Маргарет Олифант
Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice
In burning rage and mortification Mr. Fitzherbert stalked back to Strathoran. In the distance, upon the other side of the river, he could see the retreat of the Macalpines; it was a fruitless thing vowing vengeance upon them. He had done his worst; they were out of his power.
But Mr. Fitzherbert’s mortification and rage reached a climax when he looked upon his sad mutilation – cruel as Hanun the son of Nahash, and his artful counsellors of the children of Ammon, the scissors of the remorseless Duncan had swept away one entire half of Mr. Fitzherbert’s adornments. It must all go, cherished and dearly beloved as it was – the flowing luxuriance of the one side must be sacrificed to the barbarous stubble of the other. – Alas the day! How should he meet Lord Gillravidge! how account for the holocaust! Mr. Fitzherbert was fitly punished – he was in despair.
Marjory Falconer hurried along the road to Merkland, little less despairing than Mr. Fitzherbert. She was bitterly ashamed; her face was burning with passionate blushes. She needed no one to remind her of her loss of dignity; the strong and powerful vitality of her womanhood avenged itself completely. Like Jeanie Coulter, or Alice Aytoun, or even Anne Ross herself, she knew Marjory Falconer could never be! – nor like the cheerful active sister Martha of the Portoran Manse. Marjory did not blush more deeply when that last name glided into her memory; that was impossible – no human verdict, or condemnation would have abashed her so entirely as did her own strong, clear, unhesitating judgment; but she looked uncomfortable and uneasy. Another person now might be involved in the blame of her misdoings; the reflected shadow of those extravagancies might fall upon one, of whom many tongues were sufficiently ready to speak evil. It did not increase the scorching passion of her shame – but it deepened her repentance.
“Is Miss Ross in, Duncan?” she asked as she entered Merkland.
“Ou ay, Miss Falconer, Miss Anne’s in,” said Duncan, preceding her leisurely to Mrs. Ross’s parlor. “She’s in her ain room – according to her ain fashion. There’s nae accounting for the whigmaleeries of you leddies, but an she disna live liker a human creature and less like a bird, ye may tak my word for’t she’ll no live ony way lang.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Marjory. “Is Miss Ross ill?”
“Na. I’m no saying she’s ill,” was the cautious answer; “but taking lang flights her lane, up the water and down the water, and when she comes in eating a nip that wadna ser a lintie, and syne away up the stair to pingle her lane at a seam; I say it’s a clear tempting o’ Providence, Miss Falconer, and I have tell’t Miss Anne that mysel.”
Marjory ran up stairs, and tapped at the door of Anne’s room. “Come in,” said Anne. Marjory entered.
The window was open – the full glory of the setting sun was pouring over the beautiful country, lying like a veil of golden tissue, sobered with fairy tints of gray and purple upon the far-off solemn hills, and gleaming in the river as you could trace its course for miles, where its thick fringe of foliage was parted here and there. Anne leant upon the window-still, looking out. It was not the fair heights and hollows of her native district that she saw; her eyes were veiled to these. The dim shores of the Forth in the still evening-time – the long, low, sighing of the waters – the desolate, gloomy house behind – the tall, gaunt figure stealing shadowlike over the glistening sand – these were before her constantly, in dream and vision, shutting out with their gray tints and sad colouring all other landscapes, how fair soever they might be.
She did not look up when Marjory entered, but waited to be addressed, thinking it May or Barbara. At last, finding the new-comer did not speak, she turned round.
“Marjory, is that you?”
“What are you thinking of, Anne?” said Marjory. “What makes you dream and brood thus? There you have been gazing out these two minutes, as fixedly as if you saw something of the greatest interest. I am quite sure you don’t know what you are looking at, and, had I come forward suddenly, and asked you what river that was, you would have faltered and deliberated before you could be certain it was the Oran. I know you would. What is it all about?”
Anne smiled.
