CHAPTER XIV. ARCHIE AND BELLE.
More than two years passed pleasantly by, and Belle was still at the farmhouse. She had indeed been treated like a daughter of the house, and Archie had been more than brotherly. He never went from home to find amusement. After the day of toil he spent the evening in Belle's society—in winter in the cheerful living-room, in summer they sat on a rustic seat under the trees that sheltered the house from the winter's wind and the summer's sun; or they strolled together in the gloaming, frequently extending their walk to honest Wullie's cottage. Many expressions of tenderness had fallen from Archie's lips, and many a look of love had not escaped Belle's notice; so when, one evening as they were returning from her father's house, he addressed her on the subject nearest to his heart, she was not surprised. Let us not attempt to repeat their words. To those who love each other such words are too sacred to reach the ear or meet the eye of the great world; they belong exclusively to the little world of which they two are the only inhabitants. Let it suffice to say that thereafter they worked with still lighter hearts, happy in the present, and with a happy future in anticipation.
When Belle reached her nineteenth birthday they were married.
Great was the joy of Mrs. Murdoch to see her daughter so well settled in life. She would probably never know the want of anything essential to her comfort. A busy life of honest toil was before her; but toil is what these simple people expected, what they desired. To them idleness, not labor, was a disgrace.
Belle returned to her mother's cottage a month before the marriage. It was a busy month. All that hands could do to put the little house in order was joyfully done. Then there were new clothes to be made for all, for all must look their best on Belle's wedding-day. Jamie was at home. It was the time of his vacation.
The time passed too quickly for all that was to be done. When the wedding-morning came, and all the happy family appeared in festive attire, Mrs. Murdoch herself becomingly dressed, her face beaming from the soft lace of her new cap-frill, no wonder that the heart of this once lonely, suffering woman swelled with maternal pride and with gratitude to God that so much good had fallen to her lot. Here were her two children who once had been the only sharers of her nightly vigils, the son nearly educated, and about to move in a sphere far above the loftiest flights of her early thoughts, and the daughter the happy bride of a prosperous young farmer.
The minister arrived, and the happy pair were united according to God's ordinance. Many and cordial were the congratulations of the guests; and many compliments to the bride's beauty were whispered among the simple-hearted neighbors. Even Donald McPherson remarked to his wife that he had never seen a bonnier bride. "Ay," said Katy, "she is bonny, and she has the grace o' a born leddy."
After an hour spent in conversation the guests were seated at the table, which, for the second time, was spread with a bountiful wedding-feast.
When the guests had dispersed, Mrs. Murdoch busied herself with restoring things somewhat to their wonted order; her thoughts were no less busy than her hands. "Oor life is unco checkered, Wullie," she said; "but still God has never gien us sae mony sorrows as to overwhelm us, nor sae mony joys as to turn oor heids. When we are a'maist fainting for fear o' the darkness, he sends light; and when we are o'er muckle exalted in oor feelings, he gars us through some turn o' his providence to come doun."
"That is weel said, wifie. Ane canna fail to see the Faither's gudeness in sic management o' us. But I think we wouldna need the bit and bridle sae often if we would tak God's gifts without forgetting wha sent them. God's children a' hae their chastisements; the Book says they maun hae them; but I trow the humble get far less than the proud and rebellious. I hope oor bairns will no hae to be sae muckle buffeted before they seek the rest that is provided for them aneath the sheltering wing of the Almighty. Annie is like Rab; hae ye never noticed it?"
"I hae seen it; but sin' she is a lass, I hae nae fears for her. Rab had nae fauts forbye drinking, ye ken."
"He was a'maist too heidstrang; but I wouldna mak mention o' it, savin' for Annie's sake. She would hae her ain way too if she wasna held wi' a strang hand. But we will gie her wi' the rest o' oor dear anes to the keeping o' the gude Lord. He kens best the way each maun be led."
CHAPTER XV. ANNIE.
