Mary Robertson's brave fight to bring up her orphaned grandchildren had
won her the silent respect of the Glen, and when it was reported that
Lily had obtained a place in London, and would leave in three weeks, the
fathers gave themselves to the incident on all its sides.
“Nae wumman in the pairish hes dune her duty better than Mary,” said
Drumsheugh, with authority. “She's been an example tae every man o's.
It's auchteen year laist Martinmas sin' her dochter's man ran aff and
his puir wife came hame tae dee, leavin' her mother wi' the chairge o'
sax young bairns. Ye canna dae't withoot help, Mary,' says I tae her:
'ye 'ill need a bit allooance frae the pairish, an' a 'll get it for ye
next Boord. A shilling a week ilka bairn 'ill gang a lang wy in yir
hands.'
“'Thank ye, Drumsheugh.' She wes standing at her gate, and drew herself
up straicht. 'An' a' the neeburs hev been freendly; but? there's never
been ane o' ma bluid on the pairish, an' there never wull be sae lang as
the Almichty leaves me ma reason and twa airms.
“'Mary had a puir life o't, an' she deed o' the disgrace her man pit
on her. “A'm gaein' awa,” she said tae me, “an' a've juist ae thing tae
ask, mither; dinna lat the bairns gae on the pairish; bring them up tae
wark and tae respeck themsels.” A' gied her ma word, an' a 'll keep it.'
She lookit graund, fouks,” wound up Drumsheugh.
“She's rael Drumtochty, is Mary,” remarked Jamie Soutar; “for doonricht
pride an' thraun-ness ye 'ill no get their marra in Scotland. What for
did she no tak the allooance? She wud hae been a gude few notes the
better a' thae years: mony an 'oor's wark she micht hae spared hersel'.
“Noo gin Mary hed been a wumman wi' a proper speerit o' humility and
kent her place, she wud hae gruppit a' she cud get, and beggit frae
the neeburs, an' gotten on better than ever. But if she didna sit up
at nicht makin' the bairns' claithes, and wark in the fields a' day tae
earn their schuling, an' a' tae keep her independence, as they ca't.
A 've seen Mary come intae kirk wi' the sax bairns afore her, an'
she cudna hae cairried her head higher hed she been the Coontess o'
Kilspindie.
“A'm judgin' this kind o' speerit's in the verra air o' the Glen, for
there's juist twa auld weemen on the pairish; ane o' them's blind, the
ither's had a stroke; naither o' them hes a freend, an' baith o' them
murn every day they canna wark.”
“Mary's an able wumman,” broke in Hillocks, who was much given to
practical detail; “a've seen her hens layin' in the dead o' winter, and
she hed a coo, a' mind, 'at gied half as muckle milk again as ony coo
in oor toon. As for plannin' she got ma Sunday blacks when they were gey
far through wi't, an' gin she didna juist mak a jacket for Chairlie 'at
did him for ten year; a'm dootin' she hes tae pay for him yet: he's no
the help he micht hae been as far as a' can mak oot; eh, Drumsheugh?”
“Gin it wesna for him daein' naethin' and livin' on his faimily,
Hillocks, Lily micht stay wi' her grannie, an' keep Mary comfortable in
her auld age. But they aye cover him, baith his grannie and his sister,
till ye wud think there wes never a better-daein' lad gied oot o'
the Glen. Whatever they say among themsels, they 'ill no say a word
ootside.”
What they did say in Mary Robertson's cottage that evening was sad
enough.
“Weel, weel, lassie, there wes sax tae begin wi', an' twa died o' the
dipthery--eh, but Doctor Maclure wes kind that time--and twa mairried
and gied awa, an' Chairlie... in Ameriky, an' there's juist yersel left,
and I wes trustin' ye wud stay wi' yir auld grannie an' close her een.”
“Dinna speak that foolish wy, grannie,” but Lily's voice had a break in
it. “Ye 're lookin' fresher than mony a young wumman, an' ye ken a'm tae
get hame at a time, maybe ilka three year.”
