Mrs. Glen was much more gentle with her son after this triumph of his.
Margaret Leslie was but a girl, and her approbation did not mean very
much; but it was astonishing how the farmer-woman calmed down, and
what a different aspect things began to take to her, after she heard
of this meeting. She said nothing more that night; but stared at her
son, and let him go, with a half-reluctant relinquishment of her prey,
for the moment. And many were the thoughts which crowded through her
mind during the night. She had a respect for talent, like all her
nation; but she did not admire the talent which was unpractical, and
which did not serve a purpose. A young man who was clever enough to
pass all his examinations with credit, to preach a good sermon, to
get a living, that was what she could understand, and she had been
proud by anticipation in her son’s ability to do all this; but when
it turned out that he did not mean to employ his talent so, and when
his cleverness dwindled down into something impalpable, something that
could neither be bought and sold, nor weighed and measured, something
which only made a difference between him and other men, without being
of any use to him or placing him in the way of any advantage--instead
of respecting it, Mrs. Glen scorned the miserable distinction. “Clever!
ay, and much good it did him. Tawlent! he would be better without it.”
Such unprofitable gifts exasperated her much more than stupidity would
have done. But when she heard of the interview with Margaret Leslie,
and the renewal of friendship, and the girl’s delight with those
“scarts,” of which she herself was so contemptuous, her practical mind
stopped short to consider. Perhaps, after all, though they would never
make a living for him, nor were of any earthly use that she could see,
these talents might be so directed by a wise and guiding hand as yet to
produce something, perhaps to bring him to fortune. A girl who was an
heiress might be almost as good a thing for Rob as a kirk. To do Mrs.
Glen justice, she did not put the heiress on a level with the kirk, or
sceptically allow the one to be as good as the other. She only seized
upon the idea as a _pis aller_, reflecting that, if the kirk was
not to be had, a lass with a tocher might make some amends.
Here, then, was something to be done, something practical, with meaning
and “an object” in it. Mrs. Glen dearly loved to have an object. It
made all the difference to her. It was like going somewhere on business
instead of merely taking a walk. The latter mode of exercise she could
not abide; but put “an object” into it, and it changed the whole aspect
of affairs. This was how her son Rob’s hitherto useless accomplishments
rose in her estimation now, when they began to appear no longer
useless, but possibly capable of fulfilling some certain kind of end,
if not a very exalted one. At once they acquired interest in her eyes.
He himself and his presence at home ceased to be aimless, useless,
almost disgraceful, as she had hitherto felt them to be. When she got
up next morning, it was with a sense of comfort and encouragement
greater than she had felt since the unhappy moment when he had declared
to her that it was not possible for him to be a minister. Even now,
she could not look back without exasperation on that sudden change and
downfall of her pride and comfort. But here at least was a prospect for
him, a something before him, a way in which his talents, unprofitable
as they seemed, might yet be made of practical use. The change in her
manner was instantly apparent to her household. “The mistress has
gotten word of something,” Jean, the dairy-maid, said, whose hope had
been that she herself might not be “dinged” like everything else in the
mistress’s way. She did not “ding” anything on that blissful morning.
She was even tolerant, though it cost her a struggle, when Rob was late
for breakfast. Her whole being seemed softened and ameliorated, the
world had opened out before her. Here was an object for exertion, an
aim to which she could look forward; and with this life could never be
quite without zest to the energetic disposition of Mrs. Glen.
The first sign of the improved condition of affairs that struck Rob
occurred after breakfast, when his mother, instead of flinging a jibe
at his uselessness, as she went off, bustling and hot-tempered, to
her own occupations, addressed him mildly enough, yet with a hasty
tone that sounded half shame and half offence. It was not to be
expected, was it, that she should now encourage him in the habits she
had despised and abused yesterday without some sense of embarrassment
and a certain shamefacedness? A weaker woman would not have done it
at all, but would have thought of her consistency, and kept silent at
least. But Mrs. Glen was far too consistent to have any fears for her
consistency. Her embarrassment only made her tone hasty, and made her
postpone her speech till she had reached the door. When she had opened
it, and was about to leave the room, she turned round to her son,
though without looking at him. She said,
“If you will draw, if you ca’ that drawing, there’s a very bonnie view
of the Kirkton from the west green. I’m no saying you’re to waste your
time on such nonsense, but if you will do’t, there’s the bonniest view.”
