Harry Jardine was taken to the Ewes some hours before his mother, who
had happily been deceived as to his return on the previous night, was
even apprised of his narrow escape. He received the greatest kindness
from the Crawfurds, and his mother herself found it incumbent on her to
write a little note to the Ewes, thanking the family for their humanity
and benevolence towards her son. It is possible, had Mrs. Jardine been
awakened to her son's danger a little sooner, and before its traces were
entirely blotted out, the expressions in the note might have been a few
shades less general and cold.
Mr. Crawfurd excused her fully. He would not have expected Harry to come
back to the Ewes, though he rejoiced, from the bottom of his heart, that
Joanna had served the young fellow. How much his poor father would have
been delighted in him? Mr. Crawfurd rejoiced, although he was too
righteous and humble-minded to say to himself that God was appeased, or
that He had permitted this atonement as a sign in answer to his
life-long penance.
Harry Jardine represented a different theory; he would be a dolt, a
brute, unpardonably vindictive, if he did not cherish all friendly
feelings to the Crawfurds; if he did not visit them openly and frankly.
He did visit at the Ewes, but he found the plainest opportunities ready
made for him during one fortnight at Hurlton, to come in contact with
Joanna Crawfurd. She had gone there to look after Conny, suborned by
Mrs. Maxwell, and laid up with a sore throat, and forlorn and wretched
if one of her sisters was not looking after her.
This intercourse could scarcely fail to have one grand climax. Joanna,
the thoughtful, imaginative, true, tender woman--a fair woman besides,
with that one little blot which singularly appealed to him with a harsh
sweet voice--a sufficiently rare woman, to stand quite distinct from her
sisters and companions in the light of the practical, active, ardent,
honest heart--became the one mistress in the world for Harry Jardine,
coveted and craved by him as the best gift of God, without which the
others were comparatively worthless, and for which he could have been
willing to sacrifice them one and all. Harry himself, in after years,
confessed that since the moment he awakened from that leaden drowsiness
on the moor, the image of Joanna Crawfurd, tending him as a mother her
sick child, was constantly before him.
Joanna had not precisely the same experience. From the moment that, with
the prescience of a woman where feelings are concerned, she saw the end,
she avoided Harry Jardine with all her power. Harry's generous
determination and daring, his fearlessness, confidence, and
steadfastness overpowered her.
Mr. Crawfurd was dreadfully upset by Harry Jardine's application to him,
his claim for forbearance, his entreaty for grace, and his candid
confession that his mother was violently opposed to his suit. It was a
case which could neither be considered nor rejected without remorse. Oh,
bitterness, which spread like an infection through so many years, and
into such different relations, and spoilt even the young man's
fairness, good faith, free forgiveness, and the purity and earnestness
of his passion, the pearl of his manhood, which, if lost to him, would
be a loss indeed! How Harry implored Mr. Crawfurd to spare it to him, to
reflect that it was the greatest benefit which he asked at his hands, to
pause before he denied it to him solely because he had been the
unfortunate means of depriving him of his father!
Harry had agitating scenes with his mother besides; these two had never
been placed against each other before, and the contest between them was
neither gracious nor good for either heart.
"Harry, I am horrified at you; it is a dishonour to your poor father's
memory; it is shocking to think of it; and if you have been so lost to
duty as to fall into so unnatural an entanglement, it is surely the
least you owe to both parents to give it up."
"Mother! I cannot see it as you do; my father fully exonerated Mr.
Crawfurd--you have told me so a hundred times. No one, not you, his
widow, mourned my father as Mr. Crawfurd mourned--nay, mourns him to
this day."
"Harry, do you wish to see a bloody guest present at your wedding?"
"Mother, that is a baseless, cruel horror. You would not wish me to
maintain a hereditary feud on the principle of my forefathers. I cannot
tell what the Christian religion teaches if it does not enjoin
forgiveness of injuries."
"I hope I am a Christian, Harry, and I have tried to forgive my
enemies, but it is one thing to make every allowance for them and
entertain charitable feelings towards them, and another to ally myself
with them, and constitute them my closest friends. Harry, the whole
neighbourhood would shrink from the idea of what you contemplate."
