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.