Half a mile below Norlaw, “as Tyne runs,” stood the village of
Kirkbride. Tyne was but one of the many undistinguished Tynes which
water the south of Scotland and the north of England, a clear trout
stream, rapid and brown, and lively, with linns and pools, and bits of
woodland belonging to it, which the biggest brother of its name could
not excel; and Kirkbride also was but one of a host of Kirkbrides, which
preserved through the country, long after every stone of it had
mouldered, the name of some little chapel raised to St. Bridget. This
was an irregular hamlet, straggling over two mounds of rising ground,
between which Tyne had been pleased to make a way for himself. The
morsel of village street was on one bank of the water, a row of
irregular houses, in the midst of which flourished two shops; while at
the south end, as it was called, a little inn projected across the road,
giving, with this corner, and the open space which it sheltered, an air
of village coziness to the place which its size scarcely warranted. The
other bank of the water was well covered with trees--drooping birches
and alders, not too heavy in their foliage to hide the half dozen
cottages which stood at different elevations on the ascending road, nor
to vail at the summit the great jargonel pear-tree on the gable wall of
the manse, which dwelt upon that height, looking down paternally and
with authority upon the houses of the village. The church was further
back, and partially hidden by trees, which, seeing this edifice was in
the prevailing fashion of rural Scottish churches--a square barn with a
little steeple stuck upon it--was all the better for the landscape. A
spire never comes amiss at a little distance, when Nature has fair play
and trees enough--and the hillock, with its foliage and its cottages,
its cozy manse and spire among the trees, filled with thoughts of rural
felicity the stray anglers who came now and then to fish in Tyne and
consume the produce of their labor in the gable parlor of the Norlaw
Arms.
The doctor had just passed through the village. On his way he had been
assailed by more than one inquiry. The sympathy of the hamlet was
strong, and its curiosity neighborly,--and more than one woman retired
into her cottage, shaking her head over the news she received.
“Keep us a’! Norlaw! I mind him afore he could either walk or speak--and
_then_ I was in service, in the auld mistress’s time, at Me’mar,” said
one of the village grandmothers, who stood upon the threshold of a very
little house, where the village mangle was in operation. The old woman
stood at the door, looking after the doctor, as he trotted off on his
stout pony; she was speaking to herself, and not to the little audience
behind, upon whom, however, she turned, as the wayfarer disappeared from
her eyes, and laying down her bundle on the table, with a sigh, “Eh,
Merran Hastie!” she exclaimed, “he’s been guid to you.”
The person thus addressed needed no further inducement to put her apron
to her eyes. The room was very small, half occupied by the mangle, which
a strong country girl was turning; and even in this summer day the
apartment was not over bright, seeing that the last arrival stood in the
doorway, and that the little window was half covered by a curtain of
coarse green gauze. Two other village matrons had come with their
“claes,” to talk over the danger of their neighbor and landlord, and to
comfort the poor widow who had found an active benefactor in “Norlaw.”
She was comforted, grateful and grieved though she was; and the gossips,
though they looked grave, entered _con amore_ into the subject; what the
Mistress was likely to do, and how the family would be “left.”
“My man says they’ll a’ be roupit, baith stock and plenishing,” said the
mason’s wife. “Me’mar himsel’ gave our John an insight into how it was.
I judge he maun have lent Norlaw siller; for when he saw the dry-stane
dike, where his ground marches with Norlaw, he gave ane of his humphs,
and says he to John, ‘A guid kick would drive it down;’ says he, ‘it’ll
last out _his_ time, and for my part, I’m no a man for small fields;’ so
grannie, there’s a family less, you may say already, in the
country-side.”
“I’ll tarry till I see it,” said the old woman; “the ane of his family
that’s likest Norlaw, is his youngest son; and if Me’mar himsel’, or the
evil ane, his marrow, get clean the better of Huntley and Patrick, not
to say the Mistress, it’ll be a marvel to me.”
“Norlaw was aye an unthrift,” said Mrs. Mickle, who kept the grocer’s
shop in Kirkbride; “nobody could tell, when he was a young man, how he
got through his siller. It aye burnt his pockets till he got it spent,
and ye never could say what it was on.”
