Now is the May of life.
ROGERS.
“EH, Violet! there’s twa men-servants, and twa maids!” said little
Katie Calder.
Katie was short and stout, with a plump, good-humoured face, and
wealth of long fair hair, and a bright-printed frock, bought for her
by Uncle Sandy himself, to replace the faded liveries of Miss Jean.
Katie had no turn for literature or poetry, like her little kinswoman;
but to make up for that, she was stout-hearted and adventurous,
redoubtable in winter slides and summer rambles, and with as honest
and “aefauld” a child’s heart as ever looked through blue eyes. Miss
Jean Calder and her penurious oppression had subdued Katie, but they
had not crushed her; for Katie was not given to solitary thoughts or
plaintive resignation. So instead of standing shyly by, as Violet might
have done, and looking on with a longing wish to join the plays of
happier children, Katie made bold dashes among them, content rather
to pay for her play by a good fit of crying, when summoned in to the
invariable scold, than to want altogether the wholesome “fun” which
was the child’s natural breath. So now, being prepared by a few days’
freedom in Uncle Sandy’s house at Ayr, for the liberty and kindliness,
though scarcely for the grandeur of Allenders, Katie’s happy spirit had
entirely thrown off the fear and bondage of Miss Jean. She was sitting
on a low stool half-dressed, plaiting the long hair which streamed
over her plump shoulders, and looking with great admiration at the new
chintz frock carefully spread out upon a chair, which she had worn for
the first time yesterday.
“Eh, Katie! if you only saw how the sun’s rising behind yon muckle
hill!” answered Violet from the window.
“And you never saw such a fine kitchen,” pursued Katie, “a’ the walls
glittering with things, and as big as folk could dance in; and such a
room with books down the stair. Did you think there was as mony in the
world, Lettie?”
“But they’re no for reading,” said Violet disconsolately, “for I tried
them last night; and I would rather have Mr. Sim’s library in the
Cowcaddens.”
“Were there stories in it? Eh, Violet, do you think there’s ony fairy
tales down the stair? for I like them,” said Katie Calder; “but if I
put on my new frock the day, it’ll no be clean on Sabbath to gang to
the kirk.”
“There’s Rose down in the garden--and there’s the old man that Harry
calls Dragon,” cried Violet. “Come, Katie, and see the Forth and our
boat.”
“It’s no so bonnie as our ain water at hame, and there’s nae brigs,”
said Katie, as she donned her new frock, and anxiously examined it,
to see whether yesterday’s journey had left any trace upon its bright
folds; for Katie was a thrifty little woman, and knew that she had no
other dress worthy of Allenders.
It was still very early. Rose had newly left the house, and now stood
alone under the great shadow of the walnut tree, looking up at the
windows, beyond which the greater part of the household were still
asleep. She had left Martha in a deep, quiet, dreamless slumber which
did not begin till the sky was reddening over Demeyet; and Rose who
had just been congratulating herself on having a free unoccupied hour
to think, stood now endeavouring, with some confusion, to recollect
what it was she wanted to think about. Her mind was in a tumult of
sweet morning fancies, and the something on which she had resolved
to meditate, eluded her, with many a trick and wile, like a playful
child. A slight wavering blush came over her face, as now and then she
seemed to catch a glimpse of it for a moment; but immediately it was
lost again among the thick-coming fancies of her stirred and wakening
mind; yet strangely enough, Rose did not pass the library window, nor
seek the mall by the water-side. Not very long ago, nothing could have
interested her more than the river and the hills beyond; now she only
threw herself down on the lawn beneath the walnut tree, and leaning her
head on her hand, played with the grass on which her eyes were bent,
and mused and pondered with a downcast face. Sometimes indeed, her eyes
were closed, and even when she opened them the dreamer saw nothing of
Allenders. No; for she was secretly making pictures which could not
bear the eye of day, much less the inspection of brother or sister;
remembering, with such strange tenacity of recollection, what was done
and what was said, on yonder May evening in the garden at Ayr, and
in the gloom of the little parlour, and unconsciously creating other
scenes like that, in which the same chief actor bore the hero’s part.
Rose! Rose! you would blush and start like guilt, did any home voice at
this moment call your name; but the spell of this dreaming clings to
you like slumber, and you can no more shake it off, than you could the
sweet deep sleep which last night surprised you against your will, and
changed those waking musings into the fantastic visions of the night;
and your eyes grow heavy, Rose, while your heart wanders in this maze,
and a soft uncertainty steals over your fair pictures, though with a
sudden start, half of displeasure, you hear the steps of the children
hastening to join you, and give up your maiden meditations with a sigh.
