“Hooever, he 's gone noo, an' we maunna be sayin' ill o' the dead; it's no what he wud hae dune himsel. Whatna day's the beerial?” inquired Jamie, anxiously.
“Beerial? Losh preserve's, Jamie,” began Hillocks, but Drumsheugh understood.
“Jamie hes the richt o't; if Burnbrae hed slippit awa, yir faces cudna be langer. He's no oot o' the Glen yet, and wha kens gin he mayna beat the factor yet?
“It's no muckle we can dae in that quarter but there's ae thing in oor poor. We can see that Burnbrae hes a gude roup, an' gin he maun leave us that he cairries eneuch tae keep him an' the gude wife for the rest o' their days.
“There's a wheen fine fat cattle and some gude young horse; it wud be a sin tae let them gae below their price tae the Muirtown dealers. Na, na, the man that wants tae buy at Burn-brae's roup 'ill need tae pay.”
The countenance of the kirkyard lifted, and as Hillocks followed Drumsheugh into kirk, he stopped twice and wagged his head with marked satisfaction. Three days later it was understood at the “smiddy” that Burnbrae's roup was likely to be a success.
Thursday was the chosen day for roups in our parts, and on Monday morning they began to make ready at Burnbrae. Carts, engrained with the mud of years, were taken down to the burn, and came back blue and red. Burnbrae read the name of his grandfather on one of the shafts, and noticed it was Burnebrae in those days. Ploughs, harrows, rollers were grouped round a turnip sowing machine (much lent to neighbours), and supported by an array of forks, graips, scythes, and other lighter implements. The granary yielded a pair of fanners, half a dozen riddles, measures for corn, a pile of sacks, and some ancient flails. Harness was polished till the brass ornaments on the peaked collars and heavy cart saddles emerged from obscurity, and shone in the sunshine. Jean emptied her dairy, and ranged two churns, one her mother s, a cheese-press, and twenty-four deep earthenware dishes at the head of a field where the roup was to take place.
“Dinna bring oot yir dairy, Jean wumman,” Burnbrae had pleaded in great distress; “we 'ill get some bit placey wi' a field or twa, and ye 'ill hae a coo as lang as ye live. A' canna bear tae see ma wife's kirn sold; ye mind hoo a' tried tae help ye the first year, an' ye splashed me wi' the milk. Keep the auld kirn, lass.”
“Na, na, John, it wud juist fret me tae see it wi' nae milk tae fill it, for it's no an ae-coo-kirn mine like a pendicler's (small farmer's), an' a' wud raither no look back aifter we 've awa',” but Jean's hands were shaking as she laid down the wooden stamp with which she had marked the best butter that went to Muirtown market that generation.
On Thursday forenoon the live-stock was gathered and penned in the field below the garden, where the dead lassie's name bloomed in fragrant mignonette. Burnbrae and Jean saw all their gear, save the household furniture, set out for sale. She had resolved to be brave for his sake, but every object in the field made its own appeal to her heart. What one read in the auctioneer's catalogue was a bare list of animals and implements, the scanty plenishing of a Highland farm. Jean saw everything in a golden mist of love. It was a perfectly preposterous old dogcart that ought to have been broken up long ago, but how often she had gone in it to Muirtown on market days with John, and on the last journey he had wrapped her up as tenderly as when she was a young bride. The set of silver-plated harness—but there was not much plating left—Jean had bought from a Muirtown saddler with savings from her butter money, and had seen the ostler fit on the old mare—her foal, old enough himself now, was to be sold to-day—against John's coming from the cattle mart. He was so dazzled by the sheen of the silver that he passed his own conveyance in the stable yard—he never heard the end of that—and he could only shake his fist at her when she came from her hiding-place, professing great astonishment. John might laugh at her, but she saw the people admiring the turnout as they drove along the street in Muirtown, and, though it took them three hours to reach Burnbrae, the time was too short for the appreciation of that harness. It seemed yesterday, but that was seven-and-twenty year ago.