"If my principles and my heart said Yes, not the neighbourhood, but
the whole world might cry No, and I would not feel bound to listen to
the clamour."
"A young man's improper boast, Harry, and since you force me to it, not
the world alone--I tell you nature objects to that girl--that girl of
them all; how can you look her in the face and think of love?"
"Would you have me think of hate? Since you make the allusion, I declare
to you, mother, that mark appeals to you and me in another fashion.
Cain's brand! do they call it? And who set the brand, and when, on
Cain's brow? Sovereign clemency, after the wanderer's punishment was
more than he could bear, if the reflection of my father's blood was
transmitted to so innocent and noble a proxy, it must have been designed
to teach such as you and me New Testament lessons of perfect charity."
"Harry, I have never been able to look that girl in the face."
"Mother, I pray never to forget that face, although it remain like an
angel's face to me, because it is the fairest example of the human face
divine that I ever hope to behold."
"Harry Jardine, you are mad, or worse; these are some of the sickening
French and German sentimentalities against which I have been warned.
There is such a thing as a wholesome sense of repulsion, an honest
manly recoil, a pure instinct of loathing, a thousand times to be
preferred to this morbid mixture of good and evil, friend and foe, life
and death, this defiance of decency and general opinion."
"Very true, mother; but there are a thousand exceptional cases, and a
million points of ruthless prejudice. 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth
for a tooth,' sounded very righteous and respectable in the ears of the
Jews, yet I believe the sentence had its condemnation, and the amendment
was neither French nor German."
"Harry, you are profane, and you forget what is due to yourself and me."
The last saying was a hard one; his mother could be no judge of his
profanity, but he had been a good son, and it had not been without
a curb upon him that the strong man had accustomed himself to leave
so much of the power and authority of Whitethorn in the wilful
woman's hands.
In the library at the Ewes Mr. Crawfurd was addressing Joanna
very gently.
"My dear, I am very sorry it cannot be; of course Mrs. Jardine will
never consent, but it goes to my heart to grieve you."
"Papa, I cannot help it."
"And to grieve Harry Jardine."
"Papa, that is worse; but do not think that anybody--that he
blames you."
"We shall trust, my dear, that he will soon recover the
disappointment."
"Of course--it is not a great loss."
"My dear, pray don't smile when it hurts you, for I cannot bear it; it
is natural that this should be a heavy cross to you; but setting it
aside as unavoidable, is there no respect in which I can lighten it to
you? No indulgence which you could fancy that I could procure for you?
No old wish of his Joan's that papa could by an effort gratify? Surely I
cannot be so miserable, child."
"Oh, no, papa! I mean you can please in a great many things; you always
could, and you always will. Women are not like men, their natures are
not so concentrated. They have so many tastes and whims, you know; I
possess them by the score, and I will never cease to relish their
fulfilment so long as you and I keep labouring together, papa. I am not
going to be a hypocrite, papa. This strange story has vexed me a good
deal, but I was aware from the first of its unsubstantial character. I
still want money to be charitable on my own account, like Lilias. I've a
notion to revive our old greenhouse; I've a longing to see a little of
the world with you, sir, in spring and summer; I've never been
indifferent to silks and muslins, though I think my chief weakness in
dress is the very finest of fine chintz prints, ever so dear a yard,
papa, which an artist might paint, and more of a Duchess's wear than
velvet. All these matters are acceptable to me, papa."
"You are sure that you are my pet and darling."
"Yes, papa; you have spoilt me."
Joanna was gone to her own room; there she laid her head on her arm, and
asked her heart bitterly, "Have I succeeded in deceiving papa? Can he
believe for a moment that any poor precious treasure in the wide world
will make up to me for the want of Harry Jardine; that there is anything
left me but Heaven instead of Harry Jardine? But then there is papa,
dear papa, and I used to be papa's. What will not women do for their
children? I always thought I could attain as much for papa. I was proud
to prove my love to him, and I will drive out Harry's image for papa's
sake, though I should die in the struggle."