“It is not so easy to tell. You put comprehensive questions, Marjory.”
“And here are you making yourself ill!” exclaimed Marjory, impetuously; “dreaming over something which no one is to know; walking alone, and sitting alone, and defrauding yourself of proper rest and relaxation, and altogether, as plainly as possible endeavoring to manufacture a consumption. I say, Anne Ross, what is it all about? I have a right to know – we all have a right to know; you don’t belong to yourself. If you were not Anne Ross, of Merkland, I should begin to suspect we had some love-sickness on our hands.”
“And if you were any one else but Marjory Falconer, of Falcon’s Craig, I should be very angry,” said Anne, smiling.
“Never anything reasonable from you since you came home; never a call upon any one but Mrs. Melder. Nothing but patient looks, and paleness, and reveries! I don’t see why we should submit to it, Anne Ross. I protest, in the name of the parish – it is a public injustice!”
“Very well, Marjory,” said Anne. “Pray be so good as sit down now, and do not scold so bitterly. Did you come all the way from Falcon’s Craig for the sole purpose of bringing me under discipline?”
Marjory Falconer put up her hands to her cheeks to hide the vehement blushes which rushed back again; then, as she recalled the story she had come to tell, its ludicrous points overcame the shame, and she laughed with characteristic heartiness. There was not, after all, so very much to be ashamed of; but, as everybody exaggerated the extravagance of everything done by Marjory Falconer, so Marjory Falconer felt herself bitterly humiliated in the recollection of escapades which young ladies of much greater pretensions would only have laughed at.
“What is it, Marjory?” said Anne.
The fit of shame returned.
“Oh! not much. Only I have been making a fool of myself again.”
Anne expressed no wonder; she only drew her friend into a chair, and asked:
“How?”
“I am going to tell you. I came here at once, you see, lest some one else should be before me with the news. Ah! and there you sit as cool and calm as though I were not entering my purgatory!”
“I don’t want to tease you further,” said Anne, “or I should say that when people make purgatories for themselves, it behoves them to endure patiently.”
“Very well: you don’t intend to be sympathetic. I am quite satisfied. Now for my confession. Most unwittingly and innocently, I premise, was I led into the snare. Anne Ross! turn away from the window, and keep your glances within proper bounds. If your eyes wander so, I shall forget my own foolishness in yours – and I don’t choose that.”
Anne obeyed, and Marjory told her story – sometimes overwhelmed with her own passionate humiliation, sometimes bursting into irrepressible mirth. It was very soon told. Anne looked annoyed and vexed. She did not speak. It was the sorest condemnation she could have given.
“You have nothing to say to me!” exclaimed Marjory, the hot flood burning over her cheek, and neck, and forehead. “You think I am clearly hopeless now. You think – ”
“I think,” said Anne, “that Marjory Falconer, whom malicious people blame for pride, is not half proud enough.”
“Not proud enough!”
It was difficult to believe, indeed, when one saw the drawing-up of her tall, fine figure, and the flashing of her eye.
“Yes, I understand. You would be proud enough were you Ralph; then, for everything brave, and honorable, and true, the fame of the Falconers would be safe in your hands: but you are not proud enough, being Marjory. I fancy we should inhabit a loftier atmosphere than these boyish frolics could find breath in, Marjory; an atmosphere too pure and rare to carry clamorous voices, whatever may be their burden.”
“Gentle and mild,” said Marjory, attempting a laugh, which would not come; “perfumed and dainty. I am no exotic, Anne; I must breathe living air. I cannot breathe odors.”
Anne rose, and lifted her Bible from the table.
“The sublime of mild and gentle belongs to One greater than us; but I don’t want to compel you to these. Look here, Marjory.”
Marjory looked – read.
“ ‘Strength and honor are her clothing,’ ” and bowed her head, in token of being vanquished.
