“That was atween God and me—There was neither language nor sound there for the ear o’ flesh!—It was unfair!—It was unfair!—Ye are mistress here, and ye keep the keys o’ the aumbry, the kitchen, the ha’, an’ the hale house; but wi’ the secret keys o’ the heart and conscience ye hae naething to do!—the keys o’ the sma’est portal that leads to heaven or hell are nane o’ yours; therefore, what ye hae done was unfair. If I chose, sinful and miserable as I am, to converse with my God about the dead as if they war living, an’ of the living as if they war dead, what’s that to you? Or if I likit to take counsel of that which exists only in my own mind, is the rackle hand o’ steelrife power to make a handle o’ that to grind the very hearts of the just and the good, or turn the poor wasted frame o’ eild and resignation on the wheel?—Lack–a–day, my dear bairn, I’m lost again! Ye canna an’ ye maunna forgie me now. Walth’s dear, an’ life’s dearer—but sin’ it maun be sae, twal o’clock sanna find me aneath your roof—there shall naebody suffer for harbouring poor auld Nanny—she has seen better days, an’ she hopes to see better anes again; but it’s lang sin’ the warld’s weel an’ the warld’s wae came baith to her alike. I maun e’en bid ye fareweel, my bonny bairn, but I maun tell ye ere I gae that ye’re i’the braid way. Ye hae some good things about ye, and O, it is a pity that a dear sweet soul should be lost for want o’ light to direct! How can a dear bairn find the right way wi’ its een tied up? But I maun haud my tongue an’ leave ye—I wad fain greet, but I hae lost the gate o’t, for the fountain–head has been lang run dry—Weel, weel—it’s a’ ower!—nae mair about it—How’s this the auld sang gaes?
When the well runs dry then the rain is nigh,
The heavens o’ earth maun borrow,
An’ the streams that stray thro’ the wastes the day,
May sail aboon the morrow.
Then dinna mourn, my bonny bird,
I downa bide to hear ye;
The storm may blaw, and the rain may fa’,
But nouther sal come near ye.
O dinna weep for the day that’s gane,
Nor on the present ponder,
For thou shalt sing on the laverock’s wing,
An’ far away beyond her.”
This Nanny sung to an air so soothing, and at the same time so melancholy, it was impossible to listen to her unaffected, especially as she herself was peculiarly so—a beam of wild delight glanced in her eye, but it was like the joy of grief, (if one may be allowed the expression,) if not actually the joy of madness. Nothing could be more interesting than her character was now to the bewildered Katharine—it arose to her eyes, and grew on her mind like a vision. She had been led previously to regard her as having been crazed from her birth, and her songs and chaunts to be mere ravings of fancy, strung in rhymes to suit favourite airs, or old scraps of ballads void of meaning, that she had learned in her youth. But there was a wild elegance at times in her manner of thinking and expression—a dash of sublimity that was inconsistent with such an idea. “Is it possible,” (thus reasoned the maiden with herself,) “that this demeanour can be the effect of great worldly trouble and loss?—Perhaps she is bereft of all those who were near and dear to her in life—is left alone as it were in this world, and has lost a relish for all its concerns, while her whole hope, heart, and mind, is fixed on a home above, to which all her thoughts, dreams, and even her ravings insensibly turn, and to which the very songs and chaunts of her youthful days are modelled anew. If such is really her case, how I could sympathize with her in all her feelings!”
“Nanny,” said she, “how wofully you misapprehend me; I came to exchange burdens of heart and conscience with you—to confide in you, and love you: Why will not you do the same with me, and tell me what loss it is that you seem to bewail night and day, and what affecting theme it is that thus puts you beside yourself?—If I judge not far amiss, the knowledge of this is of greater import to my peace than aught in the world beside, and will lead to a secret from me that deeply concerns us both.”
Nanny’s suspicions were aroused, not laid, by this speech; she eyed her young mistress steadfastly for a while, smiled, and shook her head.
“Sae young, sae bonny, and yet sae cunning!” said she. “Judas coudna hae sic a face, but he had nouther a fairer tongue nor a fauser heart!—A secret frae you, dear bairn! what secret can come frae you, but some bit waefu’ love story, enough to mak the pinks an’ the ewe gowans blush to the very lip? My heart’s wae for ye, ae way an’ a’ ways; but its a part of your curse—woman sinned an’ woman maun suffer—her hale life is but a succession o’ shame, degradation, and suffering, frae her cradle till her grave.”
Katharine was dumb for a space, for reasoning with Nanny was out of the question.
“You may one day rue this misprision of my motives, Nanny,” rejoined she; “in the mean time, I am obliged to leave home, on an express that concerns my father’s life and fortune; be careful of my mother until my return, and of every thing about the house, for the charge of all must devolve for a space on you.”