Nearly twenty-four hours later the chill of the wintry night had closed
over the village of Bellendean. The frosty weather had gone, and was
replaced by the clammy dampness and heavily charged atmosphere of a
thaw. There had been showers during the day, and a Scotch mist had set
in with the falling of the night. Janet Matheson and her old husband
were sitting on either side of the fire. Peter had got to feel the
severity of the winter weather, and though he still did his day’s work,
he was heavy and tired, and sat stretching his long limbs across the
hearth with that desire for more rest which shows the flagging of the
strength and spirit. Janet on the other side of the fire was knitting
the usual dark-grey stocking with yards of leg, which it was astonishing
to think could be always wanted by one man. They were talking little. An
observation once in half an hour or so, a little stir of response, and
then the silence would fall over them again, unbroken by anything but
the fall of the ashes from the grate, or the ticking of the clock.
Sometimes Janet would carry on a little monologue for a few minutes, to
which Peter gave here and there a deep growl of reply; but there was
little that could be called conversation between the old pair, who knew
all each other’s thoughts, and were ‘company’ to each other without a
word said. There were few sounds even outside: now and then a heavy foot
going by: now and then a boy running in his heavy shoes on some cold
errand. The cold and the rain had sent indoors all the usual stragglers
of the night.
‘Yon letter’s near a week auld,’ said Peter. They had not been talking
of Joyce; but a quarter of an hour before had briefly, with a few
straggling remarks at long intervals, discussed the crop which ‘the
maister’ had settled upon for the Long Park, a selection of which Peter
did not approve; but no explanation was needed for this introduction of
a new subject. There could be no doubt between them as to what ‘yon
letter’ meant.
‘There’ll be anither the morn,’ said Janet, ‘when she has passed the
Thursday, it aye comes on the Saturday. She will have been thrang with
something or other. It’s the time coming on for a’ thae pairties and
balls.’
Peter gave a long low subterraneous laugh. ‘It would be a queer thing,’
he said, ‘for you and me to see oor Joyce at ane o’ thae grand balls.’
‘And wherefore no?’ said Janet. ‘Take you my word for’t, she’ll aye be
ane o’ the bonniest there.’
‘I’m no doubtin’ that,’ he said; and silence fell again over the cottage
kitchen--silence broken only after a long time by an impatient sigh from
Janet, who had just cast off her stocking, rounding the ample toe.
‘Eh,’ she said, ‘just to hae ae glimpse of her! I would ken in a
moment.’
‘What are ye wantin’ to ken?’
‘Oh, naething,’ said Janet, putting down the finished stocking after
pulling it into shape and smoothing it with her hand. She took up her
needles again and pulled out a long piece of worsted to set on the
other, with again a suppressed sigh.
‘Siching and sabbing never mean naething,’ said Peter oracularly.
‘Weel, weel! I would like to see in her bonnie face that she’s happy
amang thae strange folk. If ye maun ken every thocht that comes into a
body’s heart----’
‘Hae ye ony reason----’ said Peter, and then paused with a ghost of his
usual laugh. ‘Ye’re just that conceited, ye think she canna be happy but
with you and me.’
‘It’s maybe just that,’ said Janet.
‘It’s just that. She has mair to mak’ her happy than the like of us ever
heard tell of. I wouldna wonder if ye were just jealous--o’ a’ thae
enterteenments.’
‘I wouldna wonder,’ Janet said. And then there was a long silence again.
Presently a faint sound of footsteps approaching from a distance came
muffled from the silence outside. The old people, with their rural habit
of attention to all such passing sounds, listened unawares each on their
side. Light steps in light shoes, not any of the heavy walkers of
Bellendean. Would it be somebody from the Manse coming from the station?
or maybe one of the maids from the House? They both listened without any
conscious reason, as village people do. At last Peter spoke----
‘If she wasna hunders o’ miles away, I would say that was her step.’
‘Dinna speak such nonsense,’ said Janet. Then suddenly throwing down her
needles with a cry, ‘It’s somebody coming here!--whisht, whisht,’ she
added to herself, ‘that auld man’s blethers puts nonsense in a body’s
heid.’ Janet rose up to her feet with an agitated cry. Some one had
touched the latch. She rushed to the door and turned the key-- ‘We were
just gaun to oor beds,’ she cried, in a tone of apology.
And then the door was pushed open from without. The old woman uttered a
shriek of wonder and joy, yet alarm, and with a great noise old Peter
stumbled to his feet.
