“YE saw the young gentleman safe to the pier? He’s a bonnie lad, though maybe no as weel-mannered as ane would like to see,” said Mrs. Campbell. “Keep me! such a way to name his father—Bairns maun be awfu’ neglected in such a grand house—aye left wi’ servants, and never trained to trust their bits of secrets to father or mother. Laddies,” said the farmer’s wife, with a little solemnity, looking across the sleeping baby upon the four heads of different sizes which bent over their supper at the table before her, “mind you aye, that, right or wrong, them that’s maist interested in whatever befalls you is them that belongs to you—maist ready to praise if ye’ve done weel, and excuse you if ye’ve done wrang. I hope you were civil to the strange callant, Colin, my man?”
“Oh, ay,” said young Colin, not without a movement of conscience; but he did not think it necessary to enter into details.
“When a callant like that is pridefu’, and looks as if he thought himself better than other folk, I hope my laddies are no the ones to mind,” said the mistress of Ramore. “It shows he hasna had the advantages that might have been expected. It’s nae harm to you, but a great deal o’ harm to him. Ye dinna ken how weel off you are, you boys,” said the mother, making a little address to them as they sat over their supper; Little Johnnie, whose porridge was too hot for him, turned towards her the round, wondering black eyes, which beamed out like a pair of stray stars from his little freckled face, and through his wisps of flaxen hair, bleached white by rain and sun; but the three others went on very steadily with their supper, and did not disturb themselves; “there’s aye your father at hand ready to tell ye whatever you want to ken—no like yon poor callant, that would have to gang to a tutor, or a servant, or something worse; no that he’s an ill laddie; but I’m aye keen to see ye behave yoursels like gentlemen, and yon wasna ony great specimen, as it was very easy to see.”
After this there was a pause, for none of the boys were disposed to enter into that topic of conversation. After a little period of silence, during which the spoons made a diversion and filled up the vacancy, they began to find their tongues again.
“It’s awfu’ wet up on the hill,” said Archie, the second boy, “and they say the glass is aye falling, and the corn on the Barnton fields has been out this three weeks, and Dugald Macfarlane, he says it’s sprouting—and oh, mother!”
“What is it, Archie?”
“The new minister came by when I was down at the smiddy with the brown mare. You never saw such a red head. It is red enough to set the kirk on fire. They were saying at the smiddy that naebody would stand such a colour of hair—it’s waur than no preaching weel—and I said I thought that too,” said the enterprising Archie; “for I’m sure I never mind ony o’ the sermon, but I couldna forget such red hair.”
“And I saw him too,” said little Johnnie; “he clapped me on the head, and said how was my mammaw; and I said we never ca’ed onybody mammaw, but just mother; and then he clapped me again, and said I was a good boy. What for was I a good boy?” said Johnnie, who was of an inquiring and philosophical frame of mind, “because I said we didna say mammaw? or just because it was me?”
“Because he’s a kind man, and has a kind thought for even the little bairns,” said Mrs. Campbell, “and it wasna’ like a boy o’ mine to say an idle word against him. Do you think they know better at the smiddy, Archie, than here? Poor gentleman,” said the good woman, “to be a’ this time wearyin’ and waitin’, and his heart yearnin’ within him to get a kirk, and do his Master’s work; and then to ha’e a parcel of haverels set up and make a faction against him because he has a red head. It makes ane think shame o’ human nature and Scotch folk baith.”
“But he canna preach, mother,” said Colin, breaking silence almost for the first time; “the red head is only an excuse.”
