Yet we do not see why we are called upon to defend Mrs. Livingstone, who
was very well able, under most circumstances, to take care of herself.
She did not by any means receive her sons’ inquiries with a good grace.
On the contrary, she evaded them hotly, with unmistakable dislike and
impatience.
“Mary of Me’mar! what is she to you?” said the Mistress. “Let bygones be
bygones, bairns--she’s been the fash of my life, one way and another.
Hold your peace, Cosmo Livingstone! Do you think I can tell this like a
story out of a book. There’s plenty gossips in the countryside could
tell you the ins and the outs of it better than me--”
“About the mid-chamber and the will, mother?” asked Patrick.
“Weel, maybe, no about that,” said the Mistress, slightly mollified; “if
that’s what ye want. This Mary Huntley, laddies, I ken very little about
her. She was away out of these parts before my time. I never doubted she
was light-headed, and liked to be admired and petted. She was Me’mar’s
only bairn; maybe that might be some excuse for her--for he was an auld
man and fond. But, kind as he was, she ran away from him to marry some
lad that naebody kent--and went off out of the country with her
ne’er-do-weel man, and has never been heard tell of from that time to
this--that’s a’ I ken about her.”
This was said so peremptorily and conclusively, setting aside at once
any further question, that even these lads, who were not particularly
skilled in the heart or its emotions, perceived by instinct, that their
mother knew a great deal more about her--more than any inducement in the
world could persuade her to tell.
“I’ve heard that Me’mar was hurt to the heart,” said the Mistress, “and
no much wonder. His bairn that he had thought nothing too good for! and
to think of her running off from _him_, a lone auld man, to be married
upon a stranger-lad without friends, that naebody kent any good o’, and
that turned out just as was to be expected. Oh, aye! it does grand to
make into a story--and the like of you, you think it all for love, and a
warm heart, and a’ the rest of it; but I think it’s but an ill heart
that would desert hame and friends, and an auld man above three-score,
for its ain will and pleasure. So Me’mar took it very sore to heart; he
would not have her name named to him for years. And the next living
creature in this world that he liked best, after his ungrateful
daughter, was--laddies, you’ll no’ be surprised--just him that’s gone
from us--that everybody likit weel--just Norlaw.”
There was a pause after this, the Mistress’s displeasure melting into a
sob of her permanent grief; and then the tale was resumed more gently,
more slowly, as if she had sinned against the dead by the warmth and
almost resentment of her first words.
“Me’mar lived to be an auld man,” said the Mistress. “He aye lived on
till Patie was about five years auld, and a’ our bairns born. He was
very good aye to me; mony’s the present he sent me, when I was a young
thing, and was more heeding for bonnie-dies, and took great notice of
Huntley, and was kind to the whole house. It was said through a’ the
country-side that ye were to be his heirs, and truly so you might have
been, but for one thing and anither; no’ that I’m heeding--you’ll be a’
the better for making your way in the world yourselves.”
“And the will, mother?” said Huntley, with a little eagerness.
“I’m coming to the will; have patience;” said the Mistress, who had not
a great deal herself, to tell the truth. “Bairns, it’s no’ time yet for
me to speak to you of your father; but he was aye a just man, with a
tender heart for the unfortunate--you ken that as well as me. He wouldna
take advantage of another man’s weakness, or another man’s ill-doing,
far less of a poor silly lassie, that, maybe, didna ken what she was
about. And when the old man made his will, Norlaw would not let him
leave his lands beyond his ain flesh and blood. So the will was made,
that Mary Huntley, if she ever came back, was to be heir of Melmar, and
if she never came back, nor could be heard tell of, every thing was left
to Patrick Livingstone, of Norlaw.”
It was impossible to restrain the start of amazement with which Huntley,
growing red and agitated, sprang to his feet, and the others stirred out
of their quietness of listening. Their mother took no time to answer the
eager questions in their eyes, nor to hear even the exclamations which
burst from them unawares. She bent her head again, and drew through her
fingers, rapidly, the hem of her apron. She did not see, nor seem to
think of, her children. Her mind was busy about the heaviest epoch of
her own life.
