“One blessing is, my Donald does not suffer,” continued Mrs. Duncan, with a quiver of her lip; “he is quite helpless, poor man, and can not stir himself, and Jean lifts him up as though he were a baby; but he sleeps most of his time, and when he is awake he never troubles—he just talks about the old time, when he brought me first to the Manse; and sometimes he fancies Robbie and Elsie are pulling flowers in the garden—and no doubt they are, the darlings, only it is in the garden of Paradise; and may be there are plenty of roses and lilies there, such as Solomon talked about in the Canticles.”
“And who takes the duty for Mr. Duncan?” asked Fay, who was much distressed to hear this account of her kind old friend.
“Well, our nephew, Fergus, rides over from Corrie to take the services for the Sabbath. He is to be wedded to Lilian Graham, down at the farm yonder, and sometimes he puts up at the Manse and sometimes at the farm; and they do say, when my Donald has gone to the land of the leal, that Fergus will come to the Manse; for though he is young he is a powerful preacher, and even Saint Paul bids Timothy to ‘let no one despise his youth;’ but I am wearying you, my bairn, and Jean has kindled a fire in the pink room, for the nights are chilly, and you and me will be going up, and leaving the big doggie to take care of himself.”
But “the big doggie” was of a different opinion; he quite approved of his hostess, but it was against his principles to allow his mistress to go out of his sight. Things were on a different footing now; and, ever since they had left Redmond Hall, Nero considered himself responsible for the safety of his two charges; so he quietly followed them into the pleasant low-ceiled bedroom, with its window looking over the old-fashioned garden and orchard, and laid himself down with his nose between his paws, watching Jean fill the baby’s bath, to the edification of the two women.
Jean helped Fay unpack a few necessary articles, and then she went down to warm the porridge for her master’s supper; but Mrs. Duncan pinned up her gray stuff gown, and sat down by the fire to undress the baby, while Fay languidly got ready for bed.
It was well that the mother and child had fallen into the hands of these good Samaritans. In spite of her wretchedness and the strange weight that lay so heavy on her young heart, a sort of hazy comfort stole over Fay as she lay between the coarse lavender-scented sheets, and listened to her baby’s cooes as he stretched his little limbs in the warm fire-light.
“Ay, he is as fine and hearty as our Robbie was,” observed Mrs. Duncan, with a sigh; and so she prattled on, now praising the baby’s beauty, and now commenting on the fineness of his cambric shirts, and the value of the lace that trimmed his night-dress, until Fay fell asleep, and thought she was listening to a little brook that had overflowed its banks, and was running down a stony hill-side.
She hardly woke up when Mrs. Duncan placed the baby in her arms, and left them with a murmured benediction, and went down for a gossip with Jean. “And a lovelier sight my old eyes never saw,” she said, “than that young creature, who looks only a child herself, with the bonnie boy in her arms, and her golden-brown hair covering them both. ’Deed, Jean, the man must have an evil spirit in him to ill-treat a little angel like that. But we will keep her safe, my woman, as sure as my name is Jeanie Duncan;” and to this Jean agreed. They were both innocent unsophisticated women who knew nothing of the world’s ways, and as Mrs. Duncan had said, “they would as soon have turned a shorn lamb away, and left it exposed to the tempest,” as shut their door against Fay and her child.
Fay was not able to rise from the bed the next day; indeed for more than a week she was almost as helpless as a baby, and had to submit to a great deal of nursing.
Mrs. Duncan was quite in her element—petting her guest, and ordering Jean about; for she was a brisk, bustling little woman, and far more active than her three-score and ten years warranted.