Harry did not altogether admire this resolution. He was a good fellow,
an excellent fellow, and he had the true, ineffable devotion to Joanna
Crawfurd; but he was not free from jealousy and irritation, as well as
sorrow and fear, when he was compelled to part from her for a time, and
content himself with swearing fidelity on his own account, and seeing
her occasionally as an ordinary acquaintance, until their relative
positions should be changed, or his truth fail.
The common world rolled on its course; the seasons succeeded each other,
although even they seemed to culminate in dull, monotonous vanity and
vexation of spirit. The frosty wind had swept "that lustre deep from
glen and brae," and the chill watery mosses alone looked green and fresh
when the snow melted. It was the cold under which Joanna Crawfurd
shivered and shrank; at least so she assured every friendly person who
remarked that she was thin, and paler than ever. Mrs. Jardine had looked
her in the face, nay, kept nervously glancing at her when she was
visible at church, on the loch where the curling match was played, or in
the concert-room at the county town.
Of course the girl would get over it; yet Joanna bore a suspicious
likeness to Mrs. Jardine's sister Anne, who did not "get over" such a
cross. Mrs. Jardine remembered well her sister Anne's parting look, and
now, strive as she would, she could not resist the conviction that it
was hovering over Joanna Crawfurd's face. Mrs. Jardine, like the Laird
of the Ewes, could have cried, "Pray do not smile, girl; you do not know
how you look; we, the initiated, have not stony enough hearts to stand
that." Mrs. Jardine was surprised that Harry could be so foolish as to
redden and appear displeased at Joanna Crawfurd's gaiety.
Mrs. Jardine almost complained against Providence that she was condemned
to punish her only child. Then she could not help speculating whether,
if by some unimaginable arrangement of events, she had been the
sufferer, and Harry's father had been spared to him, he would have
denied Harry his happiness in the name of her memory, and from a sense
of righteous animosity, whether, if she could have looked down purified
and peaceful from the spirit-world, she would have desired the
sacrifice, and whether she would not have pleaded against it for love
and mercy's sake?
The winter was gone, the early spring was at hand, and all around the
outskirts of the moor, like an incense to spring and the Lord of the
spring, rose the smoke of the whin burnings which were to clear the
ground for the sweet young grass, to employ the nibbling teeth of
hundreds on hundreds of sheep and lambs. Joanna Crawfurd had never so
sighed for spring, never sat in such passive inertness (highly
provocative to Lilias), receiving and realizing what it brought to her.
But the period of listlessness and inaction, life-long to some, was
nearly ended for this pair. With the last snowdrops of the garden in
February, and the first glinting gowans of the lea in March, came the
news to the country-side of the bankruptcy of one of the first of the
chain of banks, whose defalcations have accomplished more in causing
property to change hands than the lances of the moss-troopers. The young
Laird of Whitethorn held money in the shape of his father's shares in
one of those unlucky banks; and so it fell upon him one morning like a
clap of thunder that he was responsible for about as much as the acres
of Whitethorn would retrieve, besides the trifling morsel to whet his
appetite in the loss of his loose thousands. Harry Jardine was likely to
know himself as "landless, landless," as ever a proscribed Macgregor.
Harry rose to the encounter. "I am sorry for you, mother, and I do not
pretend that I shall not regret the old moorland acres; but I shall do
very well, notwithstanding. I'm old to learn a profession; but how many
volunteers and retired lieutenants had to study and serve
apprenticeships after the long wars! I will stick in; I don't mind it on
my own account, and I will be proud to provide for you. I say, mother,
don't vex yourself; perhaps it is the best thing that can happen to me.
I don't think a fellow gets well seasoned unless he is knocked about at
some time: better late than never. I have been coveting change--any
change and occupation, an engrossing occupation--for the last few
months." He said that to reconcile her to what was an overwhelming blow
to her, and his words aroused her with a sharp pang. Had Harry become
so miserable and sick of his blessings that he was ready to welcome the
cold-bath of labour and poverty as a relief to his oppressive languor,
and a ground of hope for his fainting mind?
But Harry came in to her with a troubled face, on another day--a mild
day--a subtle, penetrating, relaxing day, under whose balmy breath it is
doubly difficult to contend with encircling difficulties, and reject the
one clue suddenly vouchsafed to lead us out of the labyrinth.
