“Young man, you have made a strange mistake,” said the old lady, in a voice which sent a chill through my heart. “I never had a grandchild. You take me for some one else.”
“Beg pardon, marm,” said I, trying to recover myself. “I took you for my grandmother, Mrs Wetherholm, who once lived here. I have been at sea for many years, and have never heard from her or my aunt. Can you tell me where they are gone?”
“Sit down, young man, and let me think. I cannot answer all in a hurry,” said she, and I thought her tone was much pleasanter than at first. “Your name is Wetherholm, is it? and what ship did you go to sea in?” I told her. “The Kite! That is strange,” said she. “I should know something about that vessel. If Margaret were here, she would tell me, but my memory is not as good as it was. You want to know where your relatives are. Now I come to think of it, the old lady who lived in this house before me had a daughter. They came, I have heard, like my poor niece’s family, from Shetland. Wetherholm was her name. Then I am sorry to say, young man, that she is dead.”
“Dead!” I exclaimed. “Dear Granny dead!” And my heart came all of a sudden into my throat, and I fairly burst out crying as I should have done when a boy. For some time I could not stop myself; but I put my face between my hands, and bent down as I sat, trying to prevent the tears finding their way through my fingers. I hadn’t had such a cry since I was a little boy, and then I felt very differently, I know. The old lady did not say a word, but let me have it out.
“That will do you good, young man,” said she at length. “I don’t think the worse of you for those tears, remember that.”
I thanked her very much for her sympathy, and then asked her if she could tell me anything about Aunt Bretta.
“I can’t tell you myself,” she answered; “but Miss Rundle, who lives next door, knew her well; and I’ll just send and ask her to step in, and she will give you all the information you want.”
The old lady summoned her little deaf and dumb girl, and signing to her, in two minutes Miss Rundle made her appearance. I remembered Miss Rundle, and used to think her a very old woman then, but she did not look a day older, but rather younger than when I went away. I had no little difficulty in persuading her who I was, and at first I thought she seemed rather shocked at seeing a common sailor sitting down in her friend’s parlour. However, at last I convinced her that I was no other than the long-lost Willand Wetherholm. She told me how my grandmother had long mourned at my absence, still believing that I was alive and would return, and always praying for my safety. At length she sickened—to the last expecting to see me. She had died about two years before; “and then,” added my old acquaintance, “the good old lady sleeps quietly in the churchyard hard by. I often take a look at her tombstone. Her name is on it; you may see it there.”
“That I will,” said I. “It will do my heart good to go and see dear Granny’s tombstone, as I cannot ever set eyes on her kind face again.” When I asked about Aunt Bretta, Miss Rundle bridled up a little, I thought.
“Well, she was my friend,” said she; “and she was a very good woman, and I used to have a great respect for her. Nobody made orange marmalade better than she did, or raspberry jam; and as for knitting, there was no one equalled her in all the country round. I have several of the bits of work she gave me, and I value them; but still I don’t see what right one’s friends have to go and demean themselves.”