“But I do,” said the Mistress.
“You, mother?”
“Ay, just me, mother; and a vagabond he is, as ony person may well see,” said the Mistress; “I ken mair than folk think; and now go back for a foolish bairn as you are, in spite of your black beard. Though I never saw the blackguard before, a’ my days, I’ll tell you his haill story this very night.”
CHAPTER LXV.
It was Saturday night, and in little more than an hour after Huntley’s return, Cosmo had joined the little family circle. Cosmo was five years older by this time, three-and-twenty years old, a man and not a boy; such at least was his own opinion—but his mother and he were not quite so cordial and united as they had been. Perhaps, indeed, it was only while her sons were young, that a spirit so hasty and arbitrary as that of the Mistress could keep in harmony with so many independent minds; but her youngest son had disappointed and grieved her. Cosmo had relinquished those studies which for a year or two flattered his mother with the hope of seeing her son a minister and pillar of the Church. The Mistress thought, with some bitterness, that his travels had permanently unsettled her boy; even his verses began to flag by this time, and it was only once in three or four months that Mrs. Livingstone received, with any thing like satisfaction, her copy of the Auld Reekie Magazine. She did not know what he was to be, or how he was to live; at present he held “a situation"—of which his mother was bitterly contemptuous—in the office of Mr. Todhunter, and exercised the caprices of his more fastidious taste in a partial editorship of the little magazine, which had already lost its first breath of popularity. And though he came out from Edinburgh dutifully every Saturday to spend the day of rest with his mother, that exacting and impatient household ruler was very far from being satisfied. She received him with a certain angry, displeased affectionateness, and even in the presence of her newly-arrived son, kept a jealous watch upon the looks and words of Cosmo. Huntley could not help watching the scene with some wonder and curiosity. Sitting in that well-remembered room, which the two candles on the table lighted imperfectly, with the soft night air blowing in through the open window in the corner, from which the Mistress had been used to watch the kitchen door, and at which now her son sat looking out upon the old castle and the calm sky above it, where the stars blossomed out one by one—Huntley watched his mother, placing, from mere use and wont, her work-basket on the table, and seating herself to the work which she was much too impatient to make any progress with—launching now and then a satirical and utterly incomprehensible remark at the Frenchman, who yawned openly, and repented his contempt for the Norlaw Arms—sometimes asking hasty questions of Cosmo, which he answered not without a little kindred impatience—often rising to seek something or lay something by, and pausing as she passed by Huntley’s chair to linger over him with a half expressed, yet inexpressible tenderness. There was change, yet there was no change in the Mistress. She had a tangible reason for some of the old impatience which was natural to her character, but that was all.
At length the evening came to an end. Huntley’s uncomfortable companion sauntered out to smoke his cigar, and coming back again was conducted up stairs to his room, with a rather imperative politeness. Then the Mistress, coming back, stood at the door of the dining-parlor, looking in upon her sons. The shadows melted from her face, and her heart swelled, as she looked at them. Pride, joy, tenderness contended with her, and got the better for a moment.
“God send you be as well in your hearts as you are to look upon, laddies!” she said, hurriedly; and then came in to sit down at the table and call them nearer for their first precious family hour of mutual confidence and reunion.
“Seven years, Huntley? I canna think it’s seven years—though they’ve been long enough and slow enough, every one; but we’ve thriven at Norlaw,” said the Mistress, proudly. “There’s guid honest siller at the bank, and better than siller in the byre, and no’ a mortal man to call this house his debtor, Huntley Livingstone! which is a change from the time you gaed away.”
“Thanks to your cares and labors, mother,” said Huntley.
“Thanks to no such thing. Am I a hired servant that ye say such words to me? but thanks to Him that gives the increase,” said the Mistress; “though we’re no’ like to show our gratitude as I once thought,” and she threw a quick side-glance at Cosmo; “but Huntley, my man, have ye naething to tell of yourself?”