Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound.
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
“THE land is aye guid security,” said Alexander Muir doubtfully to
himself, as he slowly brushed his Sabbath-day’s hat, and glanced from
the window to where one or two of his younger visitors, carrying
their work idly in their hands, strayed with wistful looks past his
strawberry beds. “There are hungry e’en among these bairns, and what
can we expect, poor things? I must promise them a lawful feast in the
afternoon, if they’ll no pick any berries the time I’m away; and then
there’s my two hundred pounds if it should come to the worst--but two
hundred’s a far way off a thousand; and the house and the garden are
worth but little siller, and to sell them would break my heart. Well, I
can aye see what Miss Jean says; and if all belonging to ye have done
hard things for ye, in their day, Harry, my man, this is no the least.”
“Bairns,” continued the old man from the window, “do ye see yon
strawberries yonder among the leaves? I’ll be out an hour--you might
have time to make an end of them if ye liked--but I ken there is far
mair honour among ye than the like of that. Maggie, my dear, never you
mind the rasps--they can stand steady of themsels, and need no prop.
Beatie, come away from the strawberries like a good bairn.”
“It’s just a branch that’s lying ower the border--somebody’s sure to
tramp on’t,” explained Beatie.
“Never you mind, my woman, so it’s no you that does it,” answered the
old man. “Enter not into temptation--turn your backs upon them like
good bairns; and if I see there’s good work done when I come back, ye
shall have a table spread out, and I’ll tell Mrs. Tamson to send in
some cream, and ye shall gather the berries for yoursels.”
One or two smiling faces looked up and nodded thanks, and there was
a very general quickening of needles; but Mary Burness who had “cast
out” with her “lad” the night before, drooped her head pathetically and
sighed. Poor Mary, in her melancholy, had a soul above strawberries!
Having delivered this his last message, and given to Jessie, his
little handmaiden, special directions to prepare for this simple
entertainment, Alexander Muir took his staff in his hand, and set out
solemnly to call upon Miss Jean.
He had left Allenders only the previous day, and had left it in good
spirits, giving Harry particular charge about the “schooling” of
Violet and Katie, which the old man perceived ran some risk of being
neglected, at least by the heads of the house. But Uncle Sandy had
great hopes of Harry, and was much interested about the occupation
which Harry desired for his leisure. Nevertheless, the old man walked
slowly towards the dwelling-place of Jean Calder. He needed to be a
brave man who should venture to ask money from her.
“Ou, ay, she’s aye steering,” said, discontentedly, the woman who
occupied the lower story of Miss Jean’s house, “weary tak her! I have
had nae peace o’ my life since ye took that little brat Katie away. She
fees my wee lassie wi’ ten shillings in the year to kindle her fire,
and do a’ her needs, and expects me forbye to wash her claes into the
bargain, as if I hadna plenty to do wi’ a man, and a muckle laddie, and
a’ thae weans! I wadna have let Aggie gang, but just I thought five
shillings--though it didna come till the end o’ the half year--couldna
weel come amiss where there’s aye sae muckle to do wi’t, and Aggie was
just to gang up in the morning. Instead of that it’s Aggie here, Aggie
there, the haill day through; and she never as muckle as says, have ye
a mouth--except for that drap parritch in the morning, and sour milk.”
“Poor woman! _she_ gets more ill than you,” said the old man,
compassionately; “but Aggie has mother and father to look after her,
and see she’s no ill used; whereas little Katie had but a widow woman
to look to, who couldna have another mouth brought hame to her; and
that makes a great difference; so now I’ll go up the stair and see Miss
Jean.”
But the old man’s heart almost failed him, as he paused at the
half-opened door. He had no opportunity of escape, however, for the
sharp, anxious, miser-ear had heard the approaching footstep; and the
shrill, quivering voice of Miss Jean Calder demanded impatiently,
“Wha’s there?”
“It’s me,” said Alexander Muir, meekly. “If ye’re well enough, and your
lane, I’ll come in, Miss Jean.”
“Ay, come in, and gie us the news,” answered Miss Jean, appearing at
the kitchen-door in a thick muslin cap, with great flaunting borders,
borrowed from Aggie’s indignant mother. The poor lean cheeks looked
thinner and more gaunt than usual within the wide full muslin wings
which flaunted out from them on either side; and hot as this July day
was, Miss Jean had been sitting, with an old faded woollen shawl over
her shoulders, close by the fire. “Ye may come in, Sandy, since it’s
you, and gie us the news--just inbye here. It’s nae guid standing on
ceremony wi’ auld friends like you. Come inbye to the fire, Sandy
Muir,” said Miss Jean, graciously.
The old man entered the little kitchen with some trepidation, though he
hailed this singular courtesy as a good omen, and was emboldened for
his difficult errand.
