PART II.—CHAPTER VIII.
“Leddy Kilbrachmont! Weel, John, my man, she might have done waur—muckle waur; but I seena very weel how she could have bettered hersel. A young, wiselike, gallant-looking lad, and a very decent lairdship—anither thing frae a doited auld man.”
“Weel, wife,” said John Stewart, ruefully scratching his head—“weel, I say naething against it in itsel; but will ye tell me what I’m to say to the Beelye?”
“Ay, John, that will I,” returned the house-mother. “Tell him to take his daughter’s bairn out of its cradle, puir wee totum, and ask himsel what he has to do wi’ a young wife—a young wife! and a bonnie lass like our Isabell! Man, John, to think, wi’ that muckle body o’ yours, that you should have sae little heart! Nae wonder ye need muckle coats and plaids about ye, you men! for ne’er a spark o’ light is in the hearts of ye, to keep ye warm within.”
“Weel, weel, Isabell; the mair cause ye should gie me a guid dram to keep the chill out,” said the miller; “and ye’ll just mind ye were airt and pairt, and thought mair of the Beelye’s bien dwellin’ and braw family than ever I did; but it’s aye your way—ye put a’ the blame, when there is blame, on me.”
“Haud your peace, guidman,” said Mrs Stewart. “Whiles I am drawn away wi’ your reasonings against my ain judgment, as happens to folk owre easy in their temper, whether they will or no—I’ll no deny that; but nae man can say I ever set my face to onything that would have broken the heart of a bairn of mine. Take your dram, and gang away with your worldly thoughts to your worldly business, John Stewart; if it wasna for you, I’m sure ne’er a thought of pelf would enter my head.”
“Eh, guidwife!” It was all that the miller’s astonishment could utter. He was put down. With humility he took the dram, and softly setting his glass on the table, went out like a lamb, to the mill.
“Leddy Kilbrachmont! and Janet, the glaikit gilpie, taking up with a common man!” said Mrs Stewart, unconsciously pushing aside the pretty wheel, the offering of the “wright” in Arncreoch. “Weel, but what maun I do? If Isabell gangs hame to her ain house, and Janet—Janet’s a guid worker—far mair use about a house like ours than such a genty thing as Bell—Janet married, too—what’s to come o’ me? I’ll hae to bring hame Katie frae the Castle.”
“Muckle guid ye’ll get of Katie, mother,” said Janet, who, just then coming in from the garden, with an armful of cold, curly, brilliant greens, had heard her mother’s soliloquy. “If ye yokit her to the wheel like a powny, she wadna spin the yarn for Isabell’s providing in half-a-dozen years; and no a mortal turn besides could Katie do in a house, if ye gied her a’ the land between this and Kellie Law.”
“And wha asked your counsel?” said the absolute sovereign of Kellie Mill. “If I’m no sair trysted wi’ my family, there never was a woman: first, your faither—and muckle he kens about the rule o’ a household; and syne you, ye taupie—as if Isabell’s providing was yet to spin! To spin, said she? and it lying safe in the oak press up the stair, since ever Bell was a wee smout of a bairn. And yours too, though ye dinna deserve it;—ay, and little Katie’s as weel, as the bonnie grass on the burnside could have tellt ye twal year ago, when it was white wi’ yarn a’ the simmer through, spun on a purpose-like wheel—a thing fit for a woman’s wark—no a toy for a bit bairn. Gae way wi’ you and your vanities. I would just like to see, wi’ a’ your upsetting, ony ane o’ ye bring up a family as creditable as your mother!”
Janet stole in to the table at the further window, and, without a word, began to prepare her greens, which were immediately to be added to the other contents of the great pot, which, suspended by the crook, bubbled and boiled over the fire; for the moods of the house-mother were pretty well known in her dominions, and no one dared to lift up the voice of rebellion.
After an interval of silence, Mrs Stewart proceeded to her own room, and in a short time reappeared, hooded and plaided, testifying with those echoing steps of hers, to all concerned, that she had again put on her high-heeled gala shoes. Isabell was now in the kitchen, quietly going about her share of the household labour, and doing it with a subdued graceful gladness which touched the mother’s heart.
“I’m gaun up to Kellie, Bell, my woman,” said Mrs Stewart. “I wouldna say but we may need Katie at hame; onyway, I’ll gang up to the Castle, and see what they say about it. It’s time she had a while at hame to learn something purpose-like, or it’s my fear she’ll be fit for naething but to hang on about Lady Anne; and nae bairn o’ mine shall do that wi’ my will. Ye’ll set Merran to the muckle wheel, Isabell, as soon as she’s in frae the field; and get that cuttie Janet to do some creditable work. If I catch her out o’ the house when I come hame, it’ll be the waur for hersel.”