It was _her_ or her ghost. The rain glistening upon her hat and her
shoulders--her eyes shining like brighter drops of dew--a colour on her
cheeks from the outdoor air, a gust of the fragrance of that outdoor
atmosphere--the ‘caller air’ that had always breathed about
Joyce--coming in with her. She stood and smiled and said, ‘It’s me,’ as
if she had come home after a day’s absence, as if no chasm of time and
distance had ever opened between.
No words can ever describe the agitated moment of such a return,
especially when so unexpected and strange, exciting feelings of fear as
well as delight. They took her in, they brought her to the fire, they
took off her cloak which was wet, and the hat that was ornamented like
jewels with glistening drops of the Scotch mist. They made her sit down,
touching her shoulders, her hair, her arms, the very folds of her dress,
with fond caressing touches, laughing and crying over her. Poor old
Peter was inarticulate in his joy and emotion. Nothing but a succession
of those low rolling laughs would come from him, and great lakes of
moisture were standing under the furrows of his old eyebrows. He sat
down opposite to her, and did nothing but gaze at her with a tenderness
unspeakable, the ecstasy which was beyond all expression. Janet retained
her power of movement and of speech.
‘Eh, my bonnie lamb! eh, my ain bairn! you’ve come back to see your auld
folk. And the Lord bless you, my darlin’! it’s an ill nicht for the like
of you--but we’ll warm you and dry you if we can do naething mair; and
there’s your ain wee room aye ready, and oh, a joyfu’ welcome, a joyfu’
welcome!’
‘No, granny, I cannot go back to my own room. I’ve come but for a
moment. I’m going away on a journey, and there’s little time, little
time. But I couldn’t pass by----’
‘Pass by---- No, that would ha’ been a bonny business,’ said Peter, with
his laugh--‘to have passed by.’
Joyce told them an incoherent story about a ship that was to sail
to-night. ‘I am going from Leith--and there was just an hour or two--and
I must be back by the nine o’clock train. It’s not very long, but I must
not lose my ship.’
‘And are they with you, Joyce, waitin’ for you? and whatfor did ye no
bring the Cornel? The Cornal wasna proud--he didna disdain the wee bit
place. And no even a maid with ye to take care of ye! Oh ay, my bonnie
woman, weel I understand that--you would have naebody with ye to disturb
us, but just a’ to oorsels----’
‘Ony fule,’ said Peter, ‘would see that.’
‘We’re a’ just fules,’ said Janet, ‘for weel I see that, and yet I’m no
sure I’m pleased that she’s let to come her lane--for I would have her
guarded that nae strange wind, no, nor the rain, should touch her. I’m
wantin’ twa impossible things--that she should be attendit like a
princess, and yet that we should have her her lane, a’ to you and me.’
‘It’s very cold outside,’ said Joyce, ‘and oh, so warm and cosy here! I
have never seen a place so warm nor so like home since I went away.
Granny, will you mask some tea though it’s so late? I think I would like
a cup of tea.’
‘That will I!’ cried Janet, with a sense of pleasure such as a queen
might feel when her most beloved child asked her for a duchy or a
diamond. Her face shone with pure satisfaction and delight, and her
questions ran on as she moved to and fro, making the kettle boil (which
was always just on the eve of boiling), getting out her china teapot,
her best things, ‘for we maun do her a’ honour, like a grand visitor,
though she’s our ain bairn and no the least changed----’ These
observations Janet addressed to Peter, though they were mingled with a
hundred tender things to Joyce, and so mixed that the change of the
person was hard to follow.
‘Whatfor should she be changed?’ said Peter, with his tremulous growl of
happiness. The old man sat, with an occasional earthquake of inward
laughter passing over him, never taking his eyes from her. He was less
critical than Janet; no suspicions or fears were in his mind. He took
her own account of herself with profound faith. Whatfor should she be
changed? Whatfor should she be otherwise than happy? She had come to see
them in the moment she had in the middle of her journey, alone, as was
natural--for anybody with her would have made a different thing of it
altogether, and weel did Joyce ken that. He was thoroughly satisfied,
and more blessed than words could say. He sat well pleased and
listened, while Janet told her everything that had passed. Although it
had been told in letters, word of mouth was another thing, and Joyce had
a hundred questions to put. She was far more concerned to hear
everything that could be told her than to tell about herself; but if
Peter remarked this at all, it was only as a perfection the more in his
‘bonnie woman’--his good lassie that never thought of herself.