With this she disappeared, leaving Rob in a state of wonder which
almost reached the point of consternation. It made him superstitious.
His mother--_his mother!_ to pause and recommend to him the
bonniest view! Something must be going to happen. Never in his life had
he been so surprised. He got up, half stupefied, as if under a mystic
compulsion, and got his sketching-block and his colors, and went out to
the west green. It was as if some voice had come out of the sky above
him, or from the soil beneath his feet, commanding this work. What was
he that he should be disobedient to the heavenly vision? He went out
like a man in a dream, his feet turning mechanically to the indicated
spot.
It was a fresh yet sunny morning, the dew not yet off the grass, for
everything was early at the farm. The hills, far off, lay clear in
softest tints of blue, dark yet transparent, the very color of aerial
distance, while all the hues of the landscape between, the brown
ploughed land, the green corn, the faint yellowing of here and there a
prosperous field, the darkness of the trees and hedges, the pale gleams
of water, rose into fuller tones of color as they neared him, yet all
so heavenly clear. The morning was so clear that Jean, in the byre,
shook her head, and said there would be rain. The clearness of the
atmosphere brought everything near; you might have stretched out your
hands and touched the Sidlaws, and even the blue peaks of the Grampians
beyond; and in the centre of the landscape lay the Kirkton, glorified,
every red roof in it, every bit of gray-yellow thatch and dark brown
wall telling against the background of fields; the trees scarcely
ruffled by the light morning wind, the church rising like a citadel
upon its mound of green, flecked with the burial-places of the past,
the houses clustered round it, the smoke rising, a faint darkening, as
of breath in the air, to mark where human living was. What a scene! yet
nothing; the homeliest country, low hills, broad fields, a commonplace
village. For a moment Rob, though he had no genius, fell into a trance,
as of genius, before this wonderful, simple landscape. “A voice said
unto me, Write; and I said, What shall I write?” How put it into
words, into colors upon dull paper? His head was filled with a magical
confusion. For once in his life he approached the brink of genius--in
the sense of his incapacity. He sat down, gazed, and could do no more.
By-and-by Mrs. Glen came strolling out from the house, with that
assumed air of ease and leisure which is always so comically
transparent. She meant to assume that she had nothing to do, and was
taking a walk for pleasure, which was about as unlikely a thing as
could have happened, almost as unlikely as pure interest in Rob’s work,
which was her real motive. She wanted to see what he had done, whether
he had taken that bonniest view, how he was getting on with it, and if
it was a thing which could, by any possibility, dazzle and delight a
young lady who was an heiress. Assuredly she had not sent out her son
to dream over the landscape, to do anything but draw it there and then
without delay, as if he had been sent to plough a field. She came up to
him, elaborately unoccupied and at her ease, yet explanatory.
“I’ve just come out to look about me,” she said, with fictitious
jauntiness. “So you’re at it again! Eh, laddie, what a waste o’ time
and good paper, no to speak of thae colors that cost money! And how far
are you on by this time? are you near done?”
Rob had the presence of mind to shut his book hastily.
“I have just begun, mother; but, I did not think you took any interest
in my poor drawing.”
“Me--take an interest? No! But if you’re to waste my substance and your
ain time taking pictures, I may as well see what there is to see as
other folk.”
“You shall see it when it is done,” said Rob. “It is not in a condition
to show now. It is not a thing that can be done in a minute. There is a
great deal of thought necessary--the different harmonies of color, the
relation of one part to another--”
Mrs. Glen was overawed.
