perish. We think of our friends, dead or
living, and we find that nothing draws our affections towards them like
sterling worth; wealth or beauty, wit or wisdom, cannot give permanence
to our esteem for them."
"Ye are right, Mr. Murdoch. I hae had sic thoughts mysel, but I couldna
hae worded them as weel as yoursel did."
Donald the first, or douce Donald, followed by Donald the third, now
joined them. They had been with the lad's father and a neighbor to the
stable, where the latter was negotiating for a fine young horse. Douce
Donald could not think of letting the colt be sold without having
something to say in regard to his merits. He was sure, he said, that his
son would forget to tell "how strong o' limb the beastie was, how high
he carried his heid, and how canny he was in the harness." The bargain
had been satisfactorily concluded before he returned to the house.
Jamie soon perceived that the aged man had lost none of his ancient
garrulity. He gave the history of several men who had played with Jamie
when they were lads together; he asked questions about the improvements
and inventions of the day; and could not sufficiently admire the
railroad and the telegraph.
"The warld has grawn too wonderful for auld Donald McPherson," he said
meditatively, shaking his head. "While the warld is changing men canna
stand still. I'm muckle changed mysel frae the Donald I once was, and I
owe the gude that is in me to your faither. I could a'maist as soon
forget my ain name as to forget honest Wullie. I hae him as plainly
before me as though he died but yesterday, and it is seven years agone.
There will be mair o' us gane soon, or auld age will no hae dune its
wark. God grant that when the angel o' death puts in the sickle we may
a' be as ripe for the heavenly garner as your gude faither was."
He sighed and remained silent a few moments; then, regaining the
buoyancy of spirits that was natural to him, he led his little grandson
to his uncle, saying,
"What think ye o' this bairn? Is he na a fine lad?"
James Murdoch extended his hand and drew his nephew to his side. He
told him stories of his own sons when they were small. "They are in
school and at their books by this time; but no doubt they have had a
long tramp before the school hour came."
"Robert and William are very unlike in some respects," he said,
addressing his conversation to Annie, "but in one thing they do not
differ: they love to seek out all the historical places in and around
Edinburgh. They know more about the old castles and fortresses than I do
myself. I do not know what they will accomplish in the world, but they
are bright, active lads now."
The dinner hour arrived. There was no hurrying through this meal, for
Uncle James had much to say to all, but particularly to Robin, whom he
found intelligent, considering his opportunities. Jennie seemed to her
uncle her mother's second self. She was staid enough then; but in her
black eyes the vivacity of her nature could not wholly be concealed.
The dinner being over, Robin harnessed a horse and took his uncle to
Archie Lindsay's, where he was to spend the afternoon. Robin chatted all
the way, glad of an opportunity to satisfy his inquiring mind. The drift
of his questions was towards America. "I would like to live in that
country," said he.
"Why is that?" asked his uncle. "Is not Scotland a bonny country?"
"Scotland is well enough--leastways it is bonny enough; but I would like
to live where one man is as gude as another; where one can buy land and
settle as he pleases. Awa wi' the landlords! Mony of them are all right,
but some of them are bad enough; and it often happens that an honest man
maun work for a scoundrel, and maun dance to his piping whether he pipes
right or wrang."
"Robin," said his uncle, "are you not indulging in unprofitable
thoughts? Scotland rears many eminent men. Surely her sons have a chance
to become both good and great. Emulate those who have become so, and do
not vex yourself with that which is beyond your control. You certainly
have nothing to complain of."
"No, I havena; but I see them that have. I see the poor far down, and
there is nae way to help them up."
"You take a one-sided view of the matter. Do you suppose there are no
poor in America?"
"Na, I dinna suppose that; but if they are puir, there is naebody to
lord it over them. Uncle Jamie, ye mind auld Sawny McKay? Well, he is
dead, but the auld wife lives. She is weak and seck, and she had a
notion for some broth. Geordie, her youngest lad, took a hare frae the
wood to mak a sup for his auld mither. Somebody told o' it, and a muckle
ado was made aboot it, and the lad had to pay a heavy fine that was hard
upon him, for he has but sma' wages. Noo, I dinna say it was right in
Geordie--maybe it wasna--but I like him a' the better for it. He is a
right gude lad, and he never would hae dune it for himsel; he tauld me
sae. Weel, I was that angry I said, 'Geordie, let us gang to the United
States of America. There ye may tak not only hares, but better game.' Ye
s'ould hae seen the light glint in his eye! But it went frae them in a
moment. 'Na, I canna; I wunna leave my mither,' said he."