‘And oh, but the Captain was kind, kind!’ said Janet. ‘He came and sat
where ye are sitten’, my bonnie doo, and just tauld me everything I
wanted to ken--how ye were looking, and the way ye were speaking, and
that you and the Cornel were great friends, and the very things ye were
dressed in, Joyce. He must have taken an awfu’ deal of notice to mind
everything. He would just come and sit for hoors----’
Joyce moved her seat a little farther from the fire. The heat was great,
and had caught her cheek and made it flush. It grew white again when she
withdrew from the glow, but she smiled and said in a low tone, ‘He is
very kind: and you would see the lady, granny, and Miss Greta.’
‘No for a long time. You had always a great troke with them, Joyce, and
they with you, but when once my bonnie bird was flown, it’s little they
thought of your old granny. There was a great steer about the Captain
and her, but I kenna if it was true. There’s aye a talk aboot something,
but the half o’t is lees. He’s owre good for her, it’s my opinion. I’ve
a real soft corner for the Captain.’
‘He kent the way to get roond ye,’ said Peter, ‘aye flatterin’ aboot
that bit lassie there.’
‘He was real kind. He would just sit for hours, and mind everything.’
‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, interrupting hastily, ‘you have told me nothing
about the new mistress, and how she took up my place.’
‘But I wrote it a’ down in my letters,’ said Janet. ‘That’s no like word
of mouth, you’re thinking? Well, you see, Joyce’--and Janet went over
the whole career of the new schoolmistress, who had not given entire
satisfaction. ‘As wha could?’ said the old woman. ‘Ye just spoiled them,
they could get nobody that would have pleased them after you.’
‘You’re no asking aboot Andrew,’ said Peter.
‘Eh, poor lad!’ cried Janet, ‘I wouldna have wondered if he had come
ower the nicht: but now it’s too late.’
‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, with a little cry of alarm, ‘you’ll say nothing
to Andrew? Oh, not a word! Never let him know I was here. I would fain,
fain not be unkind--but there are some things that cannot be. Oh, I was
very silly, I should have known. You’ll tell him to think of me no
more--that I’m not worthy of it; but, oh, never tell I’ve been here.’
‘No, my bonnie lamb, no, my ain dear. He never was worthy o’ you. He
shall hear not a word--nor nae ither person, if that’s your pleasure,
Joyce.’
‘Oh, granny dear! but it’s time now, and I must go.’
Janet’s heart was very heavy; but there was no time for questions, and
she saw that Joyce was little disposed to explain. ‘We’ll go with her to
the station, and see her off,’ she said, taking her big shawl out of the
aumrie. ‘I’m laith, laith to part with you, Joyce: but it would be nae
kindness to make ye late, and they’ll be meeting you at the train.’
‘I must not be late,’ Joyce replied. She looked round with a faint
smile, and tears were in her eyes, and her lips moved as if she was
saying something. Janet’s heart was sore for her child. Why was she left
to travel all alone in a wild and dark night like this? Why should she
say nothing of her father, or of any one that was with her? Janet’s mind
misgave her--she was full of fears: Joyce was ‘no hersel’. She was very
loving, very tender, and smiled, and tried to look at ease; but she
could not deceive the old woman whom love enlightened, who knew all her
ways and her looks. There was something in her eyes which Janet did not
know. She did not understand what it meant, but it meant trouble. There
was trouble written all over Joyce. Her fond old guardian knew not what
it was, only knew it was there.
The two old people went to the station with her through the windy,
weeping night, saying little on either side. Joyce clasped her old
grandmother’s arm tightly in hers, but scarcely spoke, and Peter stalked
beside them, half exhilarated, half heart-broken--he did not know which.
To have had her for a little was sweet, but then to see her go away. She
clung to them, crying quietly under her veil, as they put her into a
corner of a vacant carriage--not without a forlorn pride that it was
first class--and wrapped her cloak round her. They had no fine phrases,
but to smooth the folds of her dress, to tuck the cloak round her, was
always some faint satisfaction. ‘I’ll write,’ she said, ’as soon as I
can, but it may be long. You’ll not lose heart, only wait, wait, and
I’ll write----’
‘Oh, my darlin’, we’ll wait--but, Joyce, where are you goin’, where are
you goin’, that you speak like that?’
‘Good-bye, grandfather,--good-bye, granny, dear granny!’
Janet clutched Peter with a grasp that hurt even that old arm of his,
all muscle and sinew. ‘Noo,’ she said, in an imperative whisper, ‘gang
hame to your bed: I’m goin’ after her. Dinna say a word to me, but gang
hame to you bed. I’ll come back the morn’s morning, or as soon as I
can.’
