CHAPTER XVIII. A REST BY THE WAYSIDE.
Honest Wullie and his wife could now spend the evening of life in quiet, peaceful comfort. Their cup of happiness was full. All their children were married and lived comfortably. Jamie had married in Edinburgh, and he had a beautiful home, with children to gladden it. There was no happier wife than Belle Lindsay, and Archie thought there could be no better one. Archie's family lived in one part of the farmhouse. There his sweet-tempered wife still warbled tender home melodies while busy with her work, and at nightfall sang soft, sweet lullabies to the fair-haired babe. Annie and Donald were never sorry that they had waited for each other. Several children blessed them with hope and claimed their care and labor. The marriage of Davie had brought no innovation to Wullie's home. His daughter-in-law stepped quietly and aptly into the place his wife had filled as mistress and manager. Mrs. Murdoch, unencumbered with care, could now sit by her husband at the hearthstone, or in summer on a rustic seat on the shady side of the house. Her knitting was usually in her hand; so accustomed was she to this kind of work that she could almost have done it sleeping, and she would have felt lost without it.
Farmer Lindsay also divested himself of many of the cares of life. He had no anxiety about the management of the farm; Archie was as good a farmer as himself. Mrs. Lindsay had gradually given the care of household affairs to her daughter-in-law, and now Belle had entire control. "I ken noo that Archie's parritch is weel made and his bannocks weel baked; and a' the wark is weel dune and naething wasted," she said to her husband.
Their daughter, still unmarried, was with them to anticipate their wishes. Thus this ageing pair were resting from their labors and gliding gently down the slope of life.
The vine-hung porch was often the resort of Farmer Lindsay. He loved to sit there in the dreamy afternoons, enlivening the hours with tales of olden time. His wife often sat beside him. Here a goodly view was spread out before them. To one side lay the out-buildings, the orchard, and the meadows that extended far beyond honest Wullie's cottage. On the other side rose the hills covered with mountain-ash and dwarf-oaks. The birds sang in the shade-trees, and the timid hares gambolled in the hedgerow, or gazed at them with soft eyes when no danger threatened. Among the hills were the pasture-lands; and the tinkle of the herd-bell was often borne to their ears by the balmy breath of the south wind.
Occasionally honest Wullie, accompanied by his wife, slowly climbed the little rise of ground that lay between the cottage and the farmhouse. There was always a kindly welcome and inquiries after the health of each other. The bairns, too, must be called and told "no to be shy, but to gang up and speak to their grandparents." Honest Wullie always asked many questions about the farm-work, for he loved to hear the praises of Davie. When he stayed to break bread with his daughter they all ate together, and spent a social hour at table. Wullie was listened to with the greatest respect, for he always had something good and sensible to say.
When they went home some of the Lindsays accompanied them a part of the way, as not to have done so would have been considered discourteous.
To Annie's home Wullie no longer attempted to walk; but Donald brought her parents twice a year to pay her a visit. These visits were always enjoyable, for Annie spared no pains to please her parents. "Annie behaves doucely," was honest Wullie's comment after returning home.
Jamie still came once a year to the cottage.
"Now that Davie is married," he said to his father, "I would like to have you and mother come and spend some time with me."
"I am too auld to leave hame, Jamie; but if I could gang, what would I do in Edinburgh? I would a'maist as soon be buried alive. Na, na, Jamie, I couldna do that; I couldna leave my auld hame. Here I hae lived, and here let me dee. I a'maist feel I couldna lo'e God as weel where I couldna see him in his warks. Na, na, Jamie, leave me where I can hear the sang o' the laverock,[A] the mavis,[B] and the cushat;[C] where the burn wimples and the daisy and the heather bloom; where the darkness fa's softly and the stars blink bonnily; where the sun wunna rise far before I can see the face o' it. Na, Jamie, Edinburgh is nae place for auld Wullie Murdoch."
Jamie knew that his father was right.
"I suppose no other place would seem to you like home," he replied; "but I would like to manifest the filial regard I feel for my parents."
Jamie then resolved to coax Davie to Edinburgh. He thought it would give his brother some idea of the world around him. Besides, he was a little curious to see the amazement with which his unsophisticated brother would view the wonders of the Scottish capital. It was, however, a long time before he succeeded in getting him there; but several summers after he had first proposed the journey Davie returned with him to Edinburgh. On their way they stopped at Glasgow. As Davie had so little desire for sight-seeing, he was more than satisfied with his short stay in that city, and wished then to return home; but Jamie persuaded him to go on to Edinburgh and Linlithgow. He pointed out to his brother the places of historic interest, the ancient fortresses, palaces, and ruins. None of these stirred his heart like old Grayfriars' Church, where, on the first of March, 1638, the first signatures were set to the National Covenant that bound Scotland to resist the civil and ecclesiastical tyranny of Charles I.; Grayfriars' churchyard, with its memories of martyr Covenanters; and the old national fortress, the Castle Rock. The sight of these stirs the heart of every true Scotchman, for all are associated with Scottish struggles for liberty. There was little else he could appreciate, although the magnificent churches impressed him with their grandeur, and recalled to his mind the description of the only one with which he was familiar, that grander temple reared by Solomon. The bells, too, with their solemn, sonorous call, filled him with reverential awe. Everything else wearied him. The handsome dwellings, the public buildings, the long rows of shops and markets, were tiresome to him; and the sound of the town-crier he would gladly have exchanged for the tinkle of the bell from the sheepfold. He did not feel at ease even in his brother's house. He considered everything too bonny to touch, and he failed to divest himself of the feeling of restraint until he again beheld the simple cottages, the moors and glens of Ayrshire. However, after he reached home he remembered that he had seen many fine sights, and he was really glad that he had made the journey; but he was equally glad that there was no prospect of having to repeat it.
In the city he had remembered his nephews and nieces, and he brought them each a present, small though it was. But for his wife he brought a "braw new gown," to which he often afterwards referred with a good deal of complacency as "the gown I brought frae Edinburgh." His wife usually smiled secretly, saying to herself, "I will hae to tak gude care o' it, for it will be mony a lang day before he brings me anither frae there."