“It's a lang road, Lily, tae Lunnon, an' ill tae traivel; a' may be dead
and buried afore ye come back, an' a 'll be terrible lonely, juist like
a bird when the young anes are ta'en awa.”
“Gin ye say anither word a 'll fling up ma place, an' never gang in tae
service ava; it's no ma wush tae leave the Glen an' gang sae far frae
hame. But we maun py the man in Muirtown what Chairlie borrowed, else
oor name 'ill be disgraced.”
“It's disgraced eneuch already with sic a useless fellow; he's his
faither ower again--a fair face, a weel-dressed back, a cunning tongue,
an' a fause heart. There's no a drop o' Robertson bluid in him, lassie;
there's times a' wish he was dead,” and Mary's voice trembled with
passion.
“Wisht, wisht, grannie; he's mither's only son, an' she wes prood o'
him, a've heard ye say, an' he 'ill maybe mend; div ye ken a' wes juist
imaginin' that he set tae work and githered a lot o' siller, an' paid
back a' ye hae dune for him.
“Ye 'ill no be angry, but a' telt Marget Hoo ae day aboot oor tribble
an' ma houp o' Chairlie--for ye canna look at Marget an' no want tae
unburden yersel--an' she said, 'Dinna be ashamed o' yir dreams, Lily;
they 'ill a' come true some day, for we canna think better than God wull
dae.'”
“Marget Hoo is nearer the heart o' things than onybody in the Glen, an'
a'm prayin' she may be richt. Get the bukes; it's time for oor readin'.”
And Mary asked that “the heart o' him that wes far awa micht be turned
tae gudeness, an' that he micht be a kind brother to his sister.”
No girl had gone to service in London before, and the Glen took a
general interest in Lily's outfit. The wricht made her kist of sound,
well-seasoned wood, and the Glen, looking in from time to time, highly
approved of its strength and security. Sandie was particularly proud
of an inner compartment which he had contrived with much ingenuity, and
which was secured by a padlock whose key defied imitation.
“Noo, you see, if ony ill-conditioned wratch got intae the kist, he
micht get a goon or a jaicket, but he wudna be able tae titch her
siller. Na, na, what she wins she keeps; ma certes, that boxie 'ill beat
them.”
“Ye ken what ye're aboot, wricht,” said Hillocks, who felt that one
going to distant parts could hardly take too many precautions, “an'
ye've turned oot a wise-like kist; sall, Lily, 'ill dae weel gin she
fill it.”
Concerning the filling long and anxious consultations were held in
Mary's kitchen, and Elspeth Macfadyen was called in as a specialist,
because she had been once in service herself, and because her sister was
cook in the house of the Provost of Muirtown.
“We maunna gang a saxpence intae debt,” and Mary laid down preliminary
conditions, “an' a'thing sud be genuine, in an' oot--nae show on the
back and poverty ablow; that's puir cleidin' (clothing) for Christian
fouk.”
“Lily 's savit aucht pund at the Lodge, an' a' can spare twa or three.
How mony dresses an' sic-like 'ill she need tae begin respectable, for
the hoose an' the kirk?”
“Lily 'ill need twa prints for certain, an' ae black dress for the
house, an' anither dress for gaein' oot tae kirk or tae see her freends.
She wud be better o' a third print an' a second oot-side goon--for a bit
change, ye ken. Then she maun hae a bonnet for Sabbath an' a hat tae
gae oot a message in forby. The ither things she 'ill hae already,” for
Elspeth had been going over the matter carefully for weeks; “ye 'ill be
getting her things at Muirtown, an' a 'll be gied to gie ye ony help in
ma poor.”
Three hours did they spend next Friday in the Muirtown shop, examining,
selecting, calculating, till Lily's humble outfit was complete and
Elspeth's full list overtaken, save the third print and a merino gown on
which Mary had set her heart.
