It was Saturday night, and in little more than an hour after Huntley’s
return, Cosmo had joined the little family circle. Cosmo was five years
older by this time, three-and-twenty years old, a man and not a boy;
such at least was his own opinion--but his mother and he were not quite
so cordial and united as they had been. Perhaps, indeed, it was only
while her sons were young, that a spirit so hasty and arbitrary as that
of the Mistress could keep in harmony with so many independent minds;
but her youngest son had disappointed and grieved her. Cosmo had
relinquished those studies which for a year or two flattered his mother
with the hope of seeing her son a minister and pillar of the Church. The
Mistress thought, with some bitterness, that his travels had permanently
unsettled her boy; even his verses began to flag by this time, and it
was only once in three or four months that Mrs. Livingstone received,
with any thing like satisfaction, her copy of the _Auld Reekie
Magazine_. She did not know what he was to be, or how he was to live;
at present he held “a situation"--of which his mother was bitterly
contemptuous--in the office of Mr. Todhunter, and exercised the caprices
of his more fastidious taste in a partial editorship of the little
magazine, which had already lost its first breath of popularity. And
though he came out from Edinburgh dutifully every Saturday to spend the
day of rest with his mother, that exacting and impatient household ruler
was very far from being satisfied. She received him with a certain
angry, displeased affectionateness, and even in the presence of her
newly-arrived son, kept a jealous watch upon the looks and words of
Cosmo. Huntley could not help watching the scene with some wonder and
curiosity. Sitting in that well-remembered room, which the two candles
on the table lighted imperfectly, with the soft night air blowing in
through the open window in the corner, from which the Mistress had been
used to watch the kitchen door, and at which now her son sat looking out
upon the old castle and the calm sky above it, where the stars blossomed
out one by one--Huntley watched his mother, placing, from mere use and
wont, her work-basket on the table, and seating herself to the work
which she was much too impatient to make any progress with--launching
now and then a satirical and utterly incomprehensible remark at the
Frenchman, who yawned openly, and repented his contempt for the Norlaw
Arms--sometimes asking hasty questions of Cosmo, which he answered not
without a little kindred impatience--often rising to seek something or
lay something by, and pausing as she passed by Huntley’s chair to linger
over him with a half expressed, yet inexpressible tenderness. There was
change, yet there was no change in the Mistress. She had a tangible
reason for some of the old impatience which was natural to her
character, but that was all.
At length the evening came to an end. Huntley’s uncomfortable companion
sauntered out to smoke his cigar, and coming back again was conducted up
stairs to his room, with a rather imperative politeness. Then the
Mistress, coming back, stood at the door of the dining-parlor, looking
in upon her sons. The shadows melted from her face, and her heart
swelled, as she looked at them. Pride, joy, tenderness contended with
her, and got the better for a moment.
“God send you be as well in your hearts as you are to look upon,
laddies!” she said, hurriedly; and then came in to sit down at the
table and call them nearer for their first precious family hour of
mutual confidence and reunion.
“Seven years, Huntley? I canna think it’s seven years--though they’ve
been long enough and slow enough, every one; but we’ve thriven at
Norlaw,” said the Mistress, proudly. “There’s guid honest siller at the
bank, and better than siller in the byre, and no’ a mortal man to call
this house his debtor, Huntley Livingstone! which is a change from the
time you gaed away.”
“Thanks to your cares and labors, mother,” said Huntley.
“Thanks to no such thing. Am I a hired servant that ye say such words to
me? but thanks to Him that gives the increase,” said the Mistress;
“though we’re no’ like to show our gratitude as I once thought,” and she
threw a quick side-glance at Cosmo; “but Huntley, my man, have ye
naething to tell of yourself?”
“Much more to ask than to tell,” said Huntley, growing red and anxious,
but making an effort to control himself, “for you know all of the little
that has happened to me already, mother. Thankless years enough they
have been. To think of working hard so long and gaining nothing, and to
make all that I have at last by what looks like a mere chance!”
“So long! What does the laddie call long?--many a man works a lifetime,”
said the Mistress, “and even then never gets the chance; and it’s only
the like of you at your time of life that’s aye looking for something to
happen. For them that’s out of their youth, life’s far canniest when
naething happens--though it is hard to tell how that can be either where
there’s bairns. There’s been little out of the way here since this
callant, Cosmo, gaed out on his travels, and brought his French lady and
a’ her family hame. Me’mar’s in new hands now, Huntley; and you’ll have
to gang to see them, no doubt, and they’ll make plenty wark about you.
It’s their fashion. I’m no much heeding about their ways mysel’, but
Cosmo has little else in his head, night or day.”