“I dinna like excuses,” said his mother, “and I never kent before that you were a judge o’ preaching. You may come to ken better about it yoursel before a’ ’s done. I canna but think there’s something wrang when the like o’ that can be,” said Mrs. Campbell; “he’s studied, and he’s learned Latin and Greek, and found out a’ the ill that can be said about Scripture, and a’ the lies that ever have been invented against the truth; and he’s been brought up to be a minister a’ his days, and knows what’s expected. But as soon as word gangs about that the Earl has promised him our kirk, there’s opposition raised. No’ that onybody kens ony ill of him; but there’s the smith, and the wright, and Thomas Scott o’ Lintwearie, maun lay their heads thegether—and first they say he canna preach, and then that he’ll no’ visit, and at least, if a’thing else fails, that he has a red head. If it was a new doctor that was coming, wha would be heeding about the colour o’ his hair? but it’s the minister that’s to stand by our deathbeds, and baptize our bairns, and guide us in the right way: and we’re no to let him come in peace, or sit down in comfort. If we canna keep him from getting the kirk, we can make him miserable when he does get it. Eh, bairns; I think shame! and I’m no’ so sure as I am in maist things,” said the farmer’s wife, looking up with a consciousness of her husband’s presence, “that the maister himsel—”
“Weel, I’m aye for popular rights,” said Colin of Ramore. He had just come in, and had been standing behind taking off his big coat, on which the rain glistened, and listening to all that his wife said. “But if Colin was a man and a minister,” said the farmer with a gleam of humour, as he drew his chair towards the fire, “and had to fight his way to a kirk like a’ the young men now-a-days, I wouldna say I would like it. They might object to his big mouth; and you’ve ower muckle a mouth yoursel’, Jeanie,” continued big Colin, looking admiringly at the comely mother of his boys. “I might tell them wha he took it from, and that if he had as grand a flow of language as his mother, there would be nae fear o’ him. As for the red head, the Earl himsel’s a grand example, and if red hair’s right in an earl it canna be immoral in a minister; but Jeanie, though you’re an awfu’ revolutionary, ye maunna meddle with the kirk, nor take away popular rights.”
“I’m no gaun to be led into an argument,” said the mistress, with a slightly vexed expression; “but I’m far from sure about the kirk. After you’ve opposed the minister’s coming in, and held committees upon him, and offered objections, and done your best to worry the life out o’ him, and make him disgusted baith at himsel’ and you, do you think after that ye can attend to him when you’re weel, and send for him when you’re sick, wi’ the right feelings? But I’m no gaun to speak ony mair about the minister. Is the corn in yet, Colin, from the East Park? Eh, bless me! and it was cut before this wean was born?”
“We’ll have but a poor harvest after a’,” said the farmer; “it’s a disappointment, but it canna be helpit. It’s strange how something aye comes in, to keep a man down when he thinks he’s to have a bit margin; but we must jog on, Jeanie, my woman. As long as we have bread to eat, let us be thankful. And as for Colin, it needna make ony difference. Glasgow’s no so far off, but he can still get his parritch out of the family meal; and as long as he’s careful and diligent we’ll try and fend for him. It’s hard work getting bread out of our hillside,” said big Colin; “but ye may have a different life from your father’s, lad, if you take heed to the opportunities in your hands.”
“A’ the opportunities in the world,” said Colin the younger, in a burst, “wouldna give me a chance like yon English fellow. Everything comes ready to him. It’s no fair. I’ll have to make up wi’ him first, and then beat him—and so I would,” said the boy, with a glow on his face, and a happy unconsciousness of contradicting himself, “if I had the chance.”
“Well,” said big Colin, “that’s just ane o’ the things we have to count upon in our way of living. It’s little credit to a man to be strong,” said the farmer, stretching his great arms with a natural consciousness of power, “unless he has that to do that tries it. It’s harder work to me, you may be sure, to get a pickle corn off the hillside, than for the English farmers down in yon callant’s country to draw wheat and fatness out o’ their furrows. But I think mysel’ nane the worse a man,” continued Colin of Ramore, with a smile; “Sir Thomas, as the laddie ca’s him, gangs wading over the heather a’ day after the grouse and the paitricks; he thinks he’s playing, himsel’, but he’s as hard at work as I am. We’re a’ bluid relations, though the family likeness whiles lies deep and is hard to find. A man maun be fighting wi’ something. If it’s no the dour earth that refuses him bread, it’s the wet bog and the heather that comes atween him and his sport, as he ca’s it. Never you mind wha’s before you on the road. Make up to him, Colin. Many a day he’ll stray out o’ the path gathering straws to divert himsel’, when you’ve naething to do but to push on.”
