“Weel, wife,” said John Stewart, ruefully scratching his head—“weel, I say naething against it in itsel; but will ye tell me what I’m to say to the Beelye?”
“Ay, John, that will I,” returned the house-mother. “Tell him to take his daughter’s bairn out of its cradle, puir wee totum, and ask himsel what he has to do wi’ a young wife—a young wife! and a bonnie lass like our Isabell! Man, John, to think, wi’ that muckle body o’ yours, that you should have sae little heart! Nae wonder ye need muckle coats and plaids about ye, you men! for ne’er a spark o’ light is in the hearts of ye, to keep ye warm within.”
“Weel, weel, Isabell; the mair cause ye should gie me a guid dram to keep the chill out,” said the miller; “and ye’ll just mind ye were airt and pairt, and thought mair of the Beelye’s bien dwellin’ and braw family than ever I did; but it’s aye your way—ye put a’ the blame, when there is blame, on me.”
“Haud your peace, guidman,” said Mrs Stewart. “Whiles I am drawn away wi’ your reasonings against my ain judgment, as happens to folk owre easy in their temper, whether they will or no—I’ll no deny that; but nae man can say I ever set my face to onything that would have broken the heart of a bairn of mine. Take your dram, and gang away with your worldly thoughts to your worldly business, John Stewart; if it wasna for you, I’m sure ne’er a thought of pelf would enter my head.”
“Eh, guidwife!” It was all that the miller’s astonishment could utter. He was put down. With humility he took the dram, and softly setting his glass on the table, went out like a lamb, to the mill.
“Leddy Kilbrachmont! and Janet, the glaikit gilpie, taking up with a common man!” said Mrs Stewart, unconsciously pushing aside the pretty wheel, the offering of the “wright” in Arncreoch. “Weel, but what maun I do? If Isabell gangs hame to her ain house, and Janet—Janet’s a guid worker—far mair use about a house like ours than such a genty thing as Bell—Janet married, too—what’s to come o’ me? I’ll hae to bring hame Katie frae the Castle.”
“Muckle guid ye’ll get of Katie, mother,” said Janet, who, just then coming in from the garden, with an armful of cold, curly, brilliant greens, had heard her mother’s soliloquy. “If ye yokit her to the wheel like a powny, she wadna spin the yarn for Isabell’s providing in half-a-dozen years; and no a mortal turn besides could Katie do in a house, if ye gied her a’ the land between this and Kellie Law.”
“And wha asked your counsel?” said the absolute sovereign of Kellie Mill. “If I’m no sair trysted wi’ my family, there never was a woman: first, your faither—and muckle he kens about the rule o’ a household; and syne you, ye taupie—as if Isabell’s providing was yet to spin! To spin, said she? and it lying safe in the oak press up the stair, since ever Bell was a wee smout of a bairn. And yours too, though ye dinna deserve it;—ay, and little Katie’s as weel, as the bonnie grass on the burnside could have tellt ye twal year ago, when it was white wi’ yarn a’ the simmer through, spun on a purpose-like wheel—a thing fit for a woman’s wark—no a toy for a bit bairn. Gae way wi’ you and your vanities. I would just like to see, wi’ a’ your upsetting, ony ane o’ ye bring up a family as creditable as your mother!”
Janet stole in to the table at the further window, and, without a word, began to prepare her greens, which were immediately to be added to the other contents of the great pot, which, suspended by the crook, bubbled and boiled over the fire; for the moods of the house-mother were pretty well known in her dominions, and no one dared to lift up the voice of rebellion.
After an interval of silence, Mrs Stewart proceeded to her own room, and in a short time reappeared, hooded and plaided, testifying with those echoing steps of hers, to all concerned, that she had again put on her high-heeled gala shoes. Isabell was now in the kitchen, quietly going about her share of the household labour, and doing it with a subdued graceful gladness which touched the mother’s heart.