Time passed and brought the usual changes to the family of honest Wullie. Jamie had finished his college course with honor, and was now a teacher in one of the high schools of Edinburgh. Davie could no longer be called "the wee lad." He took his place beside his father, and with his youthful vigor performed as much labor as Wullie with his declining strength. Annie was now in the full flush of early womanhood. Her dark eyes, rosy cheeks, and bewitching manner had already won the admiration of many "neebor lads," who did not fail to get a sight of her every Sunday in the kirk. But she had completely captured the heart of Donald McPherson, Jr. To his great annoyance she did not seem to reciprocate his affection. But knowing her to be lively and wilful, he hoped she only feigned indifference and did not mean to allow herself to be lightly won.
It was at this time that a nephew of John Cameron came to spend a few weeks at Laird Erskine's. He had been educated with Jamie, and, as was quite natural, he called at the cottage to deliver a message and some presents from Jamie. In one of his rambles he took occasion to call a second time. He chatted pleasantly with Annie, and was pleased with her artless simplicity. When he was about to return to Edinburgh he called again to say good-by. He gave his hand to Annie as he took leave, and with a pleasant smile remarked, "I hope I shall see you again."
Poor Annie! It was the first time a fine gentleman had talked with her. She could not but observe the refinement of his manner and conversation. She contrasted him with the rustic lads of the neighborhood, and they sank into insignificance. She remembered his looks and his words, and pondered them in her heart. How she wished she had been born a lady, or had been educated like her brother Jamie! Her sunny face lost some of its color. She moved about her work mechanically, her thoughts wandering in the cloud-land of her imagination.
Mrs. Murdoch noticed the change in her daughter's manner. "What ails ye, lass, that ye dinna talk ony mair? Are ye no weel?" she asked.
"I am quite weel," said Annie, "but I dinna feel like talking."
Donald McPherson had been steadily gaining property ever since he stopped drinking. He now had sufficient means to stock a farm which he rented. He had also gained respectability by honest dealing with his neighbors and by a strict attendance at church. He had merited and gained the coveted name of douce Donald, which was not misapplied. Donald, Jr., being the only child, and of steady habits, Mrs. Murdoch placed no obstacle in the way of an intimate friendship between him and her daughter. In fact, she considered him a very suitable person to sue for Annie's hand. He was warmly received by all at the cottage; but Annie never showed him any preference above the other lads of the neighborhood. Her mother had long since realized that Wullie was right when he intimated that she was "heidstrang." Mrs. Murdoch was at a loss to know how to approach her daughter, for fear of driving her in the wrong direction; therefore she wisely concluded to let the matter alone. But young McPherson, who saw nothing in the way of settling in life, offered her his hand. She declined the offer. He was loath to accept a refusal. He pressed his suit, telling her that he had always thought of her as his future wife.
"Ye hae taen far too muckle for granted," she replied, "for I canna wed wi' you."
Donald's visits were discontinued. The mother, ascertaining the cause of his prolonged absence, remonstrated with her daughter.
"Annie, lass, what hae ye dune to young Donald?"
"I hae refused him, as was my privilege," she replied, with an independent toss of her head.
"Can ye no see where your interest lies? Donald is a clever lad, and would gie you a gude hame; and a' would be your ain when his faither and mither are gane."
"I dinna want a better hame than I have noo," retorted Annie; "and it is lang waiting for dead folks' shoon."
"Ye will drive the lad a'maist daft wi' your stubborn ways."
"Little danger o' that; but I canna help it if I do. Auld Muckle Geordie might tak it in his heid to gang daft aboot me; would I hae to marry him?" she asked, with a merry twinkle in her mischievous eyes.
The mother laughed despite her efforts to the contrary, for Auld Muckle Geordie was an old lame piper supported by charity.
"Noo be a canny lass," she continued, resuming the stern expression of her countenance. "Auld Muckle Geordie has naething to do wi' Donald, who isna quite twa years older than yoursel, and naething can be said against him."
"I didna say onything against him. I only meant to shaw that a lass canna always wed ony ane that sets his heart on her."
"Ay, ony ane, to be sure! But where would ye find a better lad than Donald? Dinna pit your dish tapside doun when it rains parritch."
"Weel, mither, it will hae to rain parritch frae anither quarter before I set my dish to catch it."
