The rain blew in their faces, the mists came down over the great mountain range which separates Loch Arroch from Loch Long, and the Castle Farm lay damp and lonely in its little patch of green, with the low ruins on the other side of the house shining brown against the cut fields and the slaty blueness of the loch. It was not a cheerful prospect, nor was it cheerful to enter the house itself, full of the mournful bustle and suppressed excitement of a dying—that high ceremonial, to which, in respect, or reverence, or dire curiosity, or acquisitiveness, more dreadful still, so many spectators throng in the condition of life to which all Mrs. Murray’s household belonged.
In the sitting-room there were several people seated. Mrs. MacColl, the youngest daughter, in her mother’s chair, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and Mrs. Campbell opposite, telling her sister, who had but lately arrived, the details of the illness; Jeanie MacColl, who had come with her mother, sat listlessly at the window, looking out, depressed by the day and the atmosphere, and the low hum of talk, and all the dismal accessories of the scene. James Murray’s wife, a hard-featured, homely person, plain in attire, and less refined in manner than any of the others, went and came between the parlour and the kitchen.
“They maun a’ have their dinner,” she said to Bell, “notwithstanding that there’s a dying person in the house;” and with the corners of her mouth drawn down, and an occasional sigh making itself audible, she laid the cloth, and prepared the table.
Now and then a sound in the room above would make them pause and listen—for, indeed, at any moment they might all be called to witness the exit of the departing soul. Bell’s steps in the kitchen, which were unsubduable in point of sound, ran through all the more gentle stir of this melancholy assembly. Bell was crying over her work, pausing now and then to go into a corner, and wipe the tears from her cheeks; but she could not make her footsteps light, or diminish the heaviness of her shoes.
There was a little additional bustle when the strangers arrived, and Margaret and her child, who were wrapped up in cloaks and shawls, were taken into the kitchen to have their wraps taken off, and to be warmed and comforted. Edgar gave his own dripping coat to Bell, and stole upstairs out of “the family,” in which he was not much at home. Little Jeanie had just left her grandmother’s room on some necessary errand, when he appeared at the top of the stair. She gave a low cry, and the little tray she was carrying trembled in her hands. Her eyes were large with watching, and her cheeks pale, and the sudden sight of him was almost more than the poor little heart could bear; but, after a moment’s silence, Jeanie, with an effort, recovered that command of herself which is indispensable to women.
“Oh! but she’ll be glad—glad to see you!” she cried—“it’s you she’s aye cried for night and day.”
Edgar stood still and held her hand, looking into the soft little face, in which he saw only a tender sorrow, not harsh or despairing, but deep and quiet.
“Before even I speak of her,” he said, “my dear little Jeanie, let me say how happy I am to hear about your brother—he is safe after all.”
Jeanie’s countenance was moved, like the loch under the wind. Her great eyes, diluted with sorrow, swelled full; a pathetic smile came upon her lips.
“He was dead, and is alive again,” she said softly; “he was lost and is found.”