Behind the walnut tree, the poor old Dragon feebly bends over the
flower-beds, plucking up here and there, with an effort, a solitary
weed, but oftenest looking idly towards Rose, whom he would fain go
and speak to, were not her preoccupation so evident. The great walnut
waves its large fragrant leaves in the soft morning air between them,
and the sun burns in the gilded spear on the turret, and the broad
light clothes the whole country like a garment. Strongly contrasted in
this framework of summer life about them, are the two human creatures
who complete the picture. The girl lingering on the threshold of a
fair life unknown to her, and peopling all its fairy world with scenes
which thrill her to a half-conscious joy; the old man in the torpor of
great age, vacantly admiring her fresh youth, and with a strange, dim
curiosity about her, who she is, and what she would say if he addressed
her. To him a long life has passed like a dream, and appears in a mist
to his memory, as in a mist it appears to her imagination; but the
time is long past when anything could find out the old faint beating
heart of Adam Comrie, to thrill it with emotion. His curiosities, his
likings, his thoughts, have all become vague as a child’s; but they
lie on the surface, and never move him, as a child’s fancies do.
“See how the old man looks at Rose,” whispered Katie Calder; “but she
doesna see him yet; and, Violet, look at her. She’s bonnie.”
“But what way is she sitting there?” said Violet, wonderingly, “when
she might be at the water-side. She’s thinking about Harry; but what
needs folk think about Harry now? Harry is in his bed and sleeping,
Rose; but, oh! I see--you were not thinking about him after all.”
Rose started with a vivid blush. No, indeed, she had not been thinking
of Harry; it sounded like an accusation.
“And you’ll be yon birkie’s Lady Rose?” said the Dragon, coming
forward. “Aweel I wadna say but he thought ye bonnier than my white
bush; but they didna howk up the rose either; that’s ae comfort--though
nae thanks to him, nor to this lad, Mr. Hairy, that took his counsel.
What do they ca’ this little bairn?”
“My name’s Violet,” said Lettie, with dignity.
“There was a Miss Violet in the last family; but she would have made
six o’ that bit creature,” said the old servant. “What way are ye a’
sae wee?”
“Eh! Lettie’s a head higher than me!” exclaimed Katie Calder in
amazement.
“Are you gaun to be married upon yon birkie now, if ane might speer?”
asked the feeble Dragon. “I’ve lived about this house sixty year, but
there hasna been a wedding a’ that time; and now how I’m to do wi’
young wives and weans I canna tell. The last Allenders had a wife
ance, folk say, but I never mind of her. He was ninety year auld when
he died, and lived a widow three score years and five. I’m eighty
mysel, and I never was married. It’s aye best to get ower the like
o’ that when folk’s young; but you’re just a lassie yet; you should
wait awhile, and be sicker; and yon birkie has nae reverence for the
constitution. I’m an awfu’ guid hand for judging a man, and I ken as
muckle by what he said about the windows.”
“Eh, Rose, is’t Mr. Charteris that’s the birkie?” cried Violet, with
extreme interest.
But Rose had risen from the grass, and now leaned upon the walnut tree,
vainly trying to look serious and indifferent. This face which had
been eluding her dreams so long, looked in gravely now upon her heart;
and Rose trembled and blushed, and could not speak, but had a strong
inclination to run away somewhere under cover of the leaves, and weep
a few tears out of her dazzled eyes, and soothe her heart into calmer
beating. The old man chuckled once more in childish exultation.
“I’ll no tell--ye may trust me--and if ye’ll come in ower, I’ll let
you see the white rose bush that garred yon birkie name ye to me.
Whaur are ye for, you little anes? is’t the boat the bairns want? I’m
saying!--I’ll no hae ony o’ you drowning yoursels in the water; and I
gie you fair warning, if you should fa’ in twenty times in a day, I’m
no gaun to risk life and limb getting ye out again--it doesna stand
to reason that a wean’s life should be as valuable to this witless
world as the life of an aged man. And I’ve had muckle experience in my
day--muckle experience, Miss Rose; and aye glad to communicate, as the
Apostle bids, and ready to give counsel, wi’ nae mair pride than if I
had seen but ae score o’ years instead of four. It’s a great age.”
“And do they call you Dragon,” asked Violet, shyly.
“That’s what they ca’ me; for I’ve lang keepit Allenders, and been a
carefu’ man of a’ in it, from the master himsel to the berry bushes;
but my right name is Edom Comrie, if onybody likes to be so civil as
ca’ me that. I’m saying, wee Missie, do ye think I could carry ye? but
I’m no so strong as I was forty year ago.”
“You could carry little Harry; but I can rin, and so can Katie Calder,”
said Violet.
“Wha’s Katie Calder?”
“It’s me,” answered the little stranger; “and I’m Lettie Muir’s third
cousin; and I’m to stay at Allenders, and no to go back to Miss Jean
any more.”
“Weel, ye maun baith be guid bairns. I like guid bairns mysel,” said
the old man; “and ye can just come to me when ye want a piece scone or
a wheen berries, and there’s nae fears o’ ye; and I’ll aye gie them an
advice, Miss Rose, and mind them of their duty. Ye needna be feared but
I’ll do grand with the bairns.”