“We haena the means,” and Mary went over the figures again on her
fingers, “an' sae ye maun juist wait. Gin the price o' butter keeps up,
ye 'ill hae them afore the New Year, an' a 'll send them up in a bit
parcel.... Havers, what sud a' stairve masel for? nae fear o' that; but
keep's a' what's Drumsheugh aifter here?”
“Hoo are ye a' the day?” said the great man, fresh from a victory over
a horse-dealer, in which he had wrested a price beyond the highest
expectation of Drumtochty; “can ye gie me a hand wi' twa or three bit
trokes, Elspeth?” and the two disappeared into the recesses of the shop.
“A' heard ye were here, an' a' wes wonderin' hoo the siller wes haudin'
oot; naebody daur offer half-a-croon tae Mary; but she michtna mind Lily
gettin' a bit present frae a neebur, juist tae hansel her new kist, ye
ken,” and Drumsheugh pressed two notes into Elspeth's hands, and escaped
from the strange place by a side door. When the parcel was opened that
evening, for the joy of going over its contents, Mary turned on Elspeth
in fierce wrath.
“What did ye dae this for, Elspeth Macfadyen? an' behind ma back. Ye
ken a' didna pay for thae twa, and that a 'll no tak an ounce o' tea let
alane twa goons withoot payment. Pit the goons up, Lily, an' a 'll gie
them back the mornin', though a' hae tae walk the hale twal mile tae
Muirtown.”
“Dinna be sae hysty, Mary.” Elspeth was provokingly calm. “Ye needna be
feared that Drumsheugh didna pay for his order, and if he wanted tae gie
the lassie a fairin', a' see nae use in flinging it back in his face;
but ye maunna lat on tae himsel for the warld, or tell a livin' soul.”
When Lily's box was packed on Thursday evening, her grandmother would
have slipped in all the household treasures that could be introduced
between layers of soft goods, and sent the eight-day clock had it been a
suitable equipment for a young woman entering service in London. The
box was taken down to Kildrummie station in one of Drumsheugh's carts,
padded round with straw lest the paint be scratched, but Hillocks came
with his dog-cart and drove Lily down in state, carrying in her right
hand a bunch of flowers from Jamie Sou-tar's garden, and in the other a
basket containing a comb of honey left by Posty, without remark, a dozen
eggs from Burnbrae, and two pounds of perfect butter from Mary's hand.
These were intended as a friendly offering from the Glen to Lily's new
household that she might not appear empty-handed, but the peppermints
that filled her pocket were for herself, and the white milk scones on
the top of the bag, with a bottle of milk, were to sustain Lily on the
long journey. Mary shook hands with Lily twice, once at the cottage door
and again after she had taken her place beside Hillocks, but Mary did
not kiss Lily, for whom she would have died, and whom she did not expect
to see again in this life; nor were their farewell words affecting.
“See that ye hae yir box richt libelled, Lily, an' ye 'ill need tae
watch it at the junctions; keep the basket wi' the eggs in yir hands,
for fear somebody sits on't; an', Lily, wumman, for ony sake haud yir
goon aff the wheel when ye 're gettin' doon at Kildrummie. Is't comin'
tae a shoor, Hillocks?”
“A' wudna say but there micht be a scowie afore nicht; it 'ill freshen
the neeps fine.” And so Lily departed.
“But Mary went to a knowe that commanded the road, and watched
Hillocks's dogcart cross Tochty bridge and go up the other side till it
disappeared into the dark fir woods on the ridge. Then she went back
to the kitchen, where everything spoke of her girl, and sat down by the
lonely fireside and wept.
“It was a curious coincidence that Jamie Soutar had some “troke” in
Muirtown that day, and travelled in the same carriage with Lily,
beguiling her from sorrow with quaint stories and indirect shrewd
advice. As he was rather early for his business, he had nothing
better to do than see Lily off by the London express, adding to her
commissariat a package of sweets from the refreshment room, and an
illustrated paper from the bookstall. He shambled along beside her
carriage to the extreme edge of the platform, and the last thing Lily
Grant saw as she went forth into a strange land was Jamie waving his
hand. It showed that the old man's memory was beginning to fail that,
instead of going down to the town, he went back by the midday train to
Kildrummie, giving Mary a cry in the evening, and assuring her that Lily
was so far on her journey in “graund heart.”
