Sabbath night; a July night, sweet with summer stars and moonlight, and
with no darkness in it: the water running soft with its quietest murmur,
the thrush and blackbird beguiled to sing almost as late as the
southland nightingale; the scent of the late roses coming round the
corner of the house on the faint breeze; the stars clustered in a little
crowd over the gaunt castle walls, and in the distance the three weird
Eildons, standing out dark against the pale azure blue and flood of
moonlight; a Sabbath evening with not a sound in it, save the sweetest
sounds of nature, a visible holy blessing of quiet and repose.
But the table was spread in the dining-parlor at Norlaw; there was a
basket of oat-cakes and flour “bannocks” upon the table, in a snowy
napkin, and butter, and milk, and cheese, all of the freshest and most
fragrant, the produce of their own lands. Two candles made a little spot
of light upon the white table-cloth, but left all the rest of the room
in dreary shadow. To see it was enough to tell that some calamity
oppressed the house--and when the widow came in, with her face of
exhaustion, and eyes which could weep no more for very weariness, when
the boys followed slowly one by one, and Marget coming in with the
solemn, noiseless step, so unusual to her, hovered about them with all
her portentous gravity, and unwonted attendance, it was not hard to
conclude that they ate and drank under the shadow of death. The Mistress
had not appeared that day, from the early breakfast until now; it was
the only time before or after when she faltered from the ways of common
life.
When they had ended the meal, which no one cared to taste, and when the
lads began to think with some comfort, in the weariness of their youth,
that the day at last was over, Mrs. Livingstone drew her chair away from
the table, and looked at them all with the sorrowful tenderness of a
mother and a widow. Then, after a long interval, she spoke.
“Bairns!” she said, with a voice which was hoarse with solicitude and
weeping, “you’re a’ thinking what you’re to do, and though it’s the
Sabbath day, I canna blame ye, but me, I’m but a weak woman--I could not
say a word to counsel ye, if it was to save the breaking of my heart
this day.”
“We never looked for it, mother. There’s time enough! do you think we
would press our plans on you?” cried the eager Huntley, who had been
groaning but a few hours ago, at this compulsory delay.
“Na, I could not do it,” said the mother, turning her head aside, and
drawing the hem of her apron through her fingers, while the tears
dropped slowly out of her tired eyes; “this is the last Sabbath day that
him and me will be under the same roof. I canna speak to you, bairns;
I’m but a weak woman, and I’ve been his wife this five-and-twenty
years.”
After a pause, the Mistress dried her eyes, and went on hurriedly:--
“But I ken ye must have your ain thoughts; the like of you canna keep
still a long summer day, though it is a Sabbath; and, bairns, I’ve just
this to say to you; ye canna fear mair than we’ll have to meet. I’m
thankful even that he’s gane hame before the storm falls; for you’re a’
young, and can stand a blast. There’s plenty to do, and plenty to bear.
I dinna forbid ye thinking, though it’s Sabbath night, and death is
among us; but oh! laddies, think in a godly manner, and ask a
blessing--dinna darken the Sabbath with worldly thoughts, and him lying
on his last bed up the stair!”
The boys drew near to her simultaneously, with a common impulse. She
heard the rustle and motion of their youthful grief, but she still kept
her head aside, and drew tightly through her fingers the hem of her
apron.
“The day after the morn,” continued the widow, “I’ll be ready with all
that I ken, and ready to hear whatever you think for yourselves; think
discreetly, and I’ll no’ oppose, and think soberly, without pride, for
we’re at the foot of the brae. And we’ve nae friends to advise us,
bairns,” continued the Mistress, raising her head a little with the very
pride which she deprecated; “we’ve neither kith nor kin to take us by
the hand, nor give us counsel. Maybe it’s a’ the better--for we’ve only
Providence to trust to now, and ourselves.”
By this time she had risen up, and taking the candle which Patrick had
lighted for her, she stood with the little flat brass sconce in her
hand, and the light flickering over her face, still looking down. Yet
she lingered, as if she had something more to say. It burst from her
lips, at last, suddenly, almost with passion.