“Do you live in the house?” asked Rose, a little timidly, for she was
somewhat alarmed at the second sight of the poor old Dragon.
“That minds me ye havena seen my room,” said Dragon, briskly. “Come
your ways round--aye, I just live in Allenders--and gie me a haud o’
your hands, bairns, and Miss Rose will come after us, and ye’ll get a
sight of my house.”
So the soft warm childish hands glided into the withered fingers of
the old man, and Rose followed, passing by the luxuriant white rose
bush, now blooming in the full flush of its snowy flowers under the
new window of the dining-room, into a little court-yard behind where
was the stable and byre, and where Mysie, the Dragon’s grand-niece,
was just then milking the cow. This great temptation, Violet and Katie
withstood womanfully, and passing the milk-pail and the active hands
which filled it, with an effort, looked round somewhat impatiently for
the Dragon’s den.
“Ye maun come up here,” said the old man, “ane at a time--ane at a
time--and if ye’re light-headed, take a grip o’ the wa’, for folk are
whiles dizzy on an outside stair; and now here you see I have like a
wee house all to mysel.”
The “outside stair” was very narrow and much worn; it was evident it
had undergone no repair in all Harry’s labours, and Rose was fain to
grasp herself at a withered branch of ivy which still clung to the
wall, though life and sap had long departed from it, to secure her own
safe passage upwards, and to stretch out her arm on the other side in
terror for the children. Edom Comrie’s room was only the loft over
the stable, a square low place, with bare rafters and a sky-light in
the roof; but Adam’s bed was in one corner, and on a little table,
immediately under the window, stood a bowl, ready for Adam’s porridge,
and the little round pot in which he made them, was beside his little
fire.
“For ye see when it behooved me to live a’thegether at Allenders, the
auld maister caused build me a bit grate into the wall. I was a young
lad then, and might have taken my meat in the kitchen with Eppie, but I
aye was of an independent kind, and I had mair faith in my ain parritch
and kail than in onybody else’s; so I came to be a constant residenter
here; and there’s the Lady’s Well no a dizzen yards from the stair fit,
and the kitchen very near hand. Do ye like stories? Weel, I’ll tell ye
some day the story o’ the Lady’s Well.”
“Eh, Dragon, is’t a fairy tale?” asked Katie Calder, with wide-open
eyes.
“Naebody can tell that; but I have plenty of fairy tales,” said the old
man. “Ye see, it was in the auld times, maybe twa hundred year ago, or
mair siller, that the Laird of Allenders had a young daughter, and her
name was--aye, Miss Rose, that’s my meal ark--it doesna haud muckle
aboon a peck at a time; and here’s where I keep my bannocks, and I have
a wee kettle and a pickle tea and sugar there; and for the greens I
have just to gang down to the garden and cut them, nae leave asked, and
my drap milk brought regular to the very door. Ye see I’m weel off, and
I’m ready to own it and be thankful, instead of graneing for ever like
some folk--for I’m real comfortable here.”
“And have you no friends?” asked Rose.
“Weel, there’s Mysie down there, milking the cow, and there’s her
father, my sister’s son. Eh, to see the ill the warld and a family do
to a man! for there’s that lad Geordie Paxton, no fifty year auld,
and he’s a mair aged man than me--‘for such shall have sorrow in the
flesh,’ the Apostle says, and never being married mysel, ye see, and
keeping up nae troke wi’ far-off kin, that’s a’ the friends, except a
cousin, here and there, that I hae.”
“And does naebody ever come to see you?” asked Katie.
“No a creature--wha should mind me, a silly auld man?” answered the
Dragon, with a momentary pathos in his tone. “And I couldna be fashed
wi’ strangers either, and you see I hae a’thing within mysel, milk
and meal, board and bed, sae that I’m nae ways dependent on either
fremd-folk or friends; but ye may speak for me if you like, Miss Rose,
to Mr. Hairy for a book whiles. There’s grand, solid books yonder of
the auld maister’s, and there’s ane or twa that I found out no lang
syne that wadna do for the like of you--I wouldna consent to lead away
the young wi’ them; but they do weel enough to divert an auld man that
has experience of the world, and kens guid from evil; and I’ll promise
faithful to burn every word o’ them when I’ve ta’en the divert mysel.
Here’s ane, ye see. I wadna let you read it, and you a young lassie;
but ye may look at its name.”
And looking, Rose discovered in the charred bundle of leaves which lay
on the old man’s hob, and lighted his fire, a torn “Vicar of Wakefield.”
“Eh, I’ve read that!” said Violet, under her breath; and Violet looked
on with horror as if at a human sacrifice.
“Every morning, when I take a page for my light, I read it first,” said
the Dragon, chuckling; “there’s that muckle diversion in’t; but it’s no
for you--it’s no for the like of you.”