“The man’s richt—they’ll ha’e strayed in on the moss. Oh, my bairns! my
bairns!” cried the distressed mother into the night. “And Patie was
telling, nae farther gane than yestreen, what a bogilly bit it was, till
a’ the weans were fleyed; and if they’re no sunk in the moss itsel,
they’ll be dead wi’ fricht by this time. Oh, my bonnie Jessie! that was
aye doing somebody a guid turn; and wee Davie—puir wee Davie! he was aye
the youngest, and got his ain way. My bairns! my bairns!”
A snort came through the misty gloom. By this time it was very dark, and
Randall could hear the voices as they approached.
“What’s the woman greeting for? Her bairns?—her bairns? I would just
like to ken what suld ail her bairns—little mischiefs! They’re warm at
somebody’s ingle-neuk, Ise warrant. That wee Davie’s an imp o’ Satan;
neither fricht nor bogles will harm him. Come this road, woman. What
gart ye leave the lantern? If there werena better wits than yours”—
Jenny’s voice was interrupted by a sudden footstep crushing the bramble
branches on the side of the way, and by a sudden glow of light thrown
full upon the dazzled eyes of little Jessie, who left Randall’s hand
with a cry of joy—“Oh, it’s the leddy—we’re safe at hame.”
The lantern flashed about through the darkness. Randall’s heart beat
loudly. With a great start, he recognised the voice which gave kindly
welcome to the strayed child, and he could distinguish the outline of
her figure, as she shaded the lantern with her hand; then she raised
it—he felt the light suddenly burst upon his face—another moment, and it
was gone. Little Jessie flew back to him dismayed; voice and figure and
light had disappeared as they came; one other step upon the brambles,
and they were alone once more.
He had no time to marvel or to follow, for now the mother and Jenny,
suddenly drawing close to them, fell upon the lost children, with cries
of mingled blame and joy. “It was the gentleman brought us hame.”
“Thanks to the gentleman—would he no come in and rest?—he would be far
out of his way—the guidman would take a lantern, and convoy him”—and a
hundred other anxious volunteerings of gratitude poured upon Randall’s
ears. “I must go on—I must go on!” He burst past them impatiently; he
did not know where the house was, or if she had gone home; but Menie had
seen him, and Menie he must see.
Step softly, Randall! In her high excitement, she hears every stir of
the falling leaves without, and could not miss your footstep, if you
trod as softly as a child. She has reached to her shelter already—she
has put out her mother’s lights, and stands in the darkness, pressing
her white face against the window, looking out, wondering if she will
see you again—wondering why you come here—praying in a whisper that you
may not cross her path any more, but contradicting the prayer in her
heart. Mrs Laurie stands by the door without, watching for the
children’s return; and now they come, Davie lifted into his mother’s
arms (for he has been almost asleep on his feet), Jessie eager that
everybody should understand “it was my blame,” and Jenny smartly
lecturing each and all. The rest of the family—all but the goodman, who
has gone to the moss to seek the children—are gathered in a group before
the cottage; and the red light of the fire glows out upon them, and some
one has picked up the lantern which Menie Laurie dropped. A little
crowd—the inner circle of faces brightened by the lamp, the outer ones
receding into partial gloom, hearing little Jessie tell her story,
speculating what part of the moss it could be, and “where was the
gentleman?”—a question which none could answer.
“Though I’ve heard his tongue afore, mysel,” said Jenny, “I’m just as
sure—woman, will ye no take that little Satan to his bed?—and puir wee
Jessie’s een’s gaun thegither. It wasna your blame, you deceitful
monkey! Ye may cheat the wife there, but ye’ll no cheat Jenny. It was a’
that little bother—it wasna you. Gang out o’ my gate, callant! If nane
o’ the rest o’ ye will stir, I maun pit the bairn to her bed mysel.”