“So ye’re aye biding on at the Castle, Bauby,” said Mrs Stewart, as, her long walk over, she rested in the housekeeper’s room, and greeted, with a mixture of familiarity and condescension, the powerful Bauby, who had so long been the faithful friend and attendant of little Katie Stewart. “Ye’re biding on? I thought you were sure to gang with Lady Betty; and vexed I was to think of ye gaun away, that my bairn liket sae weel.”
“I’ll never lee, Mrs Stewart,” said Bauby, confidentially. “If it hadna just been Katie Stewart’s sel, and a thought of Lady Anne, puir thing, left her lee lane in the house, I would as soon have gaen out to the May to live, as bidden still in Kellie Castle. But someway they have grippit my heart atween them—I couldna leave the bairns.”
“Aweel, Bauby, it was kind in ye,” said the miller’s wife; “but I’m in no manner sure that I winna take Katie away.”
“Take Katie away—eh, Mrs Stewart!” And Bauby lifted up her great hands in appeal.
“Ye see her sister Isabell is to be married soon,” said the important mother, rising and smoothing down her skirts. “And now I’m rested, Bauby, I’ll thank ye to take me to Lady Anne’s room.”
The fire burned brightly in the west room, glowing in the dark polished walls, and brightening with its warm flush the clouded daylight which shone through the high window. Again on her high chair, with her shoulders fixed, so that she cannot stoop, Lady Anne sits at her embroidery frame, at some distance from the window, where the slanting light falls full upon her work, patiently and painfully working those dim roses into the canvass which already bears the blossoms of many a laborious hour. Poor Lady Anne! People, all her life, have been doing their duty to her—training her into propriety—into noiseless decorum and high-bred manners. She has read the Spectator to improve her mind—has worked embroidery because it was her duty; and sits resignedly in this steel fixture now, because she feels it a duty too—a duty to the world at large that Lady Anne Erskine should have no curve in her shoulders—no stoop in her tall aristocratic figure. But, in spite of all this, though they make her stiff, and pale, and silent, none of these cares have at all tarnished the gentle lustre of Lady Anne’s good heart; for, to tell truth, embroidery, and prejudices, and steel-collars, though they cramp both body and mind a little, by no means have a bad effect—or, at least, by no means so bad an effect as people ascribe to them in these days—upon the heart; and there lived many a true lady then—lives many a true lady now—to whom devout thoughts have come in those dim hours, and fair fancies budded and blossomed in the silence. It was very true that Lady Anne sat there immovable, holding her head with conscientious firmness, as she had been trained to hold it, and moving her long fingers noiselessly as her needle went out and in through the canvass before her—very true that she thought she was doing her duty, and accomplishing her natural lot; but not any less true, notwithstanding, that the heart which beat softly against her breast was pure and gentle as the summer air, and, like it, touched into quiet brightness by the light from heaven.
Near her, carelessly bending forward from a lower chair, and leaning her whole weight on another embroidery frame, sits Katie Stewart, labouring with a hundred wiles to draw Lady Anne’s attention from her work. One of little Katie’s round white shoulders is gleaming out of her dress, and she is not in the least erect, but bends her head down between her hands, and pushes back the rich golden hair which falls in shining, half-curled tresses over her fingers, and laughs, and pouts, and calls to Lady Anne; but Lady Anne only answers quietly, and goes on with her work—for it is right and needful to work so many hours, and Lady Anne is doing her duty.
But not so Katie Stewart: her needle lies idle on the canvass; her silk hangs over her arm, getting soiled and dim; and Lady Anne blushes to remember how long it is since her wayward favourite began that group of flowers.
For Katie feels no duty—no responsibility in the matter; and having worked a whole dreary hour, and accomplished a whole leaf, inclines to be idle now, and would fain make her companion idle too. But the conscientious Lady Anne shakes her head, and labours on; so Katie, leaning still further over the frame, and still more entirely disregarding her shoulders and deportment, tosses back the overshadowing curls again, and with her cheeks supported in the curved palms of her hands, and her fingers keeping back the hair from her brow, lifts up her voice and sings—
“Corn rigs and barley rigs,
Corn rigs are bonnie.”
