Jane dropped a tear on her benefactor’s hand, for who could stand such unaffected goodness? Barnaby, who had folded his plaid and held little George on it before him, turned his face towards the other side of the horse, and contracted it into a shape and contortion that is not often seen, every feature being lengthened extremely the cross way; but after blowing his nose two or three times he recovered the use of his rod, with which he instantly began a thrashing his nag, that he might get out of this flood of tenderness and leave-taking. It is not easy to conceive a more happy man than he was that day, he was so proud of his parents’ kindness to Jane, and of the good he thought he was doing to all parties, and, besides, the twenty guineas was a fortune to him. He went on prating to George, who was quite delighted with the ride on such a grand horse; yet at times he grew thoughtful, and testified his regret for the horse, lest he should be tired with carrying them all. “Geoge vely solly fol poole holse, Balny! Geoge no like to be a holse.”
Many were the witch and fairy tales that Barnaby related that day to amuse his fellow travellers. He set down Jane and George safe at their cottage before evening, and astonished Robin not a little, who was overjoyed to see his lost gimmer and lamb (as he termed them,) so soon. He paid Barnaby his twenty guineas that night in excellent humour, making some mention, meantime, of an old proverb, “They that hide ken where to seek,” and without delay sent information to the mansion-house that Jane was found, and safely arrived at her own house, a piece of news which created no little stir at Earlhall.
The old lady had entertained strong hopes that Jane would not be found; or that she would refuse to return after the treatment she had met with, and the suspicions that were raised against her; in short, she wished her not to return, and she hoped she would not; but now all her fond hopes were extinguished, and she could see no honourable issue to the affair. It was like to turn out a love intrigue; a low and shameful business, her son might pretend what he chose. She instantly lost all command of her temper, hurried from one part of the house to another, quarrelled with every one of the maid servants, and gave the two prettiest ones warning to leave their places.
Lindsey was likewise a little out of his reason that night, but his feelings were of a very different kind. He loved all the human race; he loved the little birds that sung upon the trees almost to distraction. The deep blue of the heavens never appeared so serene—the woods, the fields, and the flowers, never so delightful! such a new and exhilarating tone did the return of this beautiful girl (child, I mean) give to his whole vital frame. “What a delightful world this is!” said he to himself; “and how happy might all its inhabitants live, if they would suffer themselves to do so!” He did not traverse the different apartments of the house with the same hasty steps as his mother did, but he took many rapid turns out to the back garden, and in again to the parlour.
In the middle of one of these distant excursions his ears were assailed by the discordant tones of anger and reproach—Proud and haughty contumely on the one side, and the bitter complaints of wronged but humble dependance on the other.
“This is some one of my mother’s unreasonable imputations,” said he to himself; “it is hard that the fairer and more delicate part of my servants, who are in fact my servants, receiving meat and wages from me, and whom I most wish to be happy and comfortable in their circumstances should be thus harassed and rendered miserable—I will interfere in spite of all obloquy.” He went in to the fore-kitchen, “What is the matter? What is the meaning of all this disturbance here?”
“Matter, son! The matter is, that I will not be thus teased and wronged by such a worthless scum of menials as your grieve has buckled on me. I am determined to be rid of them for the present, and to have no more servants of his hiring.”
So saying, she bustled away by him, and out of the kitchen. Sally, one of the maidens that wrought afield, whose bright complexion and sly looks had roused the lady’s resentment, was standing sobbing in a corner. “What is this you have done, Sally, thus to irritate my mother?”
“I hae done naething ava that’s wrang, sir; but she’s never aff my tap; an’ I’m glad I’m now free frae her. Had she tauld me my fault, an’ turned me away, I wad never hae regrettit; but she has ca’d me names sic afore a’ these witnesses, that I’ll never get mair service i’ the country. I see nae right ony body has to guide poor servants this gate.”
“Nor I either, Sally; but say no more about it; I know you to be a very faithful and conscientious servant, for I have often enquired; remain in your place, and do not go away—remember I order it—give no offence to my mother that you can avoid—be a good girl, as you have heretofore been, and here is a guinea to buy you a gown at next fair.”