The kitchen was small, and hot, and stifling, for the July sun, very
imperfectly kept out by a torn curtain of checked linen and a broken
shutter, accomplished what Miss Jean’s penurious handful of fire
scarcely could have done. A small round deal table stood before the
fire-place; opposite to it was the door of Miss Jean’s “concealed bed,”
which she closed in passing; while between the fire-place and the
window a wooden “bunker,” dirty and wounded, filled up all the wall.
Miss Jean herself sat by the fireside in a high wooden elbow-chair,
furnished with one or two loose thin cushions, which scarcely
interposed the least degree of softness between the sharp corners of
the chair, and the sharper corners of her poor worn, angular frame.
A little black teapot stood by the fire--for thrift Miss Jean never
emptied this teapot; it always stood baking there, and always had its
scanty spoonful of new tea added to the accumulation of half-boiled
leaves, till it would bear no further addition, and compelled a
reluctant cleaning out.
But on the top of Miss Jean’s bunker, a strange contrast to the
penurious meanness of all her other arrangements, lay a great ham,
enveloped in greasy paper, and roasting slowly in an atmosphere to
which it was very little accustomed. A certain look of recognition
given by Uncle Sandy to this very respectable edible, and an evident
importance with which he stood endowed in the eyes of Miss Jean,
explained how it came here--a peace-offering from Allenders to the
wealthy miser.
“It was weel dune of ye, Sandy, to gar them mind the auld wife--very
weel dune; and ane canna say what may come o’t. I’m no meaning in
siller,” added Miss Jean, hurriedly. “I wadna encourage a mercenary
spirit--ye ken that--but in guid will, Sandy--guid will; and guid
will’s a grand thing amang relations; and the ham’s no ill eating. They
would get it cheap yonder away noo--far cheaper than the like of you or
me?”
“You see,” said Uncle Sandy--with elaborate skill, as he thought, good
simple heart, “they would have nane but the very finest, it being for
you, Miss Jean, and so I cannot undertake to say it was cheap--when ye
get the best of anything, it’s seldom to call cheap.”
“Ye’re a grand man to learn me, Sandy Muir,” said Miss Jean, with a
laugh of derision. “Me, that have been a careful woman a’ my days,
never gieing a penny mair for onything than what it was worth to me.
I’ve heard the like of you, that pretend to be philosophers, arguing
against ane, when ane wanted to prig down a thing honestly, that what
was asked was naething mair than the thing’s absolute worth. But what
have I to do wi’ absolute worth? What is’t worth to _me_? That’s my
wisdom, Sandy Muir; and to hear you, that everybody kens has just had
as little discernment as a bairn, and been imposed on by the haill
town, telling _me_ what’s cheap and what’s dear! I reckon if Solomon
had been here, he would have found out at last the new thing that he
took sic bother about, honest man.”
“Weel, Miss Jean, I may have been imposed on--I’ll no say,” said the
old man, looking slightly displeased. “Most folk have, one time or
another; but you’re no asking what kind of a place they’ve gotten, nor
about the bairns themsels.”
“Yell think yoursel up the brae, Sandy,” said Miss Jean, “uncle, nae
less, to a laird; but I’m less heeding, I’m thankful, of the vanities
of this warld. Is’t a’ guid brown earth the lad’s siller comes from, or
is’t siller in the bank, or what is it? But you needna tell me about
their grand claes and their braw house, for my mind’s a different kind
of mind from that.”
“It’s a’ guid brown earth, as you say, Miss Jean,” said the old man,
eagerly seizing this opening to begin his attack; “that is, a’ but some
houses; and Harry like a thrifty man, is giving his attention to the
land, and says, with good work, it could be made twice as profitable.
You will be glad to hear of that, Miss Jean.”
“I would be glad to hear it, if I didna ken that nae profit in this
world would ever make yon wasteful callant thrifty,” said the old
woman, leaning back in her chair, and pressing the great borders of her
cap close to her face with two dingy, shrivelled hands. “Do ye think I
dinna ken as weel as you that he’s gaen and gotten a grand house, and
deckit out yon bit doll o’ his as fine in ribbons and satins, as if she
were a countess? Na, Sandy, I’ll no gie up my discrimination. Harry
Muir will come to want yet, or you may ca’ me a lee.”
“No fears of Harry Muir,” said the old man warmly. “I have myself, as I
was just telling him, two hundred pounds of my ain, besides the garden
and the house, and I’ll come to want mysel’, I am well assured of that,
before want touches Harry Muir--but that’s no the question; you see he
could double his incoming siller in the year, if he could do justice to
this farm; and the auld farmer, a Mr. Hunter, a very decent sponsible
man, acknowledged the same thing to me, but said he was too old to
learn himsel’.”
