“I’ll tell ye what I would say, Sandy Muir,” said the miser, spreading back her muslin wings, and leaning forward to him, with them projecting from her face on either side, and her dingy hands supporting her sharp chin; “I would say that a penny saved was as guid as tippence made; and that he should begin now, at the beginning of his time, and lay by and spare, and when he’s an auld man like you, he’ll hae a better fortin than he’ll ever get out of the land. That’s my counsel, and that’s the way I’ve done mysel; and if he makes as gude an end o’ his life as I’ve done o’ mine, I’ll let you ca’ him a thrifty man.”
“We’ll nane of us be here to call him so,” said Uncle Sandy, “we’ll baith be in a place where gathered siller is an unthrifty provision. Whiles I think upon that, Miss Jean.”
“Ou, ay, the like of you are aye thinking upon that,” said the old woman with fiery eyes; “but I tell ye I’m nane so sure of what may come to pass; for I’ve seen mony a hopefuller lad than Harry Muir—mony a ane that thought in their ain mind they would read the name on my grave-head twenty years after it was printed there, and I’ve pitten my fit upon their turf for a’ that. I’m no wishing the lad ill—I’m wishing naebody ill that doesna meddle wi’ me; but I’ve seen as unlikely things—and you’ll see whether I’m no a sooth prophet, Sandy Muir.”
And suddenly withdrawing her hands, and nodding her feeble head in ghastly complacency, the old weird woman leaned back again in her chair.
“God forbid ye should! God forbid it!—and spare, and bless, and multiply the lad, and make him an honour and a strength in the land, long after the moss is on my headstane,” said Alexander Muir, with solemn earnestness. “And God bless the young bairns and the hopeful,” added the old man, eagerly, after a pause, “and deliver them from evil eye that grudges at their pleasaunce, or evil foot of triumph on their innocent graves! And God forgive them that have ill thoughts of the sons of youth that are His heritage—blessings on their bright heads, ane and a’!”
And when he paused, trembling with earnest indignant fervour, the old man’s eye fell upon Miss Jean. She had risen to take down from the high dusty mantel-piece a coarse blue woollen stocking which she had been knitting. Now she resumed her seat, and began with perfect composure to take up some loops which her unsteady fingers had drawn out as she took down the stocking. Either she had not listened to Uncle Sandy’s fervent blessing, or was not disposed to except at it—certainly she settled down in her chair with feeble deliberation, pulling about her thin cushions peevishly, and with no sign or token about her of emotion of any kind. Her very eye had dulled and lost its fire, and you saw only a very old miserable solitary woman, and not an evil spirit incarnate of covetousness and malice, as she had looked a few minutes before.
There was a considerable pause, for the old man did not find it so easy to overcome the tremor of indignation and horror into which her words had thrown him, and he now had almost resolved—but for a lingering unwillingness to disappoint Harry—to say nothing of his special mission. At last the silence was broken by Miss Jean herself.
“Ill times, Sandy Muir, awfu’ ill times; for auld folk, such like as me that have just their pickle siller and naething mair, nae land to bear fruit nor strong arm to work for them, Sandy; the like of such times as thir, are as bad as the dear years.”
Poor, forlorn, worn-out life! unconsciously to herself, the old man’s blessing on the young, whose strength she grudged and envied, had touched a gentle chord in her withered heart. Nothing knew she of what softened her, but for the moment she was softened.
“Are ye getting little interest for your siller, Miss Jean?” said Uncle Sandy, immediately roused.