I.—HOW SHE WENT OUT
Mary Robertson's brave fight to bring up her orphaned grandchildren had won her the silent respect of the Glen, and when it was reported that Lily had obtained a place in London, and would leave in three weeks, the fathers gave themselves to the incident on all its sides.
“Nae wumman in the pairish hes dune her duty better than Mary,” said Drumsheugh, with authority. “She's been an example tae every man o's. It's auchteen year laist Martinmas sin' her dochter's man ran aff and his puir wife came hame tae dee, leavin' her mother wi' the chairge o' sax young bairns. Ye canna dae't withoot help, Mary,' says I tae her: 'ye 'ill need a bit allooance frae the pairish, an' a 'll get it for ye next Boord. A shilling a week ilka bairn 'ill gang a lang wy in yir hands.'
“'Thank ye, Drumsheugh.' She wes standing at her gate, and drew herself up straicht. 'An' a' the neeburs hev been freendly; but? there's never been ane o' ma bluid on the pairish, an' there never wull be sae lang as the Almichty leaves me ma reason and twa airms.
“'Mary had a puir life o't, an' she deed o' the disgrace her man pit on her. “A'm gaein' awa,” she said tae me, “an' a've juist ae thing tae ask, mither; dinna lat the bairns gae on the pairish; bring them up tae wark and tae respeck themsels.” A' gied her ma word, an' a 'll keep it.' She lookit graund, fouks,” wound up Drumsheugh.
“She's rael Drumtochty, is Mary,” remarked Jamie Soutar; “for doonricht pride an' thraun-ness ye 'ill no get their marra in Scotland. What for did she no tak the allooance? She wud hae been a gude few notes the better a' thae years: mony an 'oor's wark she micht hae spared hersel'.
“Noo gin Mary hed been a wumman wi' a proper speerit o' humility and kent her place, she wud hae gruppit a' she cud get, and beggit frae the neeburs, an' gotten on better than ever. But if she didna sit up at nicht makin' the bairns' claithes, and wark in the fields a' day tae earn their schuling, an' a' tae keep her independence, as they ca't. A 've seen Mary come intae kirk wi' the sax bairns afore her, an' she cudna hae cairried her head higher hed she been the Coontess o' Kilspindie.
“A'm judgin' this kind o' speerit's in the verra air o' the Glen, for there's juist twa auld weemen on the pairish; ane o' them's blind, the ither's had a stroke; naither o' them hes a freend, an' baith o' them murn every day they canna wark.”
“Mary's an able wumman,” broke in Hillocks, who was much given to practical detail; “a've seen her hens layin' in the dead o' winter, and she hed a coo, a' mind, 'at gied half as muckle milk again as ony coo in oor toon. As for plannin' she got ma Sunday blacks when they were gey far through wi't, an' gin she didna juist mak a jacket for Chairlie 'at did him for ten year; a'm dootin' she hes tae pay for him yet: he's no the help he micht hae been as far as a' can mak oot; eh, Drumsheugh?”
“Gin it wesna for him daein' naethin' and livin' on his faimily, Hillocks, Lily micht stay wi' her grannie, an' keep Mary comfortable in her auld age. But they aye cover him, baith his grannie and his sister, till ye wud think there wes never a better-daein' lad gied oot o' the Glen. Whatever they say among themsels, they 'ill no say a word ootside.”
What they did say in Mary Robertson's cottage that evening was sad enough.
“Weel, weel, lassie, there wes sax tae begin wi', an' twa died o' the dipthery—eh, but Doctor Maclure wes kind that time—and twa mairried and gied awa, an' Chairlie... in Ameriky, an' there's juist yersel left, and I wes trustin' ye wud stay wi' yir auld grannie an' close her een.”
“Dinna speak that foolish wy, grannie,” but Lily's voice had a break in it. “Ye 're lookin' fresher than mony a young wumman, an' ye ken a'm tae get hame at a time, maybe ilka three year.”
“It's a lang road, Lily, tae Lunnon, an' ill tae traivel; a' may be dead and buried afore ye come back, an' a 'll be terrible lonely, juist like a bird when the young anes are ta'en awa.”
“Gin ye say anither word a 'll fling up ma place, an' never gang in tae service ava; it's no ma wush tae leave the Glen an' gang sae far frae hame. But we maun py the man in Muirtown what Chairlie borrowed, else oor name 'ill be disgraced.”
“It's disgraced eneuch already with sic a useless fellow; he's his faither ower again—a fair face, a weel-dressed back, a cunning tongue, an' a fause heart. There's no a drop o' Robertson bluid in him, lassie; there's times a' wish he was dead,” and Mary's voice trembled with passion.