"I must tell you, mother, though, of course, it cannot be in the
circumstances--he does not see it--but there is no fatality to bind
me to his views. Mr. Crawfurd of the Ewes sent for me this morning,
and I went to him immediately; I could not tell what he might have
to say to me."
"Without consulting your mother, Harry?"
"Yes, mother," answered Harry, with unconscious sternness, "because it
might have been my own business, entirely my own affair, with which no
mortal, not even you, can be entitled to interfere. But it was only to
offer and urge upon me a loan of money to enable me to satisfy the
bank's claims, if they come to the worst, and retain Whitethorn, paying
him at my leisure. I assure you that it was delicately done; my father's
ghost may rest in peace. I beg your pardon, mother; I did not mean to
pain you. I am afraid I do speak queerly at times. Well, well; it was a
kind, confiding, neighbourly action, though I refused it decidedly, from
the man whose alliance is forbidden to us. I had no resource but to
respect myself, as I respected him; and it is no great matter that it
hurt me to cut up that gentle, inoffensive old man, endeavouring to show
his rue for having proved, twenty years ago, what my father was to at
least an equal degree, and what I have no assurance that I would not
have found myself, to a far greater extent than either of them--a slave
to a false code of honour."
Harry sat down, haggard, dispirited, half-desperate. His mother made no
reply. All the rest of the day she walked about the house like a
restless spirit; half the night she paced up and down her chamber
softly, lest Harry should hear her, and come in again, and begin to
caress her; for she could not endure Harry's kisses now--they were like
Joanna Crawfurd's smiles.
Was Harry quarrelling with his father's memory? It was a ghastly
sacrilege to her; yet might he not arrive at cursing in his heart, even
while he was grasping the devil within him by the throat? What had it
not cost him? First, his young love and the cream of his happiness; and
now his paternal acres, and his position among the independent,
influential gentlemen of his native county. He might not value the last
in his present fever and rashness, but he would weigh it more justly
hereafter. The moorland inheritance was not of great money purchase, but
it had descended to its possessors through long generations. It was
hallowed by venerable associations. The name and the property together
were of some importance in this nook of the south. Harry's father had a
family affection for his _place_, and, doubtless, Harry entertained it
also, undeveloped as yet, but to grow and acquire full maturity one day,
addressing him at every pensive interval with a vain craving and
yearning. And, again, in the confusion and distraction of Mrs.
Jardine's feelings, there was her sister Anne haunting her dreams, and
reproaching her with having forgotten her; and lastly, one verse in her
well-worn Bible was constantly standing out before her aching eyes in
letters of fire, and shining into her rebellious but scared heart, "I
will have mercy and not sacrifice."
It is one thing to have been Christians all our lives, drawn along by a
current, only broken by comparatively trivial, every-day temptations,
contests and sacrifices, and another thing to wrestle with a decree that
all at once confronts and contradicts a master-passion, a deeply-founded
verdict, a strongly-rooted opinion whose overthrow will shake the entire
framework of our lives.
Mrs. Jardine descended the stairs the next morning very pale and
exhausted, and for the first time (though she was a widow by a
peculiarly sorrowful visitation), with a certain wistful air which Harry
had observed in Mr. Crawfurd. It touched him--a fiery, dogged
man--extremely, in the one case as in the other. His mother, on the
announcement of his loss, had insisted on undertaking various domestic
examinations with respect to general retrenchment; he had humoured her,
under the impression that it diverted her mind, and broke the force of
what was a great calamity to her. He believed that she had over-exerted
herself, and he commenced to remonstrate in the imperious, reproachful,
affectionate tone, which the mother loves in her manly son.
"Yes, Harry, I have undertaken too much, and therefore I have requested
the company of two friends, who will be willing to lighten our burden."
"Strangers in the house at this time, mother?" exclaimed Harry,
bewildered. "Well, if you can bring yourself to suggest it, and wish it,
I need have no objection. Never mind me, mother. Besides, I shall be
from home. Yes, I do believe it will be a good plan."
