It was the market day in Fendie, and Halbert now attended the markets, where both buyers and sellers had learned to know the young Laird of Mossgray. These groups of rustical people—strong, tall, red-whiskered men, with their immense stooping shoulders, and primitive blue coats and universal gray plaids, worn in this brilliant June weather to keep out the heat, as in January they kept out the cold, whom you see stalking about the Main Street, with long deliberate steps, lifting their feet high, so that you fancy they must believe themselves still wading among the heather, acknowledged his acquaintance by grasping the rusty brim of the unbrushed hat as he passed them. More dignified, the lounging farmers in their short coats of gray plaiden, gathered in knots about the door of the inn where their stout ponies and comfortable gigs had been put up, held erudite conversation with young Mossgray on the markets, the weather, and the “craps.” He was perfectly at home among them; had they been Ojibbeway Indians, the result would have been quite the same. He was born to make friends anywhere, this brisk cosmopolitan Halbert.
He had just been at the post-office, and was carrying home with him the letters of the household. There was one for himself, directed in the large, stiff handwriting of his old teacher: but Halbert was not so anxious about Mr Monikie’s letter as he would once have been; he put it coolly into his pocket till his market business should be over.
At last, having discussed all the momentous subjects of the day, ascertained all the prices, and recognized all his acquaintances, Halbert felt that his duty was done, and that he might return home. But he had only opened the seal of Mr Monikie’s despatch, with its agreeable odour of black rappee, and ascertained that it contained no enclosure from Menie, when he heard the clatter of John Brown’s light cart on the road behind him. Halbert closed the letter again; it was by no means of pressing interest; at the moment he preferred a chat with John.
“Fine weather this,” said the young Laird.
“Ay, its weel eneuch,” said John Brown, examining the sky with the curious eye of a connoisseur, “but ower drouthy, Sir—ower drouthy; and ower muckle drouth is guid for neither beast or body, let alane the craps. Yon muckle park at Shortrigg will be burnt brown afore the July rain, and syne it’ll be as wat as a peat moss; ye’ll never be dune, Sir, noo ye hae ta’en up the farming trade—ye’ll never be dune battling wi’ the weather.”
Halbert laughed.
“I am not so warlike, John. I shall be content with the rain when it comes. Are they all well at the Mount—Mrs Fendie and the young ladies?”
“Middling, middling,” said John Brown; “we have our bits of touts noo and then, but we’re no to compleen o’; and the noo, we’ve nae time to think o’ being no weel, for Mr Alick’s coming hame.”
“Indeed!” said Halbert; the news interested him. “When does Mrs Fendie expect him, John?”
“I hear about the harvest—August or September,” said the factotum of Mount Fendie; “but we’re gaun to gar the haill countryside stand about, so we’ve begoud in time. But ye’ll mind he’s no a free-spoken, pleasant lad like yourself, Mr Graeme, begging your pardon for the freedom; he’s ane o’ your fleeaway sodger officers, and there’s mair o’ the same kind coming wi’ him.”