“Yes, uncle; but the capital,” said Harry.
“I thought there was something to the fore—something in the bank to begin you with? ay, yes—I did not mind, you have spent that in the house; but, Harry, I have nothing myself, but two hundred pounds, and I wanted, if it were God’s will, to leave some bit present to the bairns when I was gone; besides two hundred pounds could do little for you, Harry.”
“Nothing at all,” said Harry quickly; “but I have a plan you might help me in. How much money will Miss Jean have, uncle?”
“Jean Calder?—na, na, Harry,” said the old man, shaking his head. “I would not with my will, speak ill or judge unkindly of any mortal, but charity—I am meaning the free heart and the kind thought—is not in her. Did you no hear the fight we had to get your papers from her? No, Harry; I’m sorry to damp you. She may have a thousand pounds, maybe. As much as that I warrant; but you’ll make nothing of Miss Jean.”
“A thousand pounds! My plan, uncle is to offer her better interest than she could get elsewhere,” said Harry. “As for her kindness, I should never think of that; and I would not ask it, because I was her brother’s grandson, but because I could offer her so much per cent.; that’s the way. Now a thousand pounds from Miss Jean would make these lands bear other crops than this—look, uncle.”
They were standing at the corner of a field of thin and scanty corn. The long ears bent upon the breeze, like so many tall attenuated striplings; and their chill green contrasted unpleasantly with the rich brown tint which began to ripen over a full, rustling, wholesome field on the other side of the way.
“It’s a poor crop,” said Uncle Sandy, meditatingly; “it’s like the well doings of a cauld heart—it wants the good-will to grow. But Jean Calder, Harry—Jean Calder help any man! Well, Providence may soften her heart; but it is not in her nature.”
“She will give the money for her own profit,” said Harry; “no fear. I will consult Mr. Lindsay, and we can offer her good interest. Then you see, uncle, the advantage of it is, that we are her rightful heirs, and she is a very old woman now.”
“Whisht, Harry; let me never hear the like of this again,” said his uncle, gravely; “you are a young man now, but God may keep you to be an old one. Never you reckon on the ending of a life, that it is in God’s hand to spare or take away, and never grudge the air of this living world—such as it is, we aye desire to breathe it lang ourselves—to one that He keeps in it day by day, nourishing the auld worn-out heart with breath and motion, for good ends of His ain. And, Harry, this money is the woman’s life—I could not think of the chance of its perishing without pain and trouble, for it would be a dreadful loss to her—like the loss of a bairn.”
“Well, well, uncle, no chance of its being lost,” said Harry, somewhat fretfully; “but will you speak to her when you go back to Ayr? will you undertake to negociate this for me? I know she trusts you.”