"I thought, Harry," said Mrs. Jardine, so tremulously that Harry felt
quite alarmed for his upright, obdurate mother, "as Mr. Crawfurd had
been so friendly in his intentions towards you--the only man who has
come forward with such a proposal and entreaty--isn't he, Harry?--that
two of the Miss Crawfurds might consent to pay us a visit at last. I
believe they would waive all ceremony, and their father would like it.
It would show that we were willing, at least, to be reconciled in our
evil day; that we appreciated their magnanimity; that we were not mean
as well as malicious, Harry."
Harry stared, "Mother," he said slowly, colouring violently, "are you
prepared for the consequences of inviting the Miss Crawfurds here, or
what do you mean?"
"I have counted the cost, Harry; I have written and sent away a note,
asking if Miss Joanna and one of her sisters will have so much
consideration for an old afflicted woman."
Harry burst away from her, that she might not read the glow which was in
his eyes and searched through his whole being.
Mrs. Jardine cried a little, as a woman might say, quietly and
comfortably; a strange thing for her, since she was one of those women
who shed vehement tears or none at all; then she dried her eyes and
folded her hands reverently, saying, "I have a strange sense of calm
and of Divine favour this morning. I am sure I am not mystical, but one
jogs along the beaten way, and gets stupified, and doubts whether one
can be a Christian or no, there is so little conviction of the fact in
what divines, from the Bible, call 'the inner man of the spirit;' but
when we conquer our wills, and obey one of His everlasting decrees, then
we do feel that we must belong to Him, and we have an assurance of His
presence, which is a great enough reward without the gratification of
earthly afflictions. Ah! I have had dear old Annie's voice ringing in my
ears all the morning; and I have heard George Jardine bidding me take
care of Harry, as he always did before he went from home, except the
last day when he dared not face me."
The Crawfurds came to Whitethorn. Mr. Crawfurd sent them at once; he
would not listen to a single objection or obstacle, though Lilias and
Conny were with Polly Musgrave, and it was inconvenient to spare the
others on a moment's warning. Susan could not understand it--why they
should be bidden to Whitethorn now, when it had been so long debarred to
them; but Susan liked company, even company under a cloud; and she had a
curiosity to inspect Whitethorn, into which not one of them had put a
foot, except papa and mamma, long ago. Joanna made no demur, though, a
month before, nothing would have induced her to believe that she would
be staying with Susie this March at Whitethorn. Mr. Crawfurd walked with
his daughters to the great gate, and Joanna, looking back, saw him, on
his return, switching the thistle-heads in the hedge, as she had never
witnessed him attempt in her experience; she could almost fancy he was
whistling, as Harry Jardine went piping along before he fell in love
with her.
It was a trial when Harry Jardine was introduced into the Crawfurds'
company; but Mrs. Jardine was very hospitable and kind, and Harry
rapidly recovered or assumed his usual ease and animation, and Susan
soon lost all peculiar consciousness, and Joanna fell back on the
woman's armour, dinted, but not broken, of her self-control. In a few
hours they did wonderfully well together. Susan was delighted with the
novelties of the old-fashioned country-house, and Harry was not
particularly downcast in his misfortunes; he was almost as amusing as
ever, and invented fun for her as if he had never heard the name of
bank, and, finally, he did not complain of the arrangement, of which
Susan highly approved, that she should be Harry's companion, and Joanna
should belong to Mrs. Jardine. Joanna was so sedate, and, although she
was not a business-woman like Lilias (how Susan would boast of the
ground she had gained when she wrote and amazed Lilias!) she was used to
associating with older people, and could suit herself to their ways and
be handy to them.
Harry smiled blandly on the partition for three whole days. At the
close of the third day, when Susan and Joanna were brushing their hair
together, Susan started the proposal that they should return to the
Ewes whenever Mrs. Jardine's inventories, and settling and sorting of
accounts, were brought to an end; "because, Joanna, Harry is getting
cross; I am sure of it; he is not half so agreeable as he was the
first night. I think he is angry because his mother keeps you to
herself, and sends me to talk to him and give him music. When I come
to think of it, it is a very senseless plan of hers, and perhaps she
is spiteful though she is so attentive, and I am not frightened at her
any longer. She is a quick woman, but as pleasant as possible; but if
you please, Joanna, you can be shut up with her, and go out with her
till we leave, for I should not care for it very much, and I see no
call for it on my part; and I am certain we had better fix on going
home again as soon as we can manage it."