Robin paused, expecting his uncle to approve of the indignation he had
felt. But James Murdoch said nothing. Taking from his pocket a sovereign
he put it into Robin's hand.
"Give this to Mistress McKay," said he. "I remember her well. She has
patted my head many a time."
By this time they had reached Archie Lindsay's. Uncle and nephew shook
hands at parting.
"I hope you will soon lose your discontent, Robin, and convince yourself
that Scotland is still a land good enough for all her sons."
"No, Uncle Jamie, my heart is set on America; and it will not be many
years before I will put the sea between me and Scotland."
At the home of the Lindsays, no less than at Donald McPherson's, was
James Murdoch a welcome and honored guest. Since his arrival his time
and attention had been so much occupied with his mother's sufferings and
death, and afterwards with the preparation for the funeral, that he had
spent very little time with Belle, although she lived so near. But on
this afternoon he had come for a visit. Isabel met him at the door and
showed him into the cool, pleasant best-room. Sandy and Robert had been
excused from performing any labor in the field that they might be with
their uncle. Alice laid aside her work, although so much had to be
accomplished before Hallowmas, and entertained her uncle in a manner so
easy and womanly that he was greatly pleased with her. Only little Annie
was missing. During occasional intervals in the conversation low tones
were heard in an adjoining room.
"It is wee Annie," said Alice, observing that her uncle listened. "She
aye reads to her grandmither till she falls asleep. Puir lass, I think
she will find it hard to bide her time the day."
Presently the sound ceased, and a fair, slight child entered, softly
closing the door behind her, thus indicating that the aged woman slept,
and no longer needed her services. She approached her uncle and offered
her hand. He took it, and stooping, kissed the gentle little one,
wishing in his heart that he had just such a sweet flower to brighten
and gladden his own home.
As the afternoon drew near its close, Belle invited her brother to go
and see the aged couple in the other part of the house. Mrs. Lindsay was
feeble, and evidently near the end of her pilgrimage. Though younger
than her husband, she was more infirm. Mr. Lindsay, now very aged, was
in good health; but he was like the sere, brown leaf in autumn, ready to
fall at the wind's first blast. He was glad to see James Murdoch. He
spoke of many things that had occurred in the distant past, and
mentioned with kindest feelings the friends and acquaintances of his
early manhood. He spoke of Mrs. Murdoch's death, and cast a significant
glance towards the room where his wife lay.
"She will soon be awa too," he said, "and I maun follow at no distant
day. Weel, that is the way in this warld; in the ither warld there will
be nae mair removes. We shall meet and ken our freends there, Jamie. Do
ye think our freends will be the first to greet us on the ither shore?"
"Perhaps so," said Jamie, speaking guardedly.
"Maybe it is a queer fancy, but I hae been thinking aboot your mither:
how when she came to that blest land we read of she would, perhaps, feel
strange; and then she might see Wullie beckoning to her; and she would
gang to him, and he would lead her to the dear Lord he lo'ed sae weel
while on earth; and the Lord himsel would put a crown on her head. You
see," said he, by way of apology or explanation, "whiles my mind taks to
thinking o' sic things now. The warld isna lang for me, and yet it is
pleasant to my auld een. The spring is bonny, and simmer-time is bonnier
still; but autumn minds me o' auld age, and hard by are the frosts o'
winter and death. Your faither had no fear o' death. I hae had mony a
talk wi' him, and they hae dune me gude. Lang may Scotland hae sic men
reared amang her sons o' toil, for even there they hae an influence that
maun be felt."
Jamie went to Mrs. Lindsay's bedside to speak to her.
"I am right glad to see ye ance mair, Jamie. Sit ye doun, and speak a
wee to your auld freend."
But Jamie could say but little: the scene recalled his mother's
sick-bed. Mrs. Lindsay understood his feelings.
"Ay, your mither is awa," said she, "and I am gaen soon. This life maun
come to an end wi' us a'. Nae doot it is weel wi' your mither; and I
trust in the mercy o' God, through Jesus Christ, that it will be weel
wi' me. It was honest Wullie wha helped me to lose the fear o' death. He
often spoke to the gude-man and mysel o' spiritual things."
The next day, as James Murdoch was speeding on towards his own home,
many thoughts filled his mind, but uppermost was this one: "Will my life
be as fruitful in good works as my step-father's was? After all of me
that is mortal has turned to dust, will any say of me as they say of
him, 'He helped me on in the way to heaven'?"