“Wisht, wisht, grannie; he's mither's only son, an' she wes prood o' him, a've heard ye say, an' he 'ill maybe mend; div ye ken a' wes juist imaginin' that he set tae work and githered a lot o' siller, an' paid back a' ye hae dune for him.
“Ye 'ill no be angry, but a' telt Marget Hoo ae day aboot oor tribble an' ma houp o' Chairlie—for ye canna look at Marget an' no want tae unburden yersel—an' she said, 'Dinna be ashamed o' yir dreams, Lily; they 'ill a' come true some day, for we canna think better than God wull dae.'”
“Marget Hoo is nearer the heart o' things than onybody in the Glen, an' a'm prayin' she may be richt. Get the bukes; it's time for oor readin'.” And Mary asked that “the heart o' him that wes far awa micht be turned tae gudeness, an' that he micht be a kind brother to his sister.”
No girl had gone to service in London before, and the Glen took a general interest in Lily's outfit. The wricht made her kist of sound, well-seasoned wood, and the Glen, looking in from time to time, highly approved of its strength and security. Sandie was particularly proud of an inner compartment which he had contrived with much ingenuity, and which was secured by a padlock whose key defied imitation.
“Noo, you see, if ony ill-conditioned wratch got intae the kist, he micht get a goon or a jaicket, but he wudna be able tae titch her siller. Na, na, what she wins she keeps; ma certes, that boxie 'ill beat them.”
“Ye ken what ye're aboot, wricht,” said Hillocks, who felt that one going to distant parts could hardly take too many precautions, “an' ye've turned oot a wise-like kist; sall, Lily, 'ill dae weel gin she fill it.”
Concerning the filling long and anxious consultations were held in Mary's kitchen, and Elspeth Macfadyen was called in as a specialist, because she had been once in service herself, and because her sister was cook in the house of the Provost of Muirtown.
“We maunna gang a saxpence intae debt,” and Mary laid down preliminary conditions, “an' a'thing sud be genuine, in an' oot—nae show on the back and poverty ablow; that's puir cleidin' (clothing) for Christian fouk.”
“Lily 's savit aucht pund at the Lodge, an' a' can spare twa or three. How mony dresses an' sic-like 'ill she need tae begin respectable, for the hoose an' the kirk?”
“Lily 'ill need twa prints for certain, an' ae black dress for the house, an' anither dress for gaein' oot tae kirk or tae see her freends. She wud be better o' a third print an' a second oot-side goon—for a bit change, ye ken. Then she maun hae a bonnet for Sabbath an' a hat tae gae oot a message in forby. The ither things she 'ill hae already,” for Elspeth had been going over the matter carefully for weeks; “ye 'ill be getting her things at Muirtown, an' a 'll be gied to gie ye ony help in ma poor.”
Three hours did they spend next Friday in the Muirtown shop, examining, selecting, calculating, till Lily's humble outfit was complete and Elspeth's full list overtaken, save the third print and a merino gown on which Mary had set her heart.
“We haena the means,” and Mary went over the figures again on her fingers, “an' sae ye maun juist wait. Gin the price o' butter keeps up, ye 'ill hae them afore the New Year, an' a 'll send them up in a bit parcel.... Havers, what sud a' stairve masel for? nae fear o' that; but keep's a' what's Drumsheugh aifter here?”
“Hoo are ye a' the day?” said the great man, fresh from a victory over a horse-dealer, in which he had wrested a price beyond the highest expectation of Drumtochty; “can ye gie me a hand wi' twa or three bit trokes, Elspeth?” and the two disappeared into the recesses of the shop.
“A' heard ye were here, an' a' wes wonderin' hoo the siller wes haudin' oot; naebody daur offer half-a-croon tae Mary; but she michtna mind Lily gettin' a bit present frae a neebur, juist tae hansel her new kist, ye ken,” and Drumsheugh pressed two notes into Elspeth's hands, and escaped from the strange place by a side door. When the parcel was opened that evening, for the joy of going over its contents, Mary turned on Elspeth in fierce wrath.
“What did ye dae this for, Elspeth Macfadyen? an' behind ma back. Ye ken a' didna pay for thae twa, and that a 'll no tak an ounce o' tea let alane twa goons withoot payment. Pit the goons up, Lily, an' a 'll gie them back the mornin', though a' hae tae walk the hale twal mile tae Muirtown.”
“Dinna be sae hysty, Mary.” Elspeth was provokingly calm. “Ye needna be feared that Drumsheugh didna pay for his order, and if he wanted tae gie the lassie a fairin', a' see nae use in flinging it back in his face; but ye maunna lat on tae himsel for the warld, or tell a livin' soul.”