From her window Menie Laurie looks out upon this scene—upon the darkness
around—the one spot of light, and the half-illuminated faces; looks out
wistfully, straining her eyes into the night, wondering where he has
gone, and getting time now, as her agitation calms, to be ashamed and
annoyed at her own weakness. Very calm for many a day has been Menie
Laurie’s quiet heart—soberly, happily contented, and at rest. Little
comforts and elegancies, which neither Mrs Laurie’s income nor Jenny’s
kye could attain, Menie has managed to collect into this little room.
Her “trade,” as she still calls it—for Menie is the person of all others
least satisfied with her own performances, and will not assume to be an
artist—has brought her in contact with many pleasant people; her mother
is pleased that they have even better “society” here, in the cot-house,
than they had in prosperous Burnside; and it even seems a thing
probable, and to be hoped for, that by-and-by they may go back to
Burnside, and be able to live without its fifty yearly pounds. This
success could not come without bringing some content and satisfaction
with it; and constant occupation has restored health and ease to Menie’s
mind, while almost as calm as of old, but with a deeper, loftier quiet,
a womanly repose;—light, within her eased breast, has lain Menie
Laurie’s heart.
And why this face of strange excitement now, Menie cannot tell. She
found him out so suddenly—flashing her light upon the face which least
of all she thought to see. But Menie wonders to feel this strong thrill
of agitation returning on her as she touches the window with her pale
cheek, and wonders if she will see him again.
The night falls deeper—darker; the wind overhead comes shouting down
upon the trees, throwing their leaves from them in wild handfuls, and
tearing off their feebler branches in a frenzy. Here where we stand, you
can hear it going forth with its cry of defiance against the hills,
flinging a magic circle round the startled homesteads, attacking bridges
upon rivers, stacks in farmyards. The goodman, who has returned with a
glad heart to find his children safe, says, when he closes the cottage
door, that it is a wild night; but here, amid all its violence, waiting
a moment when he may see her—strangely excited, strangely emancipated,
owning the sway of one most passionate and simple emotion, and for the
first time forgetting, not only himself, but everything else—here, with
his bare forehead to the wind, stands Randall Home.
Now come hither: Jenny’s candle in the kitchen thriftily extinguished,
leaving her window only lightened by the firelight, proves that Jenny
has come “ben” to the family service—the daily meeting-ground of
mistress and servant, child and mother. There is no need to close the
shutters on this window, which no one ever passes by to see. Calm in her
fireside corner sits Mrs Laurie, with her open Bible in her lap; Jenny
is close by the table, drawing near the light, and poring very closely
upon the “sma’ print,” which runs into a confused medley before her, not
to be deciphered—for Jenny will not be persuaded to try spectacles, lest
they should “spoil her een;” while Menie, who reads the chapter aloud,
reverently turns over the leaves of the family Bible, and, with all her
quiet restored, speaks the words which say peace to other storms than
that storm never to be forgotten, in the Galilean Sea.
You remember how she was when you saw her last—you remember her through
the flush of your own anger, the mortification of your own pride—but
pride and mortification have little to do with this atmosphere which
surrounds our Menie now. Her delicate hand is on the open Book—her
reverent eyes cast down upon it—her figure rising out of its old girlish
freedom and carelessness, into a womanly calm and dignity. He follows
the motion of her head and lips with an unconscious eager
gesture—follows them with devotion, longing to feel himself engaged with
her; and hears, his frame quivering the while—rising upon his heart with
a command, that hushes all these violent strong voices round—the low
sound of _her_ voice.
Now they are at prayer. Her face is folded in her hands, Randall; and
there may be a prayer in Menie’s heart, which Mrs Laurie’s voice, always
timid at this time, does not say. Whatever there is in Menie’s heart,
you know what is in your own—know at once this flood of sudden yearning,
this sudden passion of hope and purpose, this sudden burst of womanish
tears. Now then, overmastered, subdued, and won, turn away, Randall
Home—but not till Jenny, starting from her knees, has burst into a
violent sob and scream. “I dreamt he was come back this very nicht; I
dreamt o’ him yestreen—Randall—Randall Home!” But, with an awed face,
Jenny returned from the door to which she had flown. Randall was not
there!