“I dinna ken what they ca’ her mair than Jeany. Little George’s mother, ye ken, that lives at the head o’ the Washing-green.”
“Jeany!—Little George’s mother!—That lives at the head o’ the Washing-green!—Wha is she? Where comes she frae? Has she a husband?”
“Na, na, mim—nae husband.”
The lady breathed as short as if in the heat of a fever—hasted out to the air, and then returned with equal haste into the house, without being able to accomplish any thing, for her hands trembled like the aspin leaf; and, finally, after ordering the girl to send Robin down to her immediately, she took to her bed, and lay brooding over the great calamity of her son’s shameful attachment. These low-bred women were her bane; especially if they were beautiful, she loathed, she hated, and, if she could, would have cleared the country of them. This, therefore, was a great trial; and before Robin arrived, she had made out to herself a picture of as many disagreeable objects as ever a distempered imagination conceived. Instead of a genteel respected wife, the head of a lovely family, a disgraceful connection, and an illegitimate offspring! Ills followed on ills, a dreadful train! She could think of nothing else, and the more she thought of it the worse did the consequences appear. Before her messenger reached Robin, she had regularly determined on the young woman’s dismissal from the estate, and, if possible, from the district.
We shall pass over a long conversation that took place between the old dame and Robin. It was maintained with great bitterness on the one hand, and servility on the other; but the final resolution was, that Jane should be ordered to depart from Todburn that night, or early the next morning; and if she refused, Robin was to bribe her to a compliance with any moderate sum of money, rather than that she should be suffered to remain longer; for the lady sagely observed, she might corrupt and lead astray all the young men in the country side, and would likely, at the long run, cost the parish more than if it were to maintain a company of soldiers. Last of all, it was decreed that their proceedings should be kept a profound secret from Lindsey.
Robin went home; and waiting upon Jane, told her abruptly to prepare for her immediate departure from the house that she occupied, for that she could not be longer there; and that he would be answerable for her furniture until she sent for it, or otherwise disposed of it; that she needed not to ask any questions as to his motives, for that he was obliged to do as he did, and the thing was decided that she was not to remain longer there.
She answered not a word; but, with the tears in her eyes, and many a half-smothered sob, she packed up a small bundle of clothes, and, taking that below her arm and little George on her back, she went away, having first locked the door and given the key to the farmer. “Farewell, Robin,” said she; “you are turning two very helpless and friendless creatures out to the open fields; but think you, you may not rue this on a day when you cannot help it?”
Robin was affected, but he was obliged to do as he was desired, and therefore made no defence, but said simply, “Farewell! Farewell!—God help thee, poor thing!”—He then kept an eye on her, that she might not communicate with any of the rest until she was fairly across the end of the Todburn-Law, and he was agreeably surprised at seeing her take that direction.
As soon as she got out of sight of her late dwelling, she sought a retired spot by the side of a clear mountain rivulet, where she sat down and gave free vent to her tears. “My poor child,” said she, clasping little George to her breast, “what is now to become of us, and where will our sorrows terminate? Here we are turned out on the wide world, and have neither house nor home to cover our heads; we have no bed now, George, but the cold earth, and no covering but that sky that you see over us.”
“O no geet, mamma—no geet; Geoge vely wae,” said the child, clasping her neck in return, and sobbing aloud; “no geet, else Geoge tuln bad child, and geet too.”