When Lily's box was packed on Thursday evening, her grandmother would have slipped in all the household treasures that could be introduced between layers of soft goods, and sent the eight-day clock had it been a suitable equipment for a young woman entering service in London. The box was taken down to Kildrummie station in one of Drumsheugh's carts, padded round with straw lest the paint be scratched, but Hillocks came with his dog-cart and drove Lily down in state, carrying in her right hand a bunch of flowers from Jamie Sou-tar's garden, and in the other a basket containing a comb of honey left by Posty, without remark, a dozen eggs from Burnbrae, and two pounds of perfect butter from Mary's hand. These were intended as a friendly offering from the Glen to Lily's new household that she might not appear empty-handed, but the peppermints that filled her pocket were for herself, and the white milk scones on the top of the bag, with a bottle of milk, were to sustain Lily on the long journey. Mary shook hands with Lily twice, once at the cottage door and again after she had taken her place beside Hillocks, but Mary did not kiss Lily, for whom she would have died, and whom she did not expect to see again in this life; nor were their farewell words affecting.
“See that ye hae yir box richt libelled, Lily, an' ye 'ill need tae watch it at the junctions; keep the basket wi' the eggs in yir hands, for fear somebody sits on't; an', Lily, wumman, for ony sake haud yir goon aff the wheel when ye 're gettin' doon at Kildrummie. Is't comin' tae a shoor, Hillocks?”
“A' wudna say but there micht be a scowie afore nicht; it 'ill freshen the neeps fine.” And so Lily departed.
“But Mary went to a knowe that commanded the road, and watched Hillocks's dogcart cross Tochty bridge and go up the other side till it disappeared into the dark fir woods on the ridge. Then she went back to the kitchen, where everything spoke of her girl, and sat down by the lonely fireside and wept.
“It was a curious coincidence that Jamie Soutar had some “troke” in Muirtown that day, and travelled in the same carriage with Lily, beguiling her from sorrow with quaint stories and indirect shrewd advice. As he was rather early for his business, he had nothing better to do than see Lily off by the London express, adding to her commissariat a package of sweets from the refreshment room, and an illustrated paper from the bookstall. He shambled along beside her carriage to the extreme edge of the platform, and the last thing Lily Grant saw as she went forth into a strange land was Jamie waving his hand. It showed that the old man's memory was beginning to fail that, instead of going down to the town, he went back by the midday train to Kildrummie, giving Mary a cry in the evening, and assuring her that Lily was so far on her journey in “graund heart.”
It was covenanted between them that Lily should send Mary a “scrape o' the pen” on arrival—as an assurance that she was safe, and the eggs—and should write in a while at full length, when she had settled down to her work and found a kirk. The Glen waited for this letter with expectation, and regarded it as common property, so that when Posty delivered it to Mary he sat down without invitation, and indicated that he was ready to receive any titbits she might offer for his use.
“Lily's keepin' her health, but she's no awfu' ta'en up wi' the climate o' London; wud ye believe it, they hae the gas lichtit by two o'clock in the aifternoon, an' the fog's eneuch tae smoor ye; it's no veecious cauld though.”
“There's waur things than cauld,” said Posty, who had started that morning in twenty degrees of frost; “is she wearyin'?”
“Whiles a'm dootin', puir lassie; when she hes half an 'oor tae hersel, she gaes up tae her room and taks oot a pokie (bag) o' rose leaves we dried in the simmer. The smell o' them brings up oor bit gairden and me stannin', as plain as day, at the door. Fouk tak notions, a 've heard, when they 're far frae hame,” added Mary, by way of apology.
“Ay, ay,” and Posty looked steadily from him.
“It's eatin' an' drinkin' frae mornin' till nicht, Lily says; an' the verra servants hae meat three times a day, wi' beer tae their dinner. An' the wyste cowes a'; she says Elspeth Macfadyen wud get her livin' frae amang their feet.”
“A' dinna think muckle o' beer,” observed Posty; “there 's nae fusion in't; naither heat for the stamach nor shairpness for the intel-leck.”
“A set o' extravagant hizzies,” continued Mary; “fur on their jaickets, like leddies, an' no a penny in the bank. The meenut they get their wages, aff tae spend them on finery. Ane o' them borrowed five shillings frae Lily tae get her boots soled.”
“Lord's sake, that's no cannie,” and Posty awoke to the dangers that beset a young girl's path in the great Babylon; “tell Lily, whatever she dis, tae keep her haud o' her siller.”
“Ye 're richt there, Posty. Lily's juist ower saft-hearted, and she hes a gey lot o' trimmies tae deal wi'. Wud ye credit it, ilka ane o' them hes 'Miss' on her letters, an' gin freends come tae see them they maun ask for Miss this an' that; a' pit 'Lily Grant, Hoosemaid,' on ma letters.”
“Ye're wrang there, Mary,” interrupted Posty; “what for sud ye ca' doon yir ain, an' her sic a fine lassie? Ma opeenion is that a Drumtochty wumman hes as gude a richt tae Miss as her neeburs. Sall, gin a' catch ye sendin' aff anither 'Lily,' a'll whup in the Miss masel; but is there nae word aboot the kirks?” for Posty felt that these trifling details were keeping them from the heart of the matter.