“You have nothing to oppose to my argument,” said Anne, smiling. “You are obliged to yield without a word. Let me convince you, Marjory, that we stoop mightily from our just position, when we condescend to meddle with such humiliating follies as the rights of women – that we do compromise our becoming dignity when we involve ourselves in a discreditable warfare, every step in advance of which is a further humiliation to us. I forgive you your share in this exploit with all my heart. I am not sorry the man is punished, though I would rather you had not been connected with his punishment. It is not very much, after all; but I do declare war against these polemics of yours – all and several. – I would have you more thoroughly woman-proud: it is by no means inconsistent with the truest humility. I would have you like this portrait; men do not paint in such vigorous colors now. Strength and honor, Marjory; household strength, and loftiness, and purity – better things than any imaginary rights that clamor themselves into mere words.”
Marjory was half angry, half smiling.
“Very gentle, and calm, and proper, for an example to me; and so nobody does us any injustice – nobody oppresses us? Very well: but I did not know it before.”
“Nay,” said Anne, playfully; “that is not what I said. But:
“ ‘The good old rule
Sufficeth me, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.’ ”
“Anne!”
“I am quite serious. There are few amongst us who are ruled more than we need to be, Marjory. The best mind will always assert itself, in whomsoever it may dwell – we are safe in that. – The weak ought to be controlled and guided, and will be, wherever there is a stronger, whether man or woman.”
“Strange doctrines, these!” said Marjory Falconer. “I acknowledge myself outdone. I give up my poor little innovations. Why, Anne Ross, what would the proper people say? What would the Coulters – the Fergusons – the whole parish?”
“Perfectly agree with me,” said Anne, “when it had time to think about it, without being shocked in the least. The proper people. You forget that I am a very proper person myself.”
“So I did,” said Marjory Falconer, shrugging her shoulders, “so I did. Patronised by Mrs. Bairnsfather, highly approved by Mrs. Coulter and Mrs. Ferguson – I almost thought, just now, that you were as improper as myself.”
CHAPTER XXV
THE summer had reached its height – the fervent month of July was waning, and Anne Ross’s cheek growing paler every day. – Very hard to bear this time of waiting was, harder than any toil or labor, more utterly exhausting than any weight of care and sorrow, which had opportunity and means of working! She hardly ventured to speak of returning to Aberford, for Mrs. Ross’s peevishness at the merest hint of such a wish, and the impatience of Lewis, were perfectly natural, she acknowledged. Her former journey, undertaken in opposition to their opinion, had produced nothing; she could not expect that they would readily yield to her again.
In the meantime tidings had come from Archibald Sutherland. He had reached his destination safely, and, under circumstances much more favorable than he could have hoped, had commenced his work. He had been able to render some especial service, the nature of which he did not specify, to his employer’s only son, a very fine lad of fourteen or fifteen, which within a few days of his arrival brought him into Mr. Sinclair’s house on the footing of a friend. Mr. Sinclair himself was, as common report said, a man of great enterprise in business, and notable perseverance, whose fortune was the work of his own hands; and blending with this, Archibald found a singular delicacy of tone and sentiment which pleased him greatly. A man of strong mould, whose “stalk of carle hemp,” was invested with rare intellectual grace and refinement – a household which, under the fervent skies of that strange Western World, remained still a Scottish household, looking back with the utmost love and tenderness to its own country and home – in the atmosphere of these, the broken laird found himself not long a stranger.
Mr. Sinclair had some knowledge of the North country – had heard of Archibald’s family, and on some long past occasion, had seen Mrs. Catherine. This was an additional bond. The family of the merchant lived a very quiet life in a country house in the vicinity of the town, having scarcely any visitors: Archibald Sutherland, with his attainments and abilities, was an acquisition to them.
His prospects were pleasant; they brightened the inner room at the Tower, and shed a ray of light even upon Anne’s reveries. Something more was needed, however, to shake off the lethargic sadness that begun to overpower her. Mrs. Catherine applied the remedy.