“Ane would think it was some grand affair. A bit scart upon the paper,
and a wheen greens and blues: and ye talk as if it was a battle to
fight or a grand law-plea.”
“My dear mother,” said Rob, “many a man could fight a battle that could
not draw the Kirkton, with all the hills behind it, and the clouds, and
the air.”
“Air! ye can paint air, ye clever lad!” cried Mrs. Glen, with a laugh.
“Maybe you can paint the coos mowing and the sheeps baaing? I would not
wonder. It’s as easy as the air, which every bairn kens is no a thing
you can see.”
“I don’t say I can do it myself,” said Rob; “but I’ve seen pictures
where you would think you heard the cows and the sheep--yes, and the
skylarks up in the sky, and the hare plashing about in the wet woods.”
“Just that,” said his mother, “and the country gomerel that believes
all you like to tell her. Among a’ thae bonnie things there should be
a place for the one that’s to be imposed upon; but you’ll no put me
there, I’ll warrant you,” she cried, flouncing away in sudden wrath.
This interruption roused Rob and put him upon his mettle. If it was
well to have thus dignified his work in her eyes so that she should
be concerned in its progress, the result was not an unmitigated good.
Hitherto he had worked as the spirit moved him, and when he was not
sufficiently stirred had let his pencil alone. But this would not do,
now that his labor had become a recognized industry. He betook himself
to his task with a sigh.
Rob’s artist-powers were not great. He drew like an amateur, not even
an amateur of a high order, and would not have impressed any spectator
who had much knowledge of art. But he had a certain amount of that
indescribable quality which artists call “feeling,” a quality which
sometimes makes the most imperfect of sketches more attractive than the
skilfullest piece of painting. This is a gift which is more dependent
upon moods and passing impulses than upon knowledge and skill; and no
doubt the subtlety of those flying shadows, the breadth of the infinite
morning light, so pure, so delicate, yet brilliant, put them beyond
the hand of the untrained craftsman. The consequence of this morning’s
work, the first undertaken with legitimate sanction and authority,
was accordingly a failure. Rob put the Kirkton upon his paper very
faithfully; he drew the church and the houses so that nobody could fail
to recognize them; but as for the air of which he had boasted! alas,
there was no air in it. He worked till the hour of the farm dinner;
worked on, getting more eager over it as he felt every line to fail,
and walked home, flushed and excited, when he heard his name called
through the mid-day brightness. The broth was on the table when he
went in, putting down his materials on a side-table; and Mrs. Glen was
impatient of the moment he spent in washing his hands.
“You have as many fykes as a fine leddy,” she said. It had not occurred
to her to make this preparation for her meal. She drew her chair to the
table, and said grace in the same breath with this reproach. “Bless
these mercies,” she said; and then, “Ye canna say but you’ve had a lang
morning, and naebody to disturb you. I hope you have something to show
for it now.”
“Not much,” said Rob.
“No much! It’s a pretence, then, like a’ the rest! Lord bless me,
I couldna spend the whole blessed day without doing a hand’s turn,
no, if you would pay me for it. Eh, but we’re deceived creatures,”
cried Mrs. Glen; “as glad when a bairn comes into the world as if it
brought a fortune with it! A bonnie fortune! anxiety and care; and if
there’s a moment’s pleasure, it’s aye ransomed by days of trouble. Sup
your broth; they’re very good broth, far better than the like of you
deserve; but maybe you think it’s no a grand enough dinner for such
a fine gentleman? Na, when I was just making up my mind to let you
take your will and see what you could do your ain way--and you set up
your face and tell me, no much! No much! if it’s not enough to anger a
saint!”
