“And I,” I replied, “shall have the pleasure of accompanying you in at least the early part of your journey, on my way to Irvine, where my mother still lives.”
We reached the village, and entered a little cottage, that presented its gable to the street, and its side to one of the narrower lanes.
“I must introduce you to my landlady,” said my companion, “an excellent, kind-hearted old woman, with a fund of honest Scotch pride and shrewd good sense in her composition, and with the mother as strong in her heart as ever, though she lost the last of her children more than twenty years ago.”
We found the good woman sitting beside a small but very cheerful fire. The hearth was newly swept, and the floor newly sanded; and, directly fronting her, there was an empty chair, which seemed to have been drawn to its place in the expectation of some one to fill it.
“You are going to leave me, Robert, my bairn,” said the woman, “an’ I kenna how I sall ever get on without you; I have almost forgotten, sin you came to live with me, that I have neither children nor husband.” On seeing me, she stopped short.
“An acquaintance,” said my companion, “whom I have made bold to bring with me for the night; but you must not put yourself to any trouble, mother; he is, I daresay, as much accustomed to plain fare as myself. Only, however, we must get an additional pint of yill from the clachan; you know this is my last evening with you, and was to be a merry one at any rate.” The woman looked me full in the face.
“Matthew Lindsay!” she exclaimed—“can you have forgotten your poor old aunt Margaret!” I grasped her hand.
“Dearest aunt, this is surely most unexpected! How could I have so much as dreamed you were within a hundred miles of me?” Mutual congratulation ensued.
“This,” she said, turning to my companion, “is the nephew I have so often told you about, and so often wished to bring you acquainted with. He is, like yourself, a great reader and a great thinker, and there is no need that your proud, kindly heart should be jealous of him; for he has been ever quite as poor, and maybe the poorer of the two.” After still more of greeting and congratulation, the young man rose.
“The night is dark, mother,” he said, “and the road to the clachan a rough one; besides you and your kinsman will have much to say to one another. I shall just slip out to the clachan for you; and you shall both tell me on my return whether I am not a prime judge of ale.”