"Very well, Susan; only you speak very fast; I can scarcely follow
you. It strikes me you are wrong on one point. I never noticed that
Harry Jardine was tired of being your host, or that he minded who sat
next him."
"Not tired of me exactly, or careless of my enjoyment, because, to be
sure, Harry Jardine is courting all of us. Nonsense, Joanna, you need
not affect to be sage and precise and unconcerned. I am not so silly,
and it is very conceited of you, and I have no patience with you. Of
course I was not blind and deaf, and I have not lost my memory. Harry
Jardine is continually looking after you, whatever his mother persuades
herself. He never notices what I wear, and he remembered ribbons you
wore months since. I put on mine, and he looked at it and said, 'That is
like one of Joanna's; is it not?' Now I know very well he never calls
any of us by our Christian names to other people, and only you to one or
other of us, and he does it pointedly, as if to express, 'I mean to be
your brother-in-law one of these days, and I want to keep you in mind of
my intentions, so I take the liberty.'"
"Why don't you say, 'Mr. Jardine, Joanna does not like a liberty taken
with her name'?"
"I dare say! and have him reply, 'Did Joanna tell me so herself?' I
believe he would be only too glad to have you speak to him on any
subject, and I put him into such a fume about your appearance, Jack! Of
course, I intended no harm, the words came out somehow. You remember,
last night, his showing me an engraving he had bought. 'Tell me some one
that is like,' he said to me. It was the least in the world like you, or
like your mode of dressing your hair, but it flattered you, as these
chance likenesses always do. 'Is it a little like Joanna?' I asked
trying him; and I continued, 'Our Joanna would be rather a pretty girl
if it were not for the blemish;' and there I stopped short, for I
recollected that I should not have mentioned it to him. I wish you had
seen him, how hot and haughty he was, as if you were not my own sister,
and as if I had not more business with you than he had yet. 'I wonder
how any one who has any regard for Joanna can term that mark a defect:
it is very sacred and beautiful, otherwise Joanna is without spot'--and
there he caught himself and turned away--he was about to add, 'or
wrinkle or any such thing,' and I am afraid it was a quotation from the
Bible; but I fancy he felt that he was making a fool of himself, and
held his tongue. We ought to speak of going home."
"Susie, dear, don't be unreasonable; you know what a claim this family
has upon ours; you know what papa desires."
"I know nothing except that Harry Jardine wants me out of his way, and
you in his way. It is very disagreeable to me, and a great
responsibility to me. You are an interested party, you cannot be
expected to see things as you should."
"Why not? I told you to correct him when he was wrong. But I thought you
were great friends; and poor Mrs. Jardine, Susan, I can be of use to her
in her adversity. I can do things for her as I do for--"
"As you do for papa; there is a fine confession!"
Joanna ensconced herself in silence. Susan had provocation, but Joanna
took great care next day not to support Harry Jardine in his levity and
discontent. All the morning she spent with Mrs. Jardine; she pinned
herself to her sleeve until, after luncheon, she was taken by the old
lady into her own room, with its bright fire and shining dogs, its
broad, easy couch, its table, with the handsome ponderous writing-desk,
flanking the handsome heavy dressing-case, and its look-out from the
warmly-curtained windows quite across the moor.
"What a comfortable room, Mrs. Jardine!" Joanna could not help
exclaiming; "I never saw a more fresh, inspiriting view to my taste, and
such a stretch of sky,--you may sit and foretell all weathers here."
"Yes, my dear, and I have foretold all weathers here. I'll talk to you a
little of my nice room, and why I am so sorry to think of leaving it."
"We hope you will not leave it," Joanna ventured, timidly.
"Ah! that rests with others now. But I came here a gay girl; I visited
at Whitethorn before my marriage, Joanna; I dwelt here a thoughtless,
happy young wife; and here I kept Harry, not quite so troublesome as
now; and here I lay a heart-stricken widow while they were bringing home
the corpse of my husband, who had left me a vigorous, determined man two
hours before."