"Annie, ye can never be tauld onything. But I hae kenned folk wha decided sae speedily that they had to repent at leisure."
Donald took the matter more to heart than Annie had anticipated. Wishing to get away from scenes that were constant reminders of his chagrin and unhappiness, he left home and took passage in a vessel bound to the West Indies. Annie then received cold looks from more than one pair of eyes. Mr. and Mrs. McPherson regarded her as the disturber of their peace and the desolater of their home. They could see no reason why their son should be refused by Annie Murdoch or any other lass. Even Annie's mother was reserved in manner towards her. But her native wit and vivacity often served her a good turn when the subject was broached, and she generally parried their censure with a counterstroke that made her victorious. So things remained till Jamie came again.
Jamie, though so learned and so well received in Edinburgh society, did not forget his parents in their humble home. Every year he spent with them at least a part of the summer, and they were none the poorer for his visit. From the time he first received a salary he had every year sent them a generous remittance; and when he visited them he did not come empty-handed. His coming was always anticipated with eager pleasure; and now when he arrived all were delighted. He took an interest in all their simple home affairs, and always inquired about the welfare of the neighbors. He liked to sit and talk with his mother. During a conversation with her he chanced to ask her how she liked young Mr. Cameron. Annie turned away her face at the mention of his name. She felt the hot blood rush to her cheeks; but it soon receded, for Jamie followed his question with the statement that Cameron was soon to be married to his cousin.
Annie, pale and trembling, sought the door.
"What ails thee, Annie?" asked the anxious mother; but receiving no answer, the truth flashed on her mind. "Puir lass!" said she; but Annie, refusing sympathy, withdrew from her mother, and hurried out to conceal her emotion.
"What ails Annie?" asked Jamie.
"I see it a' noo," replied his mother. "I ken why she refused young Donald McPherson. The puir lass maun hae lo'ed young Cameron."
Jamie was astonished. He questioned his mother, and learned that Cameron had been at the cottage but three times. "He is a kind-hearted, noble young man. I do not wonder that my little sister admired him; but it was folly to fall in love with him. Let us deal gently with the girl, and turn her thoughts in other directions."
The day passed; night wrapped the earth in darkness; bird, beast, and human creatures rested in sleep, save where the solitary lamp burned dimly in the sick-room or the aching heart forbade the eyes to slumber. Annie retired to her bed, but sleep came not. She had been rudely wakened from her young life's happy dream; could she ever sleep again! In vain she tried to dismiss her thoughts and find rest.
Finally she rose from her bed and stole softly to the window. Looking out of its narrow casement, she saw in the distance the outline of a clump of silver birches; then catching the scent of the clover from the meadow and the wild rose from the hedgerow, she said mentally, "This world is too bonny for tears. And why should I grieve for one who perhaps never gave me a second thought, and whom I had no right to love? It was but a childish fancy. I am no longer a child. From this hour I am a woman. I will tear his image from my heart, and be content with the lot that God has given me."
The midnight air cooled her brow and quieted her throbbing brain and aching heart. She again sought her couch, and soon fell into a peaceful slumber. The next morning she was calm, but not sad. Reason had prevailed.
Her mother was surprised at her self-control; but she said not a word to Annie upon the subject that was most in both their thoughts. Neither did Annie ever mention to any one her struggle and her victory. If she had supposed that any one possessed her secret, her mortification would have been as great as her grief.
Jamie felt sorry for his sister, but he did not dare tell her so. He only gave her his parting presents, bade her a cheerful good-by, and returned to his post.
CHAPTER XVI. RECONSIDERED.
More years passed, bringing two sweet bairns into the home of Archie Lindsay. Still Annie Murdoch would neither be wooed nor wedded. Whether the ever alert Donald McPherson suspected that she had changed her mind and was waiting for his son, and communicated his suspicions to the one most concerned, is not known; but at length there came a letter saying that young Donald was coming home; and it was reported that he would bring a heavy purse.
Great was the joy of his parents, for they were growing old and longed to lay their cares on younger shoulders. Soon a sun-browned man knocked at their door. Katy McPherson cast on him a long, searching glance, and exclaimed, "Donald, my bairn! Donald, my bairn! Ye are welcome hame!"