Sweet, clear, and full is little Katie’s voice, and she leans forward, with her bright eyes dwelling kindly on Lady Anne’s face, while, with affectionate pleasure, the good Lady Anne sits still, and works, and listens—the sweet child’s voice, in which there is still scarcely a graver modulation to tell of the coming woman, echoing into the generous gentle heart which scarcely all its life has had a selfish thought to interrupt the simple beautiful admiration of its unenvious love.
“Katie, ye little cuttie!” exclaimed the horror-stricken mother, looking in at the door.
Katie started; but it was only with privileged boldness to look up smilingly into her mother’s face, as she finished the last verse of her song.
“Eh, Lady Anne, what can I say to you?” said Mrs Stewart, coming forward with indignant energetic haste; “or what will your ladyship say to that forward monkey? Katie, have I no admonished ye to get the manners of a serving lassie at your peril, however grand the folk were ye saw; but, nevertheless, to gie honour where honour is due, as it’s commanded. I think shame to look ye in the face, Lady Anne, after hearing a bairn of mine use such a freedom.”
“But you have no need, Mrs Stewart,” said Lady Anne, “for Katie is at home.”
There was the slightest possible tone of authority in the words, gentle as they were; and Mrs Stewart felt herself put down.
“Weel, your ladyship kens best; but I came to speak about Katie, Lady Anne. I’m thinking I’ll need to bring her hame.”
Mrs Stewart had her revenge. Lady Anne’s quiet face grew red and troubled, and she struggled to loose herself from her bondage, and turn round to face the threatening visitor.
“To take Katie home?—away from me? Oh, Mrs Stewart, dinna!” said Lady Anne, forgetting that she was no longer a child.
“Ye see, my lady, our Isabell is to be married. The young man is Philip Landale of Kilbrachmont. Ye may have heard tell of him even in the Castle;—a lad with a guid house and plenty substance to take hame a wife to; and a guid wife he’ll get to them, though maybe I shouldna say it. And so you see, Lady Anne, I’ll be left with only Janet at hame.”
“But, Mrs Stewart, Katie has not been accustomed to it; she could not do you any good,” said the eager, injudicious Lady Anne.
“The very words, my lady—the very thing I said to our guidman and the bairns at hame. ‘It’s time,’ says I, ‘that Katie was learnin’ something fit for her natural place and lot. What kind of a wife will she ever make to a puir man, coming straight out of Kellie Castle, and Lady Anne’s very cha’mer?’ No that I’m meaning it’s needful that she should get a puir man, Lady Anne; but a bien man in the parish is no like ane of your grand lords and earls; and if Katie does as weel as her mother before her, she’ll hae a better portion than she deserves.”
Indignantly Katie tossed her curls from her forehead, bent her little flushed face over the frame, and began to ply her needle as if for a wager.
“But, Mrs Stewart,” urged Lady Anne, “Katie’s birthday is not till May, and she’s only fifteen then. Never mind the man—there’s plenty time; but as long as we’re at Kellie, and not far away from you, Mrs Stewart, why should not Katie live all her life with me?”
Katie glanced up archly, saucily, but said nothing.
“It wouldna be right, my lady. In the first place, you’ll no be aye at Kellie; you’ll get folk you like better than Katie Stewart; and Katie must depend on naebody’s will and pleasure. I’ll have it said of nae bairn of mine that she sorned on a stranger. Na, she must come hame.”
Lady Anne’s eyes filled with tears. The little proud belligerent mother stood triumphant and imperious before the fire. The petulant wilful favourite pouted over her frame; and Lady Anne looked from one to the other with overflowing eyes.
“My sister Betty’s away, and my sister Janet’s away,” said Anne Erskine sadly; “I’ve nobody but Katie now. If you take Katie away, Mrs Stewart, I’ll break my heart.”
Little Katie put away her frame without saying a word, and coming silently to the side of the high chair, knelt down, and looked earnestly into Lady Anne’s drooping face. There was some wonder in the look—a little awe—and then she laid down her soft cheek upon that hand of Lady Anne’s, on which already some tears had fallen, and taking the other hand into her own, continued to look up with a strange, grave, sudden apprehension of the love which had been lavished on her so long. Anne Erskine’s tears fell softly on the earnest uplooking face, and Mrs Stewart’s heart was melted.
“Weel, Lady Anne, it’s no my nature to do a hard thing to onybody. Keep the cuttie; I’ll no seek her as lang as I can do without her. I gie ye my word.”