“Eh, but I wouldna like a laddie o’ mine to think,” interrupted his mother, eagerly, “that there’s nae guid but getting on in the world. I’ll not have my bairns learn ony such lesson; laddies,” said the farmer’s wife, in all the solemnity of her innocence, “mind you this aboon a’. You might be princes the morn, and no as good men as your father. There’s nae Sir Thomases, nor Earls, nor Lord Chancellors I ever heard tell o’, that was mair thought upon nor wi’ better reason——”
At this moment Jess entered from the kitchen, to suggest that it was bedtime.
“And lang enough for the mistress to be sitting up, and she so delicate,” said the sole servant of the house. “If ye had been in your ain room wi’ a fire and a book to read, it would have been wiser-like, than among a’ thae noisy laddies, wi’ the wean and a seam as if ye were as strong as me. Maister, I wish you would speak to Colin; he’s awfu’ masterfu’; instead of gaun to his bed, like a civilized lad, yonder he is awa’ ben to the kitchen and down by the fire to read his book, till his hair’s like a singed sheep’s-head, and his cheeks like burning peats. Ane canna do a hand’s-turn wi’ a parcel o’ callants about the place day and nicht,” said Jess, in an aggrieved tone.
“And just when Archie Candlish has suppered his horses and come in for half an hour’s crack,” said the master. “I’ll send Colin to his bed; but dinna have ower muckle to say to Archie, he’s a rover,” continued the good-tempered farmer, who “made allowances” for a little love-making. He raised himself out of his arm-chair with a little hesitation, like a great mastiff uncoiling itself out of a position of comfort, and went slowly away as he spoke, moving off through the dimly-lighted room like an amiable giant as he was.
“Eh, keep me!—and Archie Candlish had just that very minute lookit in at the door,” said Jess, lifting her apron to her cheeks, which were glowing with blushes and laughter. “No that I wanted him; but he came in wi’ the news aboot the new minister, and noo I’ll never hear an end o’t, and the maister will think he’s aye there.”
“If he’s a decent lad and means weel, its nae great matter,” said the mistress; “but I dinna approve of ower mony lads. Ye may gang through the wood and through the wood and take but a crooked stick at the end.”
“There’s naebody I ken o’ that the mistress can mean, but Bowed Jacob,” said Jess reflectively, “and are might do waur than take him though he’s nae great figure of a man. The siller that body makes is a miracle, and it would be grand to live in a twa-storied house, and keep a lass; but he’s an awfu’ Establishment man, and he micht interfere wi’ my convictions,” said the young woman with a glimmer of humour which found no response in the mistress’s serious eyes; for Mrs. Campbell, being of a poetical and imaginative temperament, took most things much in earnest, and was slow to perceive a joke.
“You shouldna speak about convictions in that light way, Jess,” said the farmer’s wife. “I wouldna meddle wi’ them mysel’, no for a’ the wealth o’ the parish; but though the maister and me are strong Kirk folk, ye ken ye never were molested here.”
“To hear Archie Candlish about the new minister!” cried Jess, whose quick ear had already ascertained that her master had paused in the kitchen to speak to her visitor, “ye would laugh; but though it’s grand fun for the folk, maybe it’s no so pleasant for the poor man. We put down our names for the man we like best, us Free Kirk folk, but it’s different in the parish. There’s Tammas Scott, he vows he’ll object to every presentee the Earl puts in. I’m no heeding for the Earl,” said Jesse; “he’s a dour tory and can fecht for himsel’; but eh I wouldna be that poor minister set up there for a’ the parish to object to. I’d rather work at a weaver’s loom or sell herrings about the country-side, if it was me!”
“Weel, weel, things that are hard for the flesh are guid for the spirit—or at least folk say so,” cried the mistress of Ramore.