“Twa hundred pounds! do you mean to say that _you’re_ twa hundred
pounds afore the world, Sandy?” said Miss Jean. “Man, I didna think you
had sae muckle in ye!--but take you care, Sandy Muir, my man--take you
care of the mammon of unrighteousness--it’s a fickle thing to haud it
sicker enough, and no to haud it ower fast.”
And as she spoke, a slight twitch passed over the hard muscles of her
face; yet she spoke unconsciously, and had not the remotest idea that
she condemned herself.
“And what would be your counsel, Miss Jean?” said Uncle Sandy, not
without a little tremor. “It would cost siller at first, you see, to
work upon this farm; but no doubt it’s sure to answer, being just like
sowing seed, which is lost for a time, but in spring is found again in
the green ear and blade. The lad is anxious to be well advised, and no
begin without good consideration; so what would you say?”
“I’ll tell ye what I would say, Sandy Muir,” said the miser, spreading
back her muslin wings, and leaning forward to him, with them projecting
from her face on either side, and her dingy hands supporting her sharp
chin; “I would say that a penny saved was as guid as tippence made; and
that he should begin now, at the beginning of his time, and lay by and
spare, and when he’s an auld man like you, he’ll hae a better fortin
than he’ll ever get out of the land. That’s my counsel, and that’s the
way I’ve done mysel; and if he makes as gude an end o’ his life as I’ve
done o’ mine, I’ll let you ca’ him a thrifty man.”
“We’ll nane of us be here to call him so,” said Uncle Sandy, “we’ll
baith be in a place where gathered siller is an unthrifty provision.
Whiles I think upon that, Miss Jean.”
“Ou, ay, the like of you are aye thinking upon that,” said the old
woman with fiery eyes; “but I tell ye I’m nane so sure of what may come
to pass; for I’ve seen mony a hopefuller lad than Harry Muir--mony
a ane that thought in their ain mind they would read the name on my
grave-head twenty years after it was printed there, and I’ve pitten
my fit upon their turf for a’ that. I’m no wishing the lad ill--I’m
wishing naebody ill that doesna meddle wi’ me; but I’ve seen as
unlikely things--and you’ll see whether I’m no a sooth prophet, Sandy
Muir.”
And suddenly withdrawing her hands, and nodding her feeble head in
ghastly complacency, the old weird woman leaned back again in her chair.
“God forbid ye should! God forbid it!--and spare, and bless, and
multiply the lad, and make him an honour and a strength in the land,
long after the moss is on my headstane,” said Alexander Muir, with
solemn earnestness. “And God bless the young bairns and the hopeful,”
added the old man, eagerly, after a pause, “and deliver them from evil
eye that grudges at their pleasaunce, or evil foot of triumph on their
innocent graves! And God forgive them that have ill thoughts of the
sons of youth that are His heritage--blessings on their bright heads,
ane and a’!”
And when he paused, trembling with earnest indignant fervour, the old
man’s eye fell upon Miss Jean. She had risen to take down from the high
dusty mantel-piece a coarse blue woollen stocking which she had been
knitting. Now she resumed her seat, and began with perfect composure
to take up some loops which her unsteady fingers had drawn out as she
took down the stocking. Either she had not listened to Uncle Sandy’s
fervent blessing, or was not disposed to except at it--certainly she
settled down in her chair with feeble deliberation, pulling about
her thin cushions peevishly, and with no sign or token about her of
emotion of any kind. Her very eye had dulled and lost its fire, and you
saw only a very old miserable solitary woman, and not an evil spirit
incarnate of covetousness and malice, as she had looked a few minutes
before.
There was a considerable pause, for the old man did not find it so easy
to overcome the tremor of indignation and horror into which her words
had thrown him, and he now had almost resolved--but for a lingering
unwillingness to disappoint Harry--to say nothing of his special
mission. At last the silence was broken by Miss Jean herself.
“Ill times, Sandy Muir, awfu’ ill times; for auld folk, such like as me
that have just their pickle siller and naething mair, nae land to bear
fruit nor strong arm to work for them, Sandy; the like of such times as
thir, are as bad as the dear years.”
Poor, forlorn, worn-out life! unconsciously to herself, the old man’s
blessing on the young, whose strength she grudged and envied, had
touched a gentle chord in her withered heart. Nothing knew she of what
softened her, but for the moment she was softened.
“Are ye getting little interest for your siller, Miss Jean?” said Uncle
Sandy, immediately roused.
“Little! ye might say naething ava, and no be far wrang,” answered
Miss Jean, briskly. “A puir dirty three pund, or twa pund ten, for a
guid hunder. Ye’ll be getting mair for your twa, Sandy Muir, or ye
wadna look sae innocent! Where is’t, man? and ye’re an auld sleekit
sneckdrawer, after a’, and ken how to tak care o’ yoursel.”