Upon a drowsy July afternoon, when one could fancy the earth, with her flushed cheek and loose robes, lying in that languid dreamy state, half way between asleep and awake, which in Scotland we call “dovering,” Mrs. Catherine in her rustling silken garments, went stately down under the shadow of the trees, to Merkland. It was a very unusual honor. Mrs. Catherine was wont to receive visits, not to pay them.
Anne went to the gate to receive her. Lewis who, with characteristic prudence, had already begun to devote himself to the careful managing of his lands, put away the papers that lay before him, and left the library with much wonder, to ascertain Mrs. Catherine’s errand. Mrs. Ross rose very peevishly from the sofa on which she had been for the last hour enjoying her usual sleep. It was enough to make any one ill-humored to be disturbed so unexpectedly.
“Now, Madam,” said Mrs. Catherine, when Mrs. Ross had greeted her with great ceremony and politeness, “you may ken I have come for a special purpose; I am going to Edinburgh.”
“To Edinburgh!” exclaimed Mrs. Ross; “you, Mrs. Catherine. How shall we manage to get on at all without you?”
“You will contrive it in some manner doubtless,” said Mrs. Catherine, drily.
“I may, perhaps, for I am a great house-keeper; but for Anne and Lewis, nothing goes right if a week passes without two or three visits to the Tower.”
“Ay, Lewis, is it so?” said Mrs. Catherine. “I thought not I had kept the power, now that I am past threescore, of drawing to my dwelling gallants of your years.”
“I have not been at the Tower for a month,” said Lewis, bluntly; “I mean I have been very much occupied.”
“As you should be,” said Mrs. Catherine. “I am not seeking excuses, Lewis; I am but blythe that it is not my memory that is failing me – seeing I should like ill to suffer loss in that particular, till this world’s affairs are out of my hands – be careful of your lawful business, Lewis, as becomes your years. If you were a good bairn, I might maybe do my endeavor to bring folk back with me, that your leisure would be better spent upon: in the meantime, I have a suit to your mother.”
Mrs. Ross looked astonished.
“To me?”
“Yes; this bairn Anne, Mrs. Ross, as you see, has been misbehaving herself. My own gray cheek, withered as it is, has stronger health upon it than is on her young one. I have a doctor of physic among my serving woman; I see no reason why I should not undertake to work cures as well as my neighbors – send her with me – I will bring her back free of her trouble.”
“Oh, I beg you will not refer to me,” said Mrs. Ross, angrily. “Anne is quite able to judge for herself.”
“I beg your pardon, Madam. I say this bairn Anne has no call to judge for herself. Is it your pleasure that I should try my skill? I came to make my petition to you, and not to Anne.”
“She is an excessively unreasonable girl,” said Mrs. Ross, tossing her head; “if you know how to manage her, it is more than I do. I assure you, Mrs. Catherine, Anne’s conduct to me is of the most undutiful kind. She is a very foolish, unreasonable girl.”
Poor Anne had been laboring these three or four weeks to please her stepmother, as assiduously as any fagged governess or sempstress in the land. The honorable scars of the needle had furrowed her finger; she had been laboring almost as hardly, and to much better purpose than the greater portion of those “needlewomen, distressed or otherways,” whose miserable work done for miserable wages attracts so much sympathy and benevolent exertion in these days. She was somewhat astonished at the undeserved accusation. If she did wander for long miles along the course of the Oran, it was in the dewy morning, before Mrs. Ross had left her room. If she did brood over her secret hope and sorrow, it was when Mrs. Ross was sullen or asleep. She said nothing in self-defence, but felt the injustice keenly, notwithstanding.
“That is what I am saying,” said Mrs. Catherine. “She has been misbehaving herself, and we have noticed her pining away, in silence. So far as I can see, it is high time to take note of it now; therefore my petition is, that you suffer her to go with me. It is not my wont to pass over ill-doing; let me have the guiding of her for a while.”