"It must have been dreadful! dreadful!" murmured Joanna faintly; but
lifting up her face to Mrs. Jardine with the earnest confiding eyes, the
blanched cheeks, and that seal on her brow--"Oh, how often papa and I
have thought of it, and pitied you and ourselves!"
"My dear, it was one of those dispensations of Providence which one
never forgets to the end of a long life. But I was a sinner, I deserved
what I bore; we all deserve the sorest evil that can afflict us; and,
thank God, there is mercy mingled with the greatest misery. I do not
speak often of it, but I can do so to-day; and I find it is a relief to
talk to you of our misfortune, because you can sympathize with me; you
were a sufferer in it like myself; it cannot be to many other living
persons what it is to us two. I have had that brought home to me, my
love. I do not grieve or frighten you, Joanna?"
"No, Mrs. Jardine, I have lamented it all my life. I am very grateful
that you should let me say that papa was very sorry; they sound very
little words, Mrs. Jardine, but you understand them, and papa will
never cease to be sorry in this world, and we have only wanted to
comfort you."
"Poor fellow!" sighed Mrs. Jardine absently. "Crawfurd of the Ewes, an
accomplished, pleasant fellow--so broken a man!"
They talked a little longer of the tragedy with composed but strong
mutual interest and commiseration; and Mrs. Jardine acknowledged that
such pity was not like the world's pity, but was delicate and tender as
the ministry of any Barnabas or son of consolation; and when she
finished, she kissed Joanna on the forehead, and said to herself, "Harry
was right. If this is the sign of George Jardine's blood, it was placed
there to pay her father's debt, and set her apart for us."
"Now, the sun is shining out, Joanna--'a clear shining after
rain,'--don't you like the Bible words?--I know you do. You must have a
walk yet. Why, the violets will be out in another ten days. Hand me my
garden bonnet, and we will have a turn in the garden or shrubbery. I saw
Harry and your sister take the way there. My dear, you have the look of
a sister I was very fond of, and I think Mr. Jardine would have admired
you. Yonder they are, Joanna. I should like that you would send Miss
Crawfurd to me, and have a stroll with Harry yourself. You will injure
your health, child, if you do not attend more to yourself. And, Joanna,
if my son questions you as to what I said to you, for he is a curious
fellow, tell him I have been reading a text for myself this morning, and
for several mornings--'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.' And
although I am an old woman, I have got it by heart. And bid him show you
the thorn walk."
Joanna did not like to decline a commission of Mrs. Jardine's, but she
could no more have asked Harry to walk with her than if he had been a
duke. However, Harry was loitering and watching them, and came forward
at this moment, and Mrs. Jardine herself appropriated Susan, and
transferred Joanna to Harry.
"I am very much obliged to you for your kindness to my mother," said
Harry formally--no Joanna this time, no name at all. "I never saw my
mother take so much to any one," he continued eagerly; "she is naturally
a self-reliant, reserved woman; but she has opened up to you?"
"Yes," answered Joanna softly; "and do you know, she has been talking to
me of the past."
Harry started. "What did she say, Joanna? She could not offend you. Pray
what did she say to you?"
"She did not offend me--far from that--she was very good, and she gave
me a message to you, if you were inquisitive--she had been studying a
text, 'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.'"
"Ah! I am very happy to understand it."
"It seems easily understood; and she advised us to walk in the thorn
walk. Is it near at hand? Shall we have time?"
"We must take time, we cannot disappoint my mother. The thorn walk is a
favourite with her all the year round, although it is only in its beauty
in the month of May. Shall I explain to you why she has selected it
to-day?"
"Yes, if you please."
"My father lived here, when he was a young man, with his uncle the
laird. They had no near female relative. It was a dull house, as dull an
establishment as my mother and I maintain together."
"Much duller, I should think."