“I ken ane, Miss Jean, would gie ye five pounds for every hundred, and
mony thanks into the bargain,” said the old man, his breath coming
short and his face flushing all over with anxious haste; “and a decent
lad and landed security. I might have told you sooner, if I had kent;
but, you see, I never thought it would answer you.”
“Answer _me_! I find guid siller answer me better than maist things
that folk put their trust in,” said Miss Jean, laying down her
stocking, and lifting up the frosty cold blue eyes, which again
twinkled and glimmered with eagerness, to the old man’s face. “Ye ken
ane; and does he gie _you_ this muckle for your twa hunder pounds?”
“Na, my twa hundred is out of my ain power, in the Ayr bank; besides,
its mair siller this lad wants--mine would do him nae service.”
“This lad! wha does the auld tricky body mean?” said Miss Jean,
fixing her sharp eyes curiously on Uncle Sandy, “five pounds in the
hunder--ye’re meaning he’ll gie me that by the year, and keep a’ my
siller where I never can lay hand on’t again, Sandy Muir?”
“At no hand,” said the old man, with dignity, “the best of landed
security, and the siller aye at your call, and the interest punctual to
a day.”
Miss Jean’s mouth watered and her fingers itched; it was impossible to
think of this treasure without yearning to clutch it. “Ane might put by
thretty pounds in the year,” she said, musingly. “And how do you ca’
this lad when ye name him, Sandy Muir?”
“I’ve seen his name in the papers,” said the old man, with mingled
exultation and anxiety, “and there it stands, ‘Harry Muir Allenders,
Esq., of Allenders,’ but at hame here we call him your nephew and mine,
Harry Muir.”
Miss Jean uttered a passionate cry, rose from her seat, and flung the
stocking with all her feeble might in the face of her visitor. “Eh,
Sandy Muir, ye auld, leein, artful, designing villain! was’t no enough
that ye came ance already wi’ you lang-tongued writer and reived my
house of guid papers that were worth siller, but ye would come again,
ye smooth-spoken, white-headed hypocrite, to seize my very substance
away from me, and take bread out of a lone woman’s mouth to make a
great man of a graceless prodigal. Ye auld sinner! ye hard-hearted
theiving spoiler, that I should say so! how dare ye come to break a
puir auld woman’s heart, and tantalize the frail life out of me, wi’
your lees and deceits about siller? Oh, Sandy Muir!”
And Miss Jean threw herself down once more in her hard chair, and began
to wipe the corners of her eyes; for the disappointment of her ruined
expectations was really as hard upon her miserable soul as the failing
of fortune or fame is at any time to its eager pursuer, who has just
lifted his hand to grasp what Fate remorselessly snatches away.
“Ye’ll come to yoursel, Miss Jean--ye’ll come to yoursel,” said Uncle
Sandy quietly, as he laid the stocking on the table.
And after another burst of fierce invective, Miss Jean did come to
herself.
“And he had to send _you_--he couldna get a decent writer to take up
such an errand for him! but I’ll see him come to want, as a waster
should, and he need ask nae charity from me!”
“Nor never will,” said the much-enduring Uncle Sandy; “and Mr. Macer,
whom ye ken weel, Miss Jean, for the first writer in this haill town,
is instructed on the subject. Maybe, that may satisfy ye, if ye dinna
believe me; but it might be best when he comes to see ye, no to throw
your wires at _him_.”
“Weel, Sandy Muir, ye’re no such an ill body after a’,” said Miss Jean,
with a shrill laugh; “and what better did ye deserve, ye auld sinner,
after pitting me in such grand hopes? But if there’s land to trust to,
past yon prodigal himsel--and I wouldna gie a strae in the fire for
_his_ bond--and your ain undertaking, and your twa hundred pounds,
Sandy Muir; for ane could aye easy take the law of you, being close
at hand, and neighbour like--I’ll no say but I might hearken, if I was
secure of my siller.”
And with this gracious deliverance, to himself quite unexpected,
Alexander Muir gladly left Miss Jean to order the cream for his
strawberries, and to write a note to Harry. The old man drew a long
breath, and wiped his brow with the most grateful sense of relief
when he once more stood at the door of his own garden, and saw the
table spread upon the green, and the expectant girls only waiting
the permission of his presence to plunge down among the green, cool
strawberry-leaves, and bring forth the fragrant fruit. Good Uncle
Sandy looked round upon the young bright heads with a swelling heart,
and said “blessings on them” once more. The evil thoughts of Miss
Jean’s envious and unlovely age struck the old man as if with a vague
presentiment of danger. His heart stretched out strong protecting arms
around them. “Yea, children are God’s heritage,” he said to himself in
encouragement and hope; and Maggie, and Beenie, and Beatie and Mary,
all felt a more delicate tenderness than usual, in the smiles and kind
words of their entertainer.