“There it is; you can judge for yourself,” cried Rob, with sudden
exasperation. He jumped up from the table so quickly that his mother
had no time to point out his want of manners in getting up in the midst
of his dinner. The words were stopped on her lips, when he suddenly
placed the block on which he had been drawing before her. Mrs. Glen
had not condescended to look at any of these performances before. It
would have seemed a sort of acceptance of his excuse had she taken any
notice of the “rubbitch” with which he “played himself,” and she had
really felt the contempt she expressed. Drawing pictures! it was a kind
of childish occupation, an amusement to be pursued on a wet day, when
nothing else was possible, or as a solace in the tedium of illness. But
when Rob put down before her, relieved against the white table-cloth,
the Kirkton itself in little, a very reproduction of the familiar scene
she had beheld every day for years, the words were stopped upon his
mother’s lips.
“Eh!” she cried, in mere excess of emotion, able for nothing but a
monosyllable. The very imperfection of it gave it weight in Mrs. Glen’s
unpractised eyes. “Losh me!” she cried, when she had recovered the
first shock of admiration. “Rob, was it you that did that? are you sure
it’s your ain doing?” She could not trust her own eyes.
“And poor enough too,” said Rob, but he liked the implied applause:
who would not? Praise of what we have done well may satisfy our
intellectual faculties, but praise of a failure, that is a thing which
really goes to the heart.
“Poor! I would like to ken what you mean by poor?” Mrs. Glen pushed
away the broth and took up the block in a rapture of surprise and
delight. “It’s the very Kirkton itself!” she said; “there’s Robert
Jamieson’s house, and there’s Hugh Macfarlane’s, and there’s the way
you go to the post, and there’s the Kilnelly burying-ground, and the
little road up to the kirk--no a thing missed out. And do you mean to
tell me it’s a’ your own doing? Oh, laddie, laddie, the talents you’ve
gotten frae Providence! and the little use you make o’ them,” added
his mother, with a sudden recollection of the burden of her prophecy
against her son, which could not be departed from even now.
Rob was so much encouraged that he ventured to laugh. “There is nothing
I wish so much as to make more use of them,” he said; “I ought to study
and have good teaching.”
“Teaching! what do you want with teaching? You were never one that
was easy satisfied; what mair would you have?” she cried. She could
not take her eyes from the drawing. She touched it lightly with her
finger to make sure that it was flat, and did not owe its perspective
to mechanical causes. “To think it’s naething but a cedar pencil and
a wheen paints! I never saw the like! and you to do it, a laddie like
you! It beats me! Ay, there’s Robert Jamieson’s house, and yon’s Hugh
Macfarlane’s, and the wee gate into the kirk-yard as natural! and Widow
Morrison’s small shop joining the kirk. I can ’most see the things in
the window. I would like the Minister to see it,” said Mrs. Glen.
“Not that one, it is not good enough; there are others, mother.”
She cast upon him a half-contemptuous glance. He was “no judge,” even
though it was he who had done it: how could he be a judge, when he had
so little appreciation of this great work?
“It’s a great deal you ken,” she said; “I will take it mysel’ and let
him see it. He would be awfu’ pleased. His ain kirk, and ye can just
see the Manse trees, though it’s no in the picture. And a’ done in one
forenoon! I suppose,” she added, suddenly, “the like of this brings in
siller. It’s a business, like any other trade?”
“When they are better than that, yes--pictures sell; but you should not
speak of it as a trade.”
“I wish it was half as honest and straightforward as many a trade.
Better than that! that’s aye your way. But you have not suppit your
broth. I would not say now,” said Mrs. Glen, in high good-humor “(sit
down and finish your dinner), but Miss Margret would like a look at
that.”
“It is not half good enough.”
“Hold your peace, you silly lad! I hope I ken what I’m saying. She’s
but lonely, poor thing--no a young person to speak to. It would divert
her to see it. I would not forbid you now to give the young leddy the
like o’ that in a present. Sir Ludovic’s our landlord, after a’. He’s
no an ill landlord, though he’s poor. It is aye a fine thing to be
civil, and ye never can tell but what a kind action will meet with its
reward. I see no reason why you should not take that to Miss Margret in
a present,” Mrs. Glen said.