As to the father, he was very happy and very proud. He spoke the praises of his son into every listening ear.
Donald was glad to be at home again. He inquired about all the neighbors, and particularly after honest Wullie's family.
"Annie is no married. I think she is waiting for you, Donald," said his mother.
On the evening of the third day after his return he dressed himself with great care, and announced that he was going to honest Wullie's to see how the folk looked.
Annie had been early apprised of Donald's arrival. She kept her thoughts to herself; but she was unusually particular about her personal appearance, and wore the knot of ribbon that was most becoming to her. But as the days passed and Donald did not appear, she began to think he was in no haste to see her. However, at last he came. He was most cordially received by all the family, Annie not excepted.
Donald was much improved by his residence abroad. He chatted pleasantly and interestingly of scenes and things he had observed during his absence, and all were sorry when the lateness of the hour warned him that it was time to leave.
"Ye hae gien us a pleasant evening, Donald," said Mrs. Murdoch. "I hope it will no be long till ye come again."
"That will be as Annie says."
"I will promise no to keep ony bloodhounds about," said Annie, laughing.
"Ye will have to promise mair than that."
"Weel, I will promise no to keep ony doggies o' a savage nature."
"Mair than that," said he, shaking his head.
"Weel, then, I will promise to bid you a pleasant gude evening as often as ye choose to come."
"That will do. On the strength of that promise I shall be right neeborly."
Bidding them good night, he went home with fresh hopes kindled in his bosom.
The purse Donald brought home with him did much towards improving the farm stock and utensils, besides furnishing the house more comfortably. After this outlay there was still left a small sum, which Donald put at interest. "It would be gude for a rainy day," he said.
It would seem that Donald's second attempt at courtship was more successful than the first, for six months after his return he was married to Annie Murdoch.
"That is noo as it s'ould be," said honest Wullie. "It aye lookit to me that it maun come to that yet; but some folk are lang in seeing what is for their gude."
Douce Donald, as he was now always called, to distinguish him from his son, could not quite forget his son's former trouble. He said to Annie, half jestingly, "Ye s'ouldna hae taen sae lang a time to mak up your mind, ye wilfu' puss."
"Never mind that now, faither," said Donald. "Ye wouldna have had sae saft an auld age without the gear that came of my disappointment."
When Donald and Annie had been married a twelvemonth a daughter was born to them. Great was the joy in the household. The grandfather was hardly less pleased than the father. He went to honest Wullie's to communicate his gladness and to congratulate him.
"We hae a fine granddaughter, neebor Murdoch. The sight o' her will be gude for oor auld een. If the gude Lord spares her till us, she will beguile the lang weary hours o' auld age."
"Ay, it is gude to see young faces when we are auld; but I think ye will find your hours nane too lang, neebor McPherson. God gies to nane o' us mair time than we need."
"Weel, then, she s'all help me to graw young again."
"Ay, that will do. Keep a young heart in your auld body, and ye will weary naebody."
"Hoo comes it that ye are sae wise, neebor Murdoch?"
"I dinna think mysel wise."
"But ye aye gie gude advice."
"Weel, we hae this promise in the gude Book, 'They s'all a' be taught of God.' It may be that I hae been taught o' the Spirit. Warldly wisdom I hae nane, or next to nane; but I ken weel that the wisdom that God gies to those that ask it will be better to haud to when passing frae this to the untried warld than a' the wisdom o' the wisest men."
CHAPTER XVII. DAVIE.
We have now seen Robert Murdoch's children all happily settled in life. God's promises to the fatherless had not failed. Only Wullie's own son Davie is left at home, and the years have rolled by till he is now nearly as old as his father was when we first made his acquaintance.
School never had any charms for Davie. He could read and write, and he possessed some knowledge of arithmetic. Beyond this he did not care to go. But he did love hard work, and the harder the better. He loved to drive the plough and put in the sickle. "He is honest Wullie over again," was the unanimous verdict of the whole neighborhood.
Meanwhile the father's strength was failing. It often happened that when Wullie was going to his work in the noonday heat Farmer Lindsay called to him from the cool porch where he was sitting, "Come, sit ye doun and crack a while wi' me, Wullie, and let younger men lead in the wark noo."