Cosmo blushed in answer to this sudden assault; but the blush was angry
and painful, and his brother eagerly interposed to cover it.
“The ladies that took Melmar from us!--let us hear about them, mother,”
said Huntley.
The Mistress turned round suddenly to the door to make sure it was
closed.
“Take my word for it,” she said, solemnly, and with emphasis, “yon’s the
man, that’s married upon Marie.”
“Who?” cried Cosmo, starting to his feet, with eager interest.
The Mistress eyed him severely for a moment.
“When you’re done making antics, Cosmo Livingstone, I’ll say my say,”
said his offended mother--“you may be fond enough of French folk,
without copying their very fashion. I would have mair pride if it was
me.”
With an exclamation of impatience, which was not merely impatience, but
covered deeply wounded feelings, Cosmo once more resumed the seat which
he thrust hastily from the table. His mother glanced at him once more.
If she had a favorite among her children, it was this her youngest son,
yet she had a perverse momentary satisfaction in perceiving how much
annoyed he was.
“You’s the man!” said the Mistress, with a certain triumphant contempt
in her voice; “just the very same dirty Frenchman that Huntley brought
to the house this day. I’m no mista’en. He’s wanting his wife, and he’ll
find her, and I wish her muckle joy of her bonnie bargain. That’s just
the ill-doing vagabond of a husband that’s run away from Marie!”
“Mother,” said Cosmo, eagerly, “you know quite well how little
friendship I have for Marie--”
When he had got so far he stopped suddenly. His suggestion to the
contrary was almost enough to make his mother inform the stranger at
once of the near neighborhood of his wife, and Cosmo paused only in
time.
“The mair shame to you,” said the Mistress, indignantly, “she’s a
suffering woman, ill and neglected; and I warn you baith I’m no’ gaun to
send this blackguard to Melmar to fright the little life there is out of
a puir dying creature. He shall find out his wife for his ain hand; he
shanna be indebted to me.”
“It is like yourself, mother, to determine so,” said Cosmo, gratefully.
“Though, if she had the choice, I daresay she would decide otherwise,
and perhaps Madame Roche too. You say I am always thinking of them, but
certainly I would not trust to their wisdom--neither Madame Roche nor
Marie.”
“But really--have some pity upon my curiosity--who is Marie, mother?”
cried Huntley, “and who is her husband, and what is it about altogether?
I know nothing of Pierrot, and I don’t believe much good of him; but how
do _you_ know?”
“Marie is the French lady’s eldest daughter--madame would have married
her upon you, Huntley, my man, if she had been free,” said the Mistress,
“and I woudna say but she’s keeping the little one in her hand for you
to make up for your loss, as she says. But Marie, she settled for
hersel’ lang before our Cosmo took news of their land to them; and it
just shows what kind of folk they were when she took up with the like of
this lad. I’ve little skill in Frenchmen, that’s true; if he’s not a
common person, and a blackguard to the boot, I’m very sair deceived in
my e’en; but whatever else he is, he’s her man, and that I’m just as
sure of as mortal person can be. But she’s a poor suffering thing that
will never be well in this world, and I’ll no’ send a wandering vagabond
to startle her out of her life.”
“What do you say, madame,” screamed a voice at the door; “you know my
wife--you know her--Madame Pierrot?--and you will keep her husband from
her? What! you would take my Marie?--you would marry her to your son
because she is rich? but I heard you--oh, I heard you! I go to fly to my
dear wife.”
The Mistress rose, holding back Huntley, who was advancing
indignantly:--
“Fly away, Mounseer,” said Mrs. Livingstone, “you’ll find little but
closed doors this night; and dinna stand there swearing and screaming at
me; you may gang just when you please, and welcome; but we’ll have none
of your passions here; be quiet, Huntley--he’s no’ a person to touch
with clean fingers--are you hearing me man? Gang up to your bed, if you
please this moment. I give you a night’s shelter because you came with
my son; or if you’ll no’ go up the stairs go forth out of my doors, and
dinna say another word to me--do you hear?”
Pierrot stood at the door, muttering French curses as fast as he could
utter them; but he did hear notwithstanding. After a little parley with
Huntley, he went up stairs, three steps at a time, and locked himself
into his chamber.
“He’s just as wise,” said the Mistress, “but it’s no’ very safe sleeping
with such a villain in the house;” which was so far true that, excited
and restless, she herself did not sleep, but lay broad awake all night
thinking of Huntley and Cosmo--- thinking of all the old grief and all
the new vexations which Mary of Melmar had brought to her own life.