It was covenanted between them that Lily should send Mary a “scrape
o' the pen” on arrival--as an assurance that she was safe, and the
eggs--and should write in a while at full length, when she had settled
down to her work and found a kirk. The Glen waited for this letter with
expectation, and regarded it as common property, so that when Posty
delivered it to Mary he sat down without invitation, and indicated that
he was ready to receive any titbits she might offer for his use.
“Lily's keepin' her health, but she's no awfu' ta'en up wi' the climate
o' London; wud ye believe it, they hae the gas lichtit by two o'clock
in the aifternoon, an' the fog's eneuch tae smoor ye; it's no veecious
cauld though.”
“There's waur things than cauld,” said Posty, who had started that
morning in twenty degrees of frost; “is she wearyin'?”
“Whiles a'm dootin', puir lassie; when she hes half an 'oor tae hersel,
she gaes up tae her room and taks oot a pokie (bag) o' rose leaves we
dried in the simmer. The smell o' them brings up oor bit gairden and me
stannin', as plain as day, at the door. Fouk tak notions, a 've heard,
when they 're far frae hame,” added Mary, by way of apology.
“Ay, ay,” and Posty looked steadily from him.
“It's eatin' an' drinkin' frae mornin' till nicht, Lily says; an' the
verra servants hae meat three times a day, wi' beer tae their dinner.
An' the wyste cowes a'; she says Elspeth Macfadyen wud get her livin'
frae amang their feet.”
“A' dinna think muckle o' beer,” observed Posty; “there 's nae fusion
in't; naither heat for the stamach nor shairpness for the intel-leck.”
“A set o' extravagant hizzies,” continued Mary; “fur on their jaickets,
like leddies, an' no a penny in the bank. The meenut they get their
wages, aff tae spend them on finery. Ane o' them borrowed five shillings
frae Lily tae get her boots soled.”
“Lord's sake, that's no cannie,” and Posty awoke to the dangers that
beset a young girl's path in the great Babylon; “tell Lily, whatever she
dis, tae keep her haud o' her siller.”
“Ye 're richt there, Posty. Lily's juist ower saft-hearted, and she hes
a gey lot o' trimmies tae deal wi'. Wud ye credit it, ilka ane o' them
hes 'Miss' on her letters, an' gin freends come tae see them they
maun ask for Miss this an' that; a' pit 'Lily Grant, Hoosemaid,' on ma
letters.”
“Ye're wrang there, Mary,” interrupted Posty; “what for sud ye ca' doon
yir ain, an' her sic a fine lassie? Ma opeenion is that a Drumtochty
wumman hes as gude a richt tae Miss as her neeburs. Sall, gin a' catch
ye sendin' aff anither 'Lily,' a'll whup in the Miss masel; but is there
nae word aboot the kirks?” for Posty felt that these trifling details
were keeping them from the heart of the matter.
“A'm comin' tae that, an' it's worth hear-in', for the ignorance o' thae
London fouk is by ordinar. When she askit the near road tae the kirk,
naebody in the hoose cud tell her whether it wes east or wast.”
Posty wagged his head in pity.
“So she gied oot and fell in wi' a polisman, an' as luck wud hae it, he
wes a Scotchman. 'Come awa, lassie,' he said; 'a' see whar ye 've frae;
it 's a mercy ye didna fa' intae the hands o' some of ma neeburs; they
micht hae sent ye aff tae the Methodies, an' they wud hae gien ye a
fricht wi' cryin' Hallelujah.'”
“A graund body for a' that,” interpolated Posty, “but clean astray on
the decrees.”