“I think you ought to take advantage of Mrs. Catherine’s invitation, Anne,” said Lewis. “You do not look well.”
Mrs. Ross tossed her head in silence.
“Truly, Anne,” said Mrs. Catherine, “I have worn out of the way of asking favors; maybe it is want of use that makes me prosper so ill. Am I to get your daughter, Mrs. Ross for company on my travel, or am I not? I must pray you to let me have your answer.”
“Oh, if you choose to take her, and if Anne chooses to go, my consent is of little consequence,” said Mrs. Ross: then softening her tone a little, she added, “I have no objection, unfortunately Anne is not of sufficient importance in the household, Mrs. Catherine, to make us feel the want of her greatly. Certainly I have no objection – she can go.”
A harsh reply rose to Mrs. Catherine’s lips; but for Anne’s sake, she, suppressed it – the permission, ungracious as it was, was accepted, and Mrs. Catherine made arrangements with Anne for their journey; she had settled that they should leave the Tower that week.
Mrs. Catherine travelled in her own carriage. She had an old house, grand and solitary, in an old quarter of Edinburgh, whose antique furniture and lofty rooms strangers came to see, as one of the lesser wonders of the city, which boasts so many. Mrs. Catherine’s horses were proceeding at a good pace along the southward road, within sight of a dazzling sea, and very near the dark high cliffs, and scattered fisher villages which formed its margin. Johnnie Halflin sat beside the coachman, Jacky Morison and her grandmother were behind. Mrs. Catherine within was explaining her plans to Anne.
“It is my purpose, child, to set you to your labor again; I see there is neither health nor peace for you until you have got some better inkling of this matter. Am I not right?”
“Perfectly,” said Anne. “I cannot rest, indeed. I shall be of little use to any one, until some light is thrown on this.”
“Then, child, it is my meaning to dwell in my own house in Edinburgh, where you can find me, if I am needed. I cannot be in the house of a stranger, or I would have gone with you. I am not ill-pleased that this necessity has come, for there are many in Edinburgh, that it is meet I should say farewell to, before I depart to my rest. Forbye this, child, there is another cloud rising upon the sky of that ill-trysted house of Sutherland.”
Anne started.
“Archibald is well – is there any further intelligence, Mrs. Catherine?”
“Archie’s sister is not well, Gowan. Did I not tell you that her fuil of a man was dead?”
“No, I never heard it before.”
“I meant to tell you – it has passed from my mind, in the thought of the travel. He has been killed – how, or for what reason, I have not asked. I have written to Isabel Sutherland to come home. I cannot trust her without natural guard or helper, her lane in the midst of strangers. She is a light-headed, vain, undutiful girl – I know her of old – and farther shame must not come upon the house, Gowan, if it is in my power to ward it off. If she will not come, I have made up my mind – I will go, and bring her home.”
“Go!” exclaimed Anne. “To England? – you are not able for the journey.”
“Hold your peace, child! I am able for whatever is needful, as every mortal is, that has a right will to try. It’s my hope Archie Sutherland is in a fair way of recovering his good fame and healthful spirit. If Isabel is in peril, it is deadly and beyond remedy – for the sake of the fuil herself (she bears Isabel Balfour’s name and outward resemblance,) and for the sake of Archie, I am bound to do my endeavor, if it should be by the strong hand. Child, you may think me distrustful beyond what is needed. Maybe I am. She left her mother’s sick-bed for the sake of a strange man. And when he was sent to a solitary place, she left him, also, for the sake of vanities. If you had done the like, I would have distrusted you.”
Anne could not realize the cause of distrust. She deprecated, and thought Mrs. Catherine’s fears uncalled for – shrinking from the idea of danger to Isabel, almost as she would have done from any suspicion of herself.