"No; for before a certain time he was not sensible of its deficiency; he
had no definite wishes or hopes for an increase to their circle, a
re-modelling of their housekeeping. My mother was distantly related to
him; she came on a visit to my grand-uncle with an elderly lady, who was
also a connexion; she was a lively young girl then. My father often told
her afterwards to what an incalculable degree her presence brightened
the old house and the two forlorn gentlemen; it would have been utter
darkness if she had left them again to their old hazy sunlessness; so my
father took the desperate step of leading her to the thorn walk. It was
the month of May then, and it was covered with blossoms, sending a white
shower on their bent heads from a whole line of trysting trees; but,
when I think of it, March, which is lightly esteemed, is preferable to
May, for March has all the promise of the year in prospect; and see, it
has cloth of gold and silver to step upon, in the shape of the bright,
commonplace, unjustly overlooked crocuses."
"You have been reading the seedsman's tallies, Mr. Jardine."
"Never mind; you agree with me?"
"The world and the poets choose May. And you begin to be eccentric and
choose March."
"My father conducted my mother here; she has told me the circumstances a
hundred times, though she is a quiet woman; and she wore such a cloth
gown as you wear to-day."
"Mr. Jardine, you are talking nonsense; this is a new stuff, I assure
you it has not been half-a-dozen months out of the looms; and do you
suppose, sir, that I shall wear this dress in the month of May?"
"That comes of confiding those details to men. I always thought it was a
gown like this one; and he asked her to abide at Whitethorn, and crown
his lairdship and gladden and sweeten his entire future career; and he
succeeded at last in winning her consent. And this is the thorn walk,
Joanna, and I am free to re-enact the old passage in two lives, and
plead with you not to desert Whitethorn if we are to retain it. I am
poorer by a few thousands since I first made the same prayer to you; but
your father puts no weight on the difference, or, in his rare
generosity, lets it tell in my favour; and I don't think we need break
our hearts about our little loss, if we look to our great gain. Here I
beg you, as the humblest and most sincere of your petitioners, to put
your life into my life, and cause the united life to bud and blossom
into the May of the heart."
"And November and December would come to that year likewise."
"Yes, they will; but they will tread hard upon the real new-year, the
veritable new year, that will
"Ring out the false, ring in the true"
of this hoary world. Will you travel to it with me, Joanna? Shall we
strive and pray, and help each other to reach it together? Shall we
begin it even here? Your father will bestow you solemnly and gladly; my
mother will accept you with a blessing."
Joanna said, "Yes; God bless us, Harry," reverently; and, reverently,
God blessed them.
Harry was energetic, and Joanna was prudent, and old Mrs. Jardine was
proud of the spirit with which they saved the swamped estate of
Whitethorn even from Mr. Crawfurd's bond; and having helped themselves,
they helped others, then and ever afterwards.
Polly Musgrave applied to them in time. Polly had written on Joanna
Crawfurd's marriage a jeering, jibing letter. "So you have gone and done
as I prophesied, after all your wrath on the moor, and preciseness at
Hurlton. But, first, you were as silly as possible, and wanted to revive
the Middle Ages, which was quite in Don Quixote's tone; you to pine and
die, and he to shoot himself (as violent deaths are hereditary), or
addict himself to loose living and destruction. Then, when he loses his
money, and in common sense you may both think better of it, shake hands
and go your several ways; you make all up, post haste, and come together
with a flourish of trumpets, and poverty _will_ come in at the door, and
love fly out at the window. Fie! I am ashamed of you, after all!"
But Polly wrote in a different strain a year or two later:--"DEAR
COUSIN JOANNA,--I am not so healthy and heartless as I used to be,
and I have been teased with a desire to come to Whitethorn, and perhaps
profit by your carriage in this world, as I never dreamt of once upon a
time. But I will say this for myself, I only wrote and crowed over you
when you were quite able to afford it. I was very glad of your
happiness, child (as our grandmother wrote, and one of our grandmothers
was the same person! think of that, Harry Jardine!). Is Harry Jardine as
promising as he used to be before you took him in hand; or is the
promise fulfilled in an upright, generous, gladsome (and because of that
last word you would insist on adding godly) man? He was a man of whom to
make a spoon or spoil a horn, and you were the woman to perform the
delectable feat."
Polly had found her heart not a very lofty one, not a very sensitive
one--but an honest and kind heart in the main, which was permitted to
extricate itself from the slough of luxury and self-indulgence, and beat
warmly and faithfully throughout the rest of its course.