“'Yonder 's the place,' says he, 'an' ye pit yir collection in a plate
at the door--there 's nae ladles--but there 's a couthie wumman keeps
the door in the gallery, an' she 'ill gie ye a seat.'
“She kent it wes her ain place when she saw a properly ordained minister
in the pulpit, wi' his black goon and bonnie white bands; and when they
started the Hundredth Psalm, her heart cam intae her mooth, an' she
cudna sing a word.”
“Wes there an organ?” demanded Posty, with the manner of one who has a
duty to perform, and must be on his guard against sentiment.
“A 'll no tell ye a lee, Posty, there wes, an' of coorse Lily didna like
it, but she wes terrible pleased wi' the sermon. As for the organ, it
juist boomilled awa, an' she never lat on she heard it.”
“Dis she gie the texts an' diveesions?” and Posty smacked his lips.
“It's no likely she wud forget that, aifter gaein' ower them ilka
Sabbath nicht here sin she wes a wee bairnie. 'Faith without works is
dead.' James, ye ken.”
“Ay, ay,” cried Posty, impatiently; “a testin' text; ye cudna hae a
better tae jidge a a man by; hoo wes 't handled?”
“Three heads. First, 'True religion is a principle in the soul'--Posty
nodded, 'that's faith.' Second, 'It is a practice in the life'--'warks.'
murmured Posty. Third, 'Without a principle in the soul, there can't be
a practice in the life.'”
“A' see naethin' wrang there, Mary; it's maybe no verra oreeginal, but
that's naither here nor there; gin ye stand on yir head ye can aye see a
new glen; it wis soond an' instructive. Did he titch on Paul and James?
he wud be sure tae be reconcilin' them, gin he be ablow forty.”
“That's a' she writes on the sermon, but she gied intae the vestry wi'
her lines, an' the minister wes rael kind tae her when he heard her
tongue.
“His English slippit aff in a meenut, an' oot cam the auld tongue;
he's a Perthshire man himsel, though frae the sooth end, an' his wife's
second cousin is merried tae the minister o' Kildrummie's brother, so ye
micht say he wes conneckit wi' Drumtochty.
“He telt her tae coont him a freend noo that she wes amang strangers,
an' tae send for him in tribble, an' Lily declares that she gaed back
that mornin' wi' her heart fu' of comfort an' gledness. So ye may tell
the neeburs that Lily's daein' weel in London. She sends her respects
tae Drumsheugh, and ye'ill say tae Jamie Soutar that Lily wes askin' for
him.”
When Posty departed, Mary read the last part of Lily's letter slowly to
herself.
“The minister's prayer took in a' kinds o' fouk, an' ae peteetion, a'
thocht, wes for us, grannie: 'Remember any one about whom his friends
are anxious '--and he stopped for half a meenut. Ye cud hae heard a
preen (pin) fall, an' a' said tae masel, 'Chairlie.'
“Dinna be ower cast doon aboot him, nor gie up houp; he's young an'
thochtless, an' he 'ill maybe tak a turn sune.
“A've savit five pund aff ma wages, an' a'm sendin't in a note, for a'
didna want the fouk at the post-office tae ken oor affairs.
“Noo, gin ye be writin' Chairlie, will ye slip in a pund juist as a
bit reminder o' his sister, an' the ither fower 'ill help tae py the
Muirtown debt.
“Dinna think a'm scrimpin' masel or daein' onything mean. Aifter a've
spent sax pund a year on claithes and little trokes, and three on ma
kirk, a 'll hae aucht ower for the debt.
“When the laist penny's paid o' Chairlie's debt a 'll buy the best black
silk in London for ye; an' gin a'm spared tae come hame tae the summer
Sacrament, we 'ill gang thegither tae the table.”
“Twa silly weemen,” said Mary to herself, “for he's juist a
ne'er-dae-weel... an' yet, gin he cam in noo, a' wud gie him the
claithes aff ma back, an' sae wud Lily. For the look in his een an' the
soon' o' his voice.”