“I dinna believe in that for my part,” said the energetic Jess, as she lifted the wooden cradle in her strong arms. “Leave the wean still, mistress, and draw your shawl about ye. I could carry you too, for that matter. Eh me, I’m no o’ that way o’ thinking; when ye’re happy and weel likit, ye’re aye good in proportion. No to gang against the words o’ Scripture,” said Jess, setting down the big cradle with a bump in her mistress’s bedroom, and looking anxiously at the sleeping baby, which with a little start and gape, resisted this attempt to break its slumbers; “but eh, mistress, it’s aye my opinion that the happier folk are the better they are. I never was as happy as in this house,” continued the grateful handmaiden, furtively pursuing a tear into the corner of her eye, with a large forefinger, “no that I’m meaning to say I’m guid; but yet—”
“You might be waur,” said the mistress, with a smile. “You’ve aye a kind heart and a blythe look, and that gangs a far way wi’ the maister and me. But it’s time Archie Candlish was hame to his mother. When there’s nae moon and such heavy roads, you shouldna bring a decent man three mile out of his way at this hour o’ the nicht to see you.”
“Me? as if I was wanting him,” said Jess, “and him no a word to say to me or ony lass, but about the beasts and the new minister. I’ll be back in half a minute; I wouldna waste my time upon a gomeril like you.”
While Jess sallied forth through the chilly passages to which the weeping atmosphere had communicated a sensation of universal damp, the mistress knelt down to arrange her infant more commodiously in its homely nest. The red firelight made harmless glimmers all over her figure, catching now and then a sidelong glance out of her eyes as she smoothed the little pillow, and laid the tiny coverlet over the small unconscious creature wrapt closely in webs and bands of sleep. When she had done, she still knelt watching it as mothers will, with a smile upon her face. After a while the beaming soft dark eyes turned to the light with a natural attraction, to the glimmers of the fire shooting accidental rays into all the corners, and to the steady little candle on the mantel-shelf. The mistress looked round on all the familiar objects of the homely low-roofed chamber. Outside, the rain fell heavily still upon the damp and sodden country, soaking silently in the dark into the forlorn wheat-sheaves, which had been standing in the fields to dry in ineffectual hopefulness for past weeks. Matters did not look promising on the farm of Ramore, and nothing had occurred to add any particular happiness to its mistress’s lot. But happiness is perverse and follows no rule, and Jess’s sentiment found an echo in Mrs. Campbell’s mind. As she knelt by the cradle, her heart suddenly swelled with a consciousness of the perfection of life and joy in her and around her. It was in homely words enough that she gave it expression—“A’ weel, and under ae roof,” she said to herself with exquisite dews of thankfulness in her eyes. “And the Lord have pity on lone folk and sorrowful,” added the tender woman, with a compassion beyond words, a yearning that all might be glad like herself; the pity of happiness, which is of all pity, the most divine. Her boys were saying abrupt prayers, one by one, as they sank in succession into dreamless slumber. The master had gone out in the rain to take one last look over his kyne and his farmyard, and see that all was safe for the night, and Archie Candlish had just been dismissed with a stinging jest from the kitchen door, which Jess bolted and barred with cheerful din, singing softly to herself as she went about the house putting up the innocent shutters, which could not have resisted the first touch of a skilful hand. The rain was falling all over the wet silent country; the Holy Loch gleamed like a kind of twilight spot in the darkness, and the house of Ramore stood shut up and hushed, no light at all to be seen but that from the open door, which the farmer suddenly extinguished as he came in. But when that solitary light died out from the invisible hillside, and the darkness and the rain and the whispering night took undisturbed possession, was just the moment when the mother within, kneeling over her cradle in the firelight, was surprised by that sudden conscious touch of happiness.—“Happiness? oh, ay, weel enough; we’ve a great deal to be thankfu’ for,” said big Colin, with a little sleepy surprise; “if it werna for the sprouting corn and the broken weather; but I dinna see onything particular to be happy about at this minute, and I’m gaun to my bed.”
For the prose and the poetry did not exactly understand each other at all times, even in the primitive farm-house of Ramore.