The sun is dipping low into the burning sea far away, which Criffel’s
envious shoulder hides from us; and the last sheaf of rays, like a
handful of golden arrows, strikes down into the plain, grazing this same
strong shoulder with ineffectual fire as they pass. Touches as of rosy
fingers are on all the clouds, and here and there one hangs upon the sky
in an ecstacy, suspended not upon the common air, but on some special
atmosphere of light. The long attendant shadows have faded from the
trees, the roadside pools have lost their brilliant glimmer, and a
wakeful whispering hush about the hedgerows and old hawthorns stir all
those curious budded watchers, to hear the slow lounging steps of rustic
labourers on the road, and wait for the delicate gleam out of the east
which shall herald the new-risen moon.
And light are your home-going steps, May Marion, upon this quiet road,
which breathes out fresh evening odours from all its dewy neighbour
fields--not slow, but lingering--arrested by a hundred fanciful delays.
Before you is no great range of prospect--the two ash-trees, holding up
their united arms, very much as the children of the Brigend, playing
under them, hold up _their_ small clasped hands arched over the merry
troop who are rushing yonder “through the needle ee”--the hamlet’s
meditative houses, standing about the road here and there, in the
pleasant vacancy of the slow-falling gloaming--the burn rumbling
drowsily under the bridge--the kye coming home along the further
way--and farthest off of all, the grave plantation firs, making a dark
background for your own pleasant home. The purple shadows are fading
into palmer grey upon the hills behind, and the hills themselves you
could almost fancy contract their circle, and grasp each other’s hands
in closer rank, with a manful tenderness for this still country,
child-like and unfearing, which by-and-by will fall asleep at their
feet. Your heart scarcely sings in the hush, though you carry it so
lightly; its day’s song is over, Menie Laurie--and the quiet heart comes
down with a little flutter of sweet thought into the calm of its kindly
nest.
The light is fading when Menie reaches the Brigend; and by the door of
one of the cottages, Nelly Panton, in her close bonnet and humble
enveloping shawl, stands beside the stone seat on which an older woman,
who holds her head away with pertinacity, has seated herself to rest.
“She’ll no take heart, whatever I can do,” says the slow steady voice of
Nelly, from which the elastic evening air seems to droop away, throwing
it down heavily upon the darkening earth. “I’m sure I couldna say mair,
auntie, nor do mair to please her than I aye try, in my quiet way; but
morning and night she mourns after Johnnie, making nae mair account of
me than if I was a stranger in the house. And what should ail
Johnnie?--for I’m sure I dinna ken what would come o’ folk in our
condition if we were aye write-writing from ae hand to anither, like
them that have naething else to do. If onything was wrang, we would hear
fast enough. I’m saying, mother!”
“If you would but let me be!” groaned the older woman; “I’m no
complaining to you. If I _am_ anxious in my mind, I’m no wanting to
publish’t afore a’ the parish. I’m meaning nae offence to you,
Marget--but I think this lassie’s tongue will drive me out of my wits.”
“That’s just her way,” said Nelly, with mournful complacency. “Instead
of taking it kind when I try to ease her, ye would think I was doing
somebody an injury; and I’m sure it’s a fashious temper indeed that
canna put up with me--for I’ve aye been counted as quiet a lass as there
is in the haill countryside, and never did ill to onyhody a’ my days.
From morning to night I’m aye doing my endeavour to get comfort to
her--hearing of the lads that have done weel in London, and aye standing
up for Johnnie that he’s no sae ill as he’s ca’ed, though he mayna write
as often as some do; and just yesterday I gaed myself to Burnside, a
guid mile o’ gate from our house, to ask Miss Menie Laurie to write to
Randall Home for word about Johnnie,--and I’m sure what ony mortal could
do mair, I canna tell.”
“What business has Miss Menie Laurie, or Randall Home either, with my
trouble?” exclaimed the mother indignantly. “Am I no to daur shed a tear
in my ain house, but a’ the toun’s to hear o’t? Yes, Miss Menie, I see
it’s you, but I canna help it. I’m no meaning disrespect either to you
or ony of your friends; but naebody could thole to have their private
thoughts turned out for a’ the world to see--and she’ll put me daft if
she gets encouragement to gang on at this rate.”
“Must I not ask about Johnnie, Mrs. Lithgow?” said Menie; “Nelly said it
would comfort you.”
“Nelly’s aye saying something to aggravate a puir woman out of baith
life and patience,” said Nelly’s mother; “and he’s just her
half-brother, you see, and she hasna the interest in him she might
have. I’m sure I canna tell how she came to be a daughter of mine,”
continued the poor woman, rising and turning away to address herself,
rapidly and low, to Menie’s particular ear. “I would do mony a thing
afore I would have my ain troubled thoughts, or so muckle as a breath on
Johnnie’s credit, kent in the countryside; and I’m no sae anxious--no
near sae anxious as that cuttie says; but, Miss Menie, you’re an
innocent lassie--I’ll trust you. I have a tremble in my heart for my
young son, away yonder his lane. No that Johnnie has ony ill ways--far
from that, far from that--and a better son to his mother never was the
world owre; but an innocent thing like you disna ken how a puir laddie’s
tempted--and there’s no a creature near hand to mind him of his duty,
and naething but a wheen careless English, that disna ken our kirk nor
our ways, at every side of him--and I charged him he was to gang to nae
kirk but our ain. I’m sure I dinna ken--whiles things that folk mean for
guid counsel turn out snares--and I’m sair bewildered in my mind. If
you’ll just write, Miss Menie--just like as it was out of your ain head,
and bid the young gentleman--I hear he’s turned a grand scholar, and
awfu’ clever--take the pains to ask how Johnnie’s winning on--but no to
say you have heard ony ill of him. I wouldna have him think his mother
was doubtful of him, no for a’ Kirklands parish--and he’s aye in the
office of that muckle paper that a’body’s heard about--at least as far
as I ken. Eh, Miss Menie, it’s a sair thing to have so mony weary miles
of land and water, and sae muckle uncertainty, between ane’s ain heart
and them that ane likes best.”
With gravity and concern Menie received this confidence, and gave her
promise; but Menie did not know how “sair” and terrible this uncertainty
was--could not comprehend the wavering paleness of terror, the sickly
gleams of anxiety which shot over the poor mother’s face--and a wistful
murmur of inquiry, a pity which was almost awe, were all the echoes this
voice of real human suffering awoke in Menie’s quiet heart.
And when she had soothed, and comforted, and promised, this gentle heart
went on its way--its flutter of sweet thoughts subdued, but only into a
fresh reposing calm, like the stillness all bedewed and starry which
gathered on the dim home-country round. Wisdom of the world--Experience
chill and sober--Knowledge of human kind--grim sisterhood, avoid your
twilight way--and by yourself all fearless and undaunted, hoping all
things, believing all things, thinking no evil, you are brave enough to
go forth, Menie Laurie, upon the world without a tremble; by-and-by
will come the time to go forth--and Heaver send the lion to guard this
quiet heart upon its way.
In her own chamber, when the night had fully fallen, Menie wrote her
letter. Many a mile of land and water, many a new-developed thought on
one side, lay between Menie Laurie and Randall Home; but uncertainty had
never sickened the blithe child’s hope within her; an ample country,
full of mountain-peaks and rocks of danger--burning with hidden breaks
of desert, with wells of Marah treacherous and insecure, was the soul
which fate had linked so early to Menie Laurie’s soul. She knew the
sunny plains that were in it--the mounts of vision, the glens of dreamy
sweet romance; but all besides, and all that lay deepest in her own
unexplored mind, remained to be discovered. But what she did not know
she could not fear.