“You shouldna let yourself be keepit in bondage,” said Jean, with a touch of sarcasm; “when folk maun do without ye, they can do without ye—I’ve aye seen that. Oh, I like them real well. They come and they gang, and now it’s a breakfast and now the bairns’ dinner—nothing more—and aye a maid to serve them; so it suits me fine. The lads are stirring boys, and Missie’s a darling. She makes me think upon one I lost, that was the sweetest o’ a’ my flock. Eh, if you could but keep a girlie like that aye the same, what a pleasure it would be in a house! But the bit things grow up and marry, and have weans of their own, and get to be just as careworn and wrinkled as yoursel’. I think whiles my Marg’ret, with ten of a family, and a man no better than he should be, is aulder than me.”
“It’s the course of nature,” said Mrs Harding—“we maunna grumble; but I’m sure when I see a’ that folk have to go through with their families, I’m thankful I have nane o’ my ain. Ye ken your Mr Pringle sets up to be our heir! It’s real ridiculous if it wasna provoking. I could laugh when I think o’t. He must have been terrible cast down when Mr Richard brought hame his boy.”
“But I thought it was a randy wife, not Mr Richard——”
“Whisht!” said the housekeeper; “we’ll say no more about that. It’s no’ a story I pretend to understand, but I’m rather thinking it was some Italian or other that Mr Richard sent with the bairn. Foreigners are strange cattle. And whether it was man or woman I wouldna say, for nobody saw them but my man, and he’s confused about the story. But this is clear, it was Mr Richard sent the bairn hame; and reason guid. You should have heard his man on Eetaly and thae places. You might as well sell your soul to Satan, and better too, for you would aye get something by the bargain—and there’s no even that comfort out there. Ye canna but wonder at Providence that lets a’ that play-acting and fiddling and breaking o’ the Sabbath gang on, and takes nae mair heed than if a’ thae reprobats were sober, decent, kirk-going folk like ourselves. But I’m thinking their time will come.”
“Poor bodies! I daur to say they ken nae better,” said Jean. “It’ll be by the mother’s side that the Pringles and the Rosses count kin?”
“Na, how could that be, when he thinks himsel’ the heir? When ye’ve ance lived in a high family, ye learn a heap of things. Titles never gang the way o’ the spinning-wheel, nor land that’s entailed, as they call it. It’s lad comes after lad, and the lasses never counted. I canna say it’s according to justice, but it’s law, and there’s nae mair to be said. This is the way of it, for my lady told me hersel’: A Ross married a Pringle that was an heiress two or three hunder years ago, and took his wife’s name, which was a poor exchange, though I’m saying nothing against the name of Pringle; my first place was with the Pringles of Whytfield, a real fine family. And now that a’ the Rosses have died down to the present family, the Pringles have come uppermost. My lady herself was six or seven years married before Mr Richard was born. So ye see they’ve had the cup to their lips, as you may say, more than once. That’s a thing I could not bide. I would rather be my man’s wife, knowing I could be no better all my days, than expect to be my lady, and never win further ben.”
“It’s much the same in a’ ranks o’ life,” said Jean. “There’s my Marg’ret; it’s been her desire a’ her days to get the house at the Loanhead, with a nice bit land, that would gang far to feed her family. She’s had the promise o’t for ten years back. Old John Thomson was to flit afore he died, but that fell through; and when he died, they couldna refuse to let his son come in; and then it was reported through a’ the parish that young John was to emigrate——”
“I’ve heard that,” said Mrs Harding; “and I aye give my advice against it: for nae man will ever succeed if he doesna work hard; and if he’ll work hard, he’ll do very well at hame.”
“Young John was to emigrate,” continued Mrs Moffatt; “and it was a’ settled about his roup, and Marg’ret was sure of getting in by the term; when what does he do but change his mind! I thought the poor lass would have broken her heart; and oh, the fecht she has with a’ thae bairns and a weirdless man. Then he had that awfu’ illness, and it was reported he was dying. My poor Marg’ret came to me the day he was prayed for in the kirk, with red een. ‘I’m doing naething but pray for him,’ she said; ‘for oh, if I didna pray for him to mend, I would wish him dead, mother; and what comfort could I have in onything that came to me after that?’ The man got weel,” said the old woman, with a sigh; “he’s as weel as you or me, and a hantle younger, and he canna make up his mind if he’ll go or bide. It’s awfu’ tantalising; and it happens in a’ classes of life. I’m real sorry for the poor gentleman, and I hope he doesna take it to heart like my Marg’ret, poor lass!”
“Ye mean well,” said Mrs Harding, half affronted; “but to pity the next heir is like grudging the Almighty’s mercies to us. Folk should learn to be content. I’m no’ saying for your Marg’ret; but Mr Pringle is as weel off as he has ony right to be, and why should he come spying upon my lord and my lady? Folk should learn to be content.”