“Bairns! take heed, in your very innermost hearts, that ye think no
blame!” cried the widow; and when she had said these words, hastened
away, as if afraid to follow up or to weaken them by another syllable.
When she was gone, the lads stood silently about the table, each of them
with an additional ache in his heart. There _was_ blame which might be
thought, which might be spoken; even she was aware of it, in the jealous
regard of her early grief.
“The Mistress has bidden you a’ good night,” said Marget, entering
softly; “ye’ve taen nae supper, and ye took nae dinner; how are ye to
live and work, growing laddies like you, if you gang on at this rate? Ye
mean to break my heart amang you. If ye never break bread, Huntley
Livingstone, how will you get through the morn?”
“I wish it was over,” cried Huntley, once more.
“And so do I. Eh! bairns, when I see those blinds a’ drawn down, it
makes my heart sick,” cried Marget, “and grief itsel’s easier to thole
when ane has ane’s wark in hand. But I didna come to haver nonsense
here. I came to bid ye a’ gang to your beds, like good laddies. Ye’ll a’
sleep; that’s the good of being young. The Mistress, I daur to say, and
even mysel’, will not close an eye this night.”
“Would my mother let you remain with her, Marget?” said Huntley; “I
can’t bear to think she’s alone in her trouble. Somebody should have
come to stay with her; Katie Logan from the manse, perhaps. Why did not
some one think of it before?”
“Whisht! and gang to your beds,” said Marget; “no fremd person, however
kindly, ever wins so far into the Mistress’s heart. If she had been
blessed with a daughter of her ain, it might have been different. Na,
Huntley, your mother wouldna put up with me. She’s no ane to have either
friend or servant tending on her sorrows. Some women would, but no’ the
Mistress; and I’m o’ the same mind mysel’. Gang to your beds, and get
your rest, like good bairns; the morn will be a new day.”
“Shut up the house and sleep; that’s all we can do,” said Cosmo; “but I
canna rest--and he’ll never be another night in this house. Oh, father,
father! I’ll keep the watch for your sake!”
“If he’s in this house, he’s here,” said Patrick, suddenly, to the great
amazement of his hearers, moved for once into a higher imagination than
any of them; “do you hear me Cosmo? if he’s out of heaven, he’s here;
he’s no’ on yon bed dead. It’s no’ _him_ that’s to be carried to
Dryburgh. Watching’s past and done, unless he watches us; he’s either in
heaven, or he’s here.”
“Eh, laddie! God bless you, that’s true!” cried Marget, moved into
sudden tears. There was not composure enough among them to add another
word; they went to their rooms silently, not to disturb their mother’s
solitude. But Huntley could not rest; he came softly down stairs again,
through the darkened house, to find Marget sitting by the fire which she
had just “gathered” to last all night, reading her last chapter in the
big Bible, and startled her by drawing the bolts softly aside and
stepping out into the open air.
“I must breathe,” the lad said with a voice full of broken sobs.
The night was like a night of heaven, if such a glory is, where all
glories are. The moon was more lavish in her full, mellow splendor, than
she had ever been before, to Huntley’s eyes; the sky seemed as light as
day, almost too luminous to show the stars, which were there shining
softly in myriads, though you could scarcely see them; and the water
flowed, and the trees rustled, with a perfection of still music,
exquisite, and silent, and beyond description, which Nature only knows
when she is alone. The youth turned back again with a sob which eased
his heart. Out of doors nothing but splendor, glory, a beatitude calm
and full as heaven; within, nothing but death and the presence of death,
heavy, like a pall, upon the house and all its inmates. He went back to
his rest, with the wonder of humanity in his heart; when, God help us,
should this terrible difference be over? when should the dutiful
creation, expanding thus, while the rebel sleeps, receive once more its
fullest note of harmony, its better Eden, the race for whom sin and
sorrow has ended for evermore?