When she had seen Mrs. Catherine settled comfortably in her spacious and grand Edinburgh lodging, and the bustle of arrival fairly over, Anne, with her attendant Jacky, proceeded to Aberford.
Miss Crankie and Mrs. Yammer were at tea. Their energetic little servant ushered Anne into the small parlor, looking out upon the green, in which they usually sat. They had blue cups and saucers of the venerable willow pattern, arranged above the red and yellow lady on the tray – a teapot, belonging to the same set, with a lid, the sole relic of a broken black one – a comfortable plate of tolerably thick bread-and-butter, and two or three saucers, containing various specimens of jellies. Mrs. Yammer sat languidly in a great, old elbow-chair. Miss Crankie was perched upon a low seat before the tray, making tea.
Anne’s entrance caused a commotion. There were a great many apologies, and expressions of wonder and pleasure at seeing her again; and then she was begged to take a seat, and a cup of tea. Anne sat down, and kindly looked out at the window, while Miss Crankie abstracted the lid from the teapot, and, from the depths of an adjoining cupboard, produced another one more resembling it in color.
“Ye see,” said Miss Crankie, nodding her wiry little curls at the ruddy-colored compounds in the saucers, “we’ve been making our jelly, and were just trying it. I can recommend the rasps, Miss Ross – the red currants would take a thought mair boiling, and the gooseberries are drumlie – but I can recommend the rasps.”
“If Miss Ross is no feared for her teeth,” sighed Mrs. Yammer. “I got cauld mysel on Sabbath at the Kirk, and was trying the jam for my throat. I’m a puir weak creature, Miss Ross: the wind gangs through me like a knife.”
“I have returned to you for accommodation, Miss Crankie,” said Anne. “Are the rooms unoccupied now?”
“Eh, bless me! isna that an uncommon providence,” exclaimed Miss Crankie. “Mrs. Mavis is gaun away the morn!”
“But what can you do with me to-night?” said Anne.
“Oh, nae fear o’ us – we’ll do grand,” said Miss Crankie. “I’m blyth ye’re come back Miss Ross, and yet I’m sorry to see you so shilpit. Ye’ll find the sea-air do ye mair guid noo. Ye’re no looking half sae well as ye did when ye gaed away.”
“Ah! Miss Ross,” said Mrs. Yammer, dolorously, “I hope ye’ll use the means and get right advice in time. Ye’ll be fashed wi’ a pain in your side? For mysel, it’s little use saying what I have to thole – there’s scarce an hour in the day, that I havna stitches through and through me.”
“Hout, Tammie, ye’re aye meat-hale,” responded her brisker sister. “Ye’ve come at a better season now, Miss Ross, the haill town is full of sea-bathers. I was saying to auld Marget, that she might win a pound or twa for her ain hand, with letting some o’ thae muckle rooms, in Schole, and naebody, be the waur – it’s sae handy for the sea – if Kirstin Lillie and her brother, hadna come hame sae suddenly.”
“They are at home, then?” said Anne.
“Oh, ay! they came hame about a month ago, in as great a hurry as they gaed away; ane scarce ever sees them noo, even on the sands – they’re strange folk.”
The next day, young Mrs. Mavis and her two blooming children left their sea-side lodgings, and Anne took peaceful possession of her former rooms. The tall gaunt outline of Schole, as it stood out against the deep blue of the evening sky, dismal and forlorn as it was, looked like a friend; but though she lingered about its vicinity all the night, and watched eagerly within sight of its little gate, no one ventured forth. The low projecting window had light within it, but it was curtained carefully. She could see no trace of Christian. Why did they avoid her? why was there so much additional secrecy and seclusion?
The second day after their arrival in Aberford, Jacky had a visitor. It was little Bessie, Alice Aytoun’s maid. Bessie was living with an aunt, the wife of a forester, whose house was within three or four miles of Aberford. Jacky, by Anne’s permission, returned with her to spend the afternoon in the aunt’s house.