Davie, too, urged his father to take life more easily. "Ye hae lang borne the burden and heat o' the day; sit doun noo and rest. I hae the strength and the will to provide for a' the wants o' those wha hae provided for me when I couldna do it for mysel."
Jamie with his annual remittance sent this message: "Make yourself and mother comfortable, and do not go to your work on bad days. Save your strength when you can; it will please me better if you do not work at all. You have labored enough for a lifetime. I hope to supply many of your wants myself; but you have also Davie to look after you."
"Ay, we hae Davie, and we hae mony freends and mony comforts. Truly, the Lord is gude to all that put their trust in him," said Wullie to his wife.
"Ay, Wullie; and yet I canna but wish that Davie was mair like Jamie. He wouldna hae to wark sae hard," said the mother.
"Leave Davie to his ain choice, wifie. He canna be as Jamie is. Jamie likes to gang oot in the warld, and muckle can be said in his praise, for he is as gude a mon as I could wish, forbye his learning. But Davie taks after his faither. He lo'es best the wild moorlands and crags, the green hillocks, the scent o' the newly-turned sod, the lowing o' the herds, the crawing o' the cocks, and the voice of the sang-birds. He is a' that is left to us noo. How could we get on withoot Davie?"
Mrs. Murdoch, too, began to feel the approach of age. The noon of her life was long past, and she had toiled unremittingly. She desired to sit down now and rest a while in the evening shade. She thought it time that Davie should bring a wife to the cottage.
But Davie seemed never seriously to think of such a thing, notwithstanding various hints from his mother. Every year she felt less able to do the work of the cottage; she was lonely also, for she liked to have some one to talk to; but since Annie went away she spent most of the day in solitude. She therefore made a direct appeal to Davie.
"Davie, I canna live always; why do ye no tak a wife to yoursel? I am sure there is room eneuch here; and there is nae lack o' gear. Ye s'ould hae a wife as weel as ony other man."
"I dinna see ony lass that I would care to tak to the parson wi' me. A' the gude lassies hae been taen."
"There is aye gude fish in the sea!"
"But I canna hae the luck to catch them."
Weary of waiting for Davie to bring a wife, she sent to Wigtown for her niece and namesake, Jeannie Craig, to come and live with her.
Whether this was a plot on the part of the mother is not known; but certain it is that David married his cousin; and the neighbors said the mother had done the courting. If this be so she did her son a very great favor, for no one could have filled the place better or made him a better wife.
"She minds me of oor Belle," Davie said aside to his mother the first day she came to the cottage. And she was like Belle in her cheerful, gentle ways.
CHAPTER XVIII. A REST BY THE WAYSIDE.
Honest Wullie and his wife could now spend the evening of life in quiet, peaceful comfort. Their cup of happiness was full. All their children were married and lived comfortably. Jamie had married in Edinburgh, and he had a beautiful home, with children to gladden it. There was no happier wife than Belle Lindsay, and Archie thought there could be no better one. Archie's family lived in one part of the farmhouse. There his sweet-tempered wife still warbled tender home melodies while busy with her work, and at nightfall sang soft, sweet lullabies to the fair-haired babe. Annie and Donald were never sorry that they had waited for each other. Several children blessed them with hope and claimed their care and labor. The marriage of Davie had brought no innovation to Wullie's home. His daughter-in-law stepped quietly and aptly into the place his wife had filled as mistress and manager. Mrs. Murdoch, unencumbered with care, could now sit by her husband at the hearthstone, or in summer on a rustic seat on the shady side of the house. Her knitting was usually in her hand; so accustomed was she to this kind of work that she could almost have done it sleeping, and she would have felt lost without it.
Farmer Lindsay also divested himself of many of the cares of life. He had no anxiety about the management of the farm; Archie was as good a farmer as himself. Mrs. Lindsay had gradually given the care of household affairs to her daughter-in-law, and now Belle had entire control. "I ken noo that Archie's parritch is weel made and his bannocks weel baked; and a' the wark is weel dune and naething wasted," she said to her