‘Gaun after her! and what good will that do her?’ cried Peter in
consternation.
‘At least, I’ll see her safe,’ said Janet, clambering into a third-class
carriage. The train was almost in motion, and carried her off before her
astonished husband could say another word. The old man stood bewildered,
and looked after the train which carried them both from him. But he had
that inexhaustible rural patience which makes so many things
supportable. After a few minutes he went away, slowly shaking his head.
‘She has nae ticket,’ he said to himself, ‘and little money in her
pooch, and what guid can she do in ony case?’ But after a while he
obeyed Janet’s injunction and went slowly home.
It was hard work for Janet to keep sight of Joyce when they came to the
great Edinburgh station: she was little accustomed to crowds--to be
hustled and pushed about as a poor old woman getting out of a
third-class carriage so often is: but fortunately her eyes had kept the
long sight of youth, and she managed to trace the movements of her
child. One thing was sure, that nobody was there to meet Joyce, not even
a maid. The girl made her way by dark passages and corners to the place
where another little train was starting for Leith, where Janet followed
her breathless. It was very raw and cold, windy and gusty, the wind
blowing about the light of the lamps, driving wild clouds across the
sky, dashing rain from time to time against the carriage windows, and
the atmosphere was dreary with a sense of the wilder darkness of the
approaching sea. Presently they came to the port and to the quay, where
a confused mass of vessels, made half visible by the flaring melancholy
lights, lay together, with lamps swinging at their masts. The pavement
was wet and slippery, the wind was keen and cold, and blew blasts of
stinging rain like tears over her face as she toiled along. But she
never lost sight of Joyce. The Firth was tumbling in dark waves, faintly
visible in a liquid line, apparent at least so far that it was not solid
earth, but something wilder, more dreadful, insecure--and it raved and
dashed against the pier and the sides of the ships, sometimes sending up
a leaping white vision of spray like something flying at your throat,
and always a sound as of contending voices, the shout of oncoming, the
long grinding drag of the withdrawal as wave followed wave. The boats
moved and creaked at anchor, the lamps and dim masts and funnels rising
and falling. There were gangways each with its little coloured smoky
lamp, from one steamboat to another, lying ready to start, three or four
deep against the pier. Janet saw the solitary figure which she had
tracked so long pause, as if with a moment’s hesitation, at the first of
these gangways, and she made a rush forward at the last after this long
course, to grip her child by the dress, by whatever thing she could
clutch and hold, and cry, ‘No, no; you’ll gang no further! oh, Joyce, my
bairn, you’ll gang no further!’ But she slipped and fell, being
exhausted with the long and weary walk, and, breathless with labour and
fatigue, could get nothing out but a panting No, no, which had no
meaning. When she got to her feet again the slim figure was gone. She
thought she could trace it on the farthest point, standing upon the
paddle-box of the steamer, and ever after believed that the speck of
whiteness in the dark was Joyce’s face turned back towards home. That
was the last she saw.
The old woman stood upon the pier for long after. She stood and watched
while a few other passengers arrived, talking dolefully about the stormy
night, and tried to take a little comfort thinking that perhaps ‘the
Cornel’ might be among them, and Joyce after all have a protector and
companions. There was one tall man, indeed, speaking ‘high English,’
whom Janet almost made up her mind, with an unspeakable lightening of
her heart, must be ‘the Cornel.’ Her old eyes could not trace him
through the maze of the steamboats to the one upon which she had kept a
despairing watch: but fatigue and misery had by this time dimmed her
faculties. Then that farthest boat, the one that held her child, with
shouts and shrieks of steam, and lights wavering through the gloom, and
every dreadful noise, got into motion, and went out upon the tumbling,
stormy sea. Janet watched the light rising and sinking, the only thing
visible, till that too disappeared in the darkness. And then all was
quiet but the booming of the Firth against the piers, and the creek and
jar of the other steamboats preparing to follow. She withdrew a little
and leant against a post, and dried her eyes with a trembling hand. ‘Oh,
my bairn! my bairn!’ she said to herself.
‘What ails the woman?’ said the watchman on the pier. ‘There’s naething
to make a wark about; they’ll get a bit heezy, but nae danger. It’ll be
a son or a daughter ye’ve been seeing off.’
‘Oh, man, I’m thankful to you!’ said Janet. ‘Are they a’ for the same
airt.’
‘They’re a’ for the far north,’ said the watchman, continuing his heavy
march.