“Oh, whisht!” exclaimed the widow; “me, and the like of me, can tell
well what it was on.”
“Haud a’ your tongues,” said the old woman; “if any body kens about
Norlaw, it’s me; I was bairn’s-maid at Me’mar, in the time of the auld
mistress, as a’ the town kens, and I’m well acquaint with a’ his
pedigree, and mind him a’ his life, and the truth’s just this, whatever
any body may say. He didna get his ain fancy when he was a young lad,
and he’s never been the same man ever sinsyne.”
“Eh! was Norlaw crossed in love?” said the girl at the mangle, staying
her grinding to listen; “but I’m no sorry for him; a man that wasna
content with the Mistress doesna deserve a good wife.”
“Ay, lass; you’re coming to have your ain thoughts on such like matters,
are ye?” said the old woman; “but take you my word, Susie, that a woman
may be the fairest and the faithfu’est that ever stood on a hearthstane,
but if she’s no her man’s fancy, she’s nae guid there.”
“Susie’s very right,” said the mason’s wife; “he wasna blate! for a
better wife than the Mistress never put her hand into ony housewifeskep,
and it’s her that’s to be pitied with a man like you; and our John
says--”
“I kent about Norlaw before ever you were born, or John either,” said
the old woman; “and what I say’s _fac_, and what you say’s fancy. Norlaw
had never a thought in his head, from ten to five-and-twenty, but half
of it was for auld Me’mar’s ae daughter. I’m no saying he’s a strong man
of his nature, like them that clear their ain road, or make their ain
fortune; but he might have held his ain better than he’s ever done, if
he had been matched to his fancy when he was a young lad, and had a’ his
life before him; that’s just what I’ve to say.”
“Weel, grannie, its awfu’ hard,” said the mason’s wife; “the Mistress
was a bonnie woman in her day, and a spirit that would face onything;
and to wear out her life for a man that wasna heeding about her, and be
left in her prime a dowerless widow!--Ye may say what ye like--but I
wouldna thole the like for the best man in the country-side, let alone
Norlaw.”
“Naebody would, if they kent,” said the oracle, “but what’s a woman to
do, if she’s married and bound, and bairns at her foot, before she ever
finds out what’s been lying a’ the time in her man’s heart?”
“Then it was just a shame!” cried Susie, at the mangle, with tears in
her eyes; “a burning shame! Eh Grannie, to find it out _then_! I would
rather dee!”
“Ay, ay,” said the old woman, shaking her head; “young folk think
so--but that’s life.”
“I’ll never think weel of Norlaw again--I’ll never believe a lad mair!
they might be thinking ony mischief in their heart,” cried Susie,
hastily putting up her particular bundle, and dashing a tear off her hot
cheek. “They can greet for him that likes; I’ll think of naebody but the
Mistress--no me!”
Whereupon this keen sympathizer, who had some thoughts of her own on the
matter, rushed forth, disturbing the elder group, whose interest was
calmer and more speculative.
“Aweel, aweel! we’re a’ frail and full of shortcomings,” said the widow;
“but naebody kens how kind Norlaw has been to me. My little Tammie’s
away somegate about the house now. I thought the bairn’s heart would
break when he heard the news first. I’m sure there’s no one hour, night
or day, that he wouldna lay down his life for Norlaw.”
“He was aye a kind man and weel likit--most folk are that spend their
siller free, and take a’ thing easy,” said Mrs. Mickle, with a sigh
which was partly for that weakness of human nature, and partly for the
departing spirit.
Then new customers began to come in, and the group dispersed. By this
time it was getting late in the afternoon, and John Mellerstone’s wife
had to bethink herself of her husband’s supper, and Mrs. Mickle of her
evening cup of tea. The sun had begun to slant over the face of the brae
opposite to them, brightening the drooping bushes with touches of gold,
and glowing upon the white gable wall of the manse, obscured with the
wealthy branches of its jargonel tree. The minister was making his way
thoughtfully up the path, with his hat over his face a little, and his
hands under the square skirts of his coat, never pausing to look down,
as was his custom when his mind was at ease. He, too, had been at
Norlaw, and his thoughts were still there.