“When Melmar died, search was caused to be made every place for his
daughter,” said the Mistress, passing back and forwards through her
hands this tight strip of her apron. “Your father thought of nothing
else, night nor day; a’ for justice, bairns, doubtless for justice--that
nobody might think he would take an advantage of his kinswoman, though
he could not approve of her ways! He went to Edinburgh himself, and from
there to London. I was young then, and Cosmo little mair than an infant,
and a’ thing left in my hands. Aye this one and the other one coming to
tell about Mary Huntley--and Norlaw away looking for her--and the very
papers full of the heiress--and me my lane in the house, and little used
to be left to mysel’. I mind every thing as if it had happened this very
day.”
The Mistress paused once more--it was only to draw a long breath of
pain, ere she hurried on with the unwelcome tale, which now had a
strange interest, even for herself. The boys could not tell what was
the bitterness of the time which their mother indicated by these
compressed and significant words; but it was impossible to hear even her
voice without perceiving something of the long-past troubles, intense
and vivid as her nature, which nothing in the world could have induced
her to disclose.
“The upshot was, she could not be found,” said the Mistress, abruptly;
“either she never heard tell that she was sought for, or she took guilt
to herself, and would not appear. They kept up the search as long as a
year, but they never heard a word, or got a clue to where she was.”
“And then?” cried Huntley, with extreme excitement.
“And then,” said the Mistress--“was he a man to take another person’s
lands, when but a year had gane?” She spoke with a visible
self-restraint, strong and bitter--the coercion which a mind of energy
and power puts upon itself, determining not to think otherwise than with
approbation of the acts of a weaker nature--and with something deeper
underlying even this. “He said she would still come hame some day, as
was most likely. He would not take up her rights, and her living, as he
was persuaded in his mind. The will was proved in law, for her sake, but
he would not take possession of the land, nor put forward his claims to
it, because he said she lived, and would come hame. So, laddies, there’s
the tale. A Mr. Huntley, a writer, from the northcountry, a far-away
friend, came in and claimed as next of kin. Mary of Melmar was lost and
gane, and could not be found, and Norlaw would not put in his ain claim,
though it was clear. He said it would be taking her rights, and that
then she would never come back to claim her land. So the strange man got
possession and kept it, and hated Norlaw. And from that day to this,
what with having an enemy, and the thought of that unfortunate woman
coming back, and the knowledge in his heart that he had let a wrongful
heir step in--what with all that bairns, and more than that, another day
of prosperity never came to this house of Norlaw.”
“Then we are the heirs of Me’mar!” said Huntley; “we, and not my
father’s enemy! Mother, why did we never hear this before?”
“Na, lads,” said the Mistress, with an indescribable bitterness in her
tone; “it’s her and her bairns that are the heirs--and they’re to be
found, and claim their inheritance, soon or syne.”
“Then this is what I’ll do,” cried Cosmo, springing to his feet; “I’ll
go over all the world, but I’ll find Mary of Melmar! I’m not so strong
as Huntley, or as Patie, but I’m strong enough for this. I’ll do what my
father wished--if she should be in the furtherest corner of the earth,
I’ll bring her hame!”
To the extreme amazement of the boys, the Mistress laid a violent hand
on Cosmo’s shoulder, and, either with intention or unconsciously, shook
the whole frame of the slender lad with her impetuous grasp.
“Will ye?” cried his mother, with a sharpness of suffering in her voice
that confounded them. “Is it no’ enough, all that’s past? Am I to begin
again? Am I to bring up _sons_ for her service? Oh, patience, patience!
it’s more than a woman like me can bear!”
Amazed, grieved, disturbed by her words and her aspect, her sons
gathered around her. She pushed them away impatiently, and rose up.
“Bairns, dinna anger me!--I’m no’ meek enough,” said the Mistress, her
face flushing with a mixture of mortification and displeasure. “You’ve
had your will, and heard the story--but I tell you this woman’s been a
vexation to me all my life--and it’s no’ your part, any one of you, to
begin it a’ over again.”