“A'm comin' tae that, an' it's worth hear-in', for the ignorance o' thae London fouk is by ordinar. When she askit the near road tae the kirk, naebody in the hoose cud tell her whether it wes east or wast.”
Posty wagged his head in pity.
“So she gied oot and fell in wi' a polisman, an' as luck wud hae it, he wes a Scotchman. 'Come awa, lassie,' he said; 'a' see whar ye 've frae; it 's a mercy ye didna fa' intae the hands o' some of ma neeburs; they micht hae sent ye aff tae the Methodies, an' they wud hae gien ye a fricht wi' cryin' Hallelujah.'”
“A graund body for a' that,” interpolated Posty, “but clean astray on the decrees.”
“'Yonder 's the place,' says he, 'an' ye pit yir collection in a plate at the door—there 's nae ladles—but there 's a couthie wumman keeps the door in the gallery, an' she 'ill gie ye a seat.'
“She kent it wes her ain place when she saw a properly ordained minister in the pulpit, wi' his black goon and bonnie white bands; and when they started the Hundredth Psalm, her heart cam intae her mooth, an' she cudna sing a word.”
“Wes there an organ?” demanded Posty, with the manner of one who has a duty to perform, and must be on his guard against sentiment.
“A 'll no tell ye a lee, Posty, there wes, an' of coorse Lily didna like it, but she wes terrible pleased wi' the sermon. As for the organ, it juist boomilled awa, an' she never lat on she heard it.”
“Dis she gie the texts an' diveesions?” and Posty smacked his lips.
“It's no likely she wud forget that, aifter gaein' ower them ilka Sabbath nicht here sin she wes a wee bairnie. 'Faith without works is dead.' James, ye ken.”
“Ay, ay,” cried Posty, impatiently; “a testin' text; ye cudna hae a better tae jidge a a man by; hoo wes 't handled?”
“Three heads. First, 'True religion is a principle in the soul'—Posty nodded, 'that's faith.' Second, 'It is a practice in the life'—'warks.' murmured Posty. Third, 'Without a principle in the soul, there can't be a practice in the life.'”
“A' see naethin' wrang there, Mary; it's maybe no verra oreeginal, but that's naither here nor there; gin ye stand on yir head ye can aye see a new glen; it wis soond an' instructive. Did he titch on Paul and James? he wud be sure tae be reconcilin' them, gin he be ablow forty.”
“That's a' she writes on the sermon, but she gied intae the vestry wi' her lines, an' the minister wes rael kind tae her when he heard her tongue.
“His English slippit aff in a meenut, an' oot cam the auld tongue; he's a Perthshire man himsel, though frae the sooth end, an' his wife's second cousin is merried tae the minister o' Kildrummie's brother, so ye micht say he wes conneckit wi' Drumtochty.
“He telt her tae coont him a freend noo that she wes amang strangers, an' tae send for him in tribble, an' Lily declares that she gaed back that mornin' wi' her heart fu' of comfort an' gledness. So ye may tell the neeburs that Lily's daein' weel in London. She sends her respects tae Drumsheugh, and ye'ill say tae Jamie Soutar that Lily wes askin' for him.”
When Posty departed, Mary read the last part of Lily's letter slowly to herself.
“The minister's prayer took in a' kinds o' fouk, an' ae peteetion, a' thocht, wes for us, grannie: 'Remember any one about whom his friends are anxious '—and he stopped for half a meenut. Ye cud hae heard a preen (pin) fall, an' a' said tae masel, 'Chairlie.'
“Dinna be ower cast doon aboot him, nor gie up houp; he's young an' thochtless, an' he 'ill maybe tak a turn sune.
“A've savit five pund aff ma wages, an' a'm sendin't in a note, for a' didna want the fouk at the post-office tae ken oor affairs.
“Noo, gin ye be writin' Chairlie, will ye slip in a pund juist as a bit reminder o' his sister, an' the ither fower 'ill help tae py the Muirtown debt.
“Dinna think a'm scrimpin' masel or daein' onything mean. Aifter a've spent sax pund a year on claithes and little trokes, and three on ma kirk, a 'll hae aucht ower for the debt.
“When the laist penny's paid o' Chairlie's debt a 'll buy the best black silk in London for ye; an' gin a'm spared tae come hame tae the summer Sacrament, we 'ill gang thegither tae the table.”
“Twa silly weemen,” said Mary to herself, “for he's juist a ne'er-dae-weel... an' yet, gin he cam in noo, a' wud gie him the claithes aff ma back, an' sae wud Lily. For the look in his een an' the soon' o' his voice.”