The two girls set out very jubilant and in high spirits, with much laughing mention of Johnnie Halflin, whom Bessie had already seen in Edinburgh, and from whom she had received a very grandiloquent account of the chastisement of Mr. Fitzherbert, and of the mighty things which the said Johnnie would have done, had not Miss Falconer put her veto on his valor.
The forester’s house was in the bosom of the wood under his charge. A narrow foot-road, winding through the trees, ran close to the bounding hedge of its well-stocked garden, and nestling warmly below the thick foliage, the house stood snug in the corner of its luxuriant enclosure, presiding in modest pride, like some sober cottage matron, conscious of decent comfort and independence, over its flourishing cabbages, and stately bushes of southern-wood, ripe gooseberries, and abounding roses. Within, it was as clean and bright as forest cottage could be, and with its long vistas of noble trees everywhere, and the one thread of communication with the outer world that ran close to its door, was a pleasant habitation – homelike and cheerful. Bessie’s aunt was, like her cottage, soberly light-hearted, kind and motherly. Upon her well scoured white deal table, she had set out a row of glancing cups and saucers, flanked with delicate bannocks of various kinds, and jelly more plentiful than Miss Crankie’s. It was early in the afternoon. Mrs. Young, honest woman, hospitably purposed entertaining her guests with a magnificent tea before her husband and stalwart sons came in to their ruder and more substantial meal. She gave her niece’s friend a hearty welcome; the two girls, after their dusty walk of four miles, by no means thought the kindly auntie’s preparations unseasonable; but after Mrs. Young had turned a deaf ear to two or three hints from Bessie, she explained her delay at last.
“Ye see, lassies, there’s an auld neighbor coming this gate this afternoon. Her and me served in one place before I was married, and she’s been lang in a gentleman’s house, south – near Berwick. She’s an auld lass; a thrifty weel-doing carefu’ woman, wi’ a guid wage, and siller to the fore; but she’s come to years when folk are lone, if they have nae near friends, and Rob Miller, her brither, has a housefu’ o’ weans; and I’m no sure that his wife can be fashed fyking about a pernickity single woman. So ye maun see and be ceevil, and take note o’ Jean – how weel put on and wise-like she is – and tak a pattern by her; it’s a’ her ain doing; she’s been working for hersel’ a’ her days.”
Bessie drummed upon the table – looked at the tea “masking” before the fire, the smooth, well-baked bannocks, and beautiful red currant jelly upon the table – and became impatient.
“I wish she would come then, auntie. It’s awfu’ stourie on the road.”
“Yonder’s somebody in among the trees,” said Jacky, glancing out.
It was Mrs. Young’s friend at last, and the good woman bestirred herself to complete her table arrangements, while Bessie conveyed the mighty Leghorn bonnet and wonderful Paisley shawl, which Rob Miller’s eldest daughter already looked forward to as a great inheritance, into the inner room. Mrs. Young’s friend was a tall, bony, erect woman, with a thin brown face, and projecting teeth, and sandy hair carefully smoothed beneath a muslin cap, modestly, tied with a scrap of blue ribbon. She was a very homely, unhandsome-looking person, yet had an unassuming simplicity about her, not common in the upper servant class. Jean Miller had known evil in her day. The long upper lip pressing above these irregular ill-shaped teeth of her’s had quivered with deep griefs many times in the painful and weary past years, which had left no record of themselves or of her course in them, save that most deeply pathetic one engraven in her own solitary high heart – a high heart it was, humble and of slight regard as was the frame it dwelt in – much stricken, sorely tried, and with an arrow quivering in it still.
Jean’s hands were rigidly crossed in her lap; she was never quite at ease in idleness. Mrs. Young good-humoredly drew her chair to the table, called Bessie, placed the teapot on the tray, and began her duties. There was a simple blessing asked upon the “offered mercies,” according to the reverent usage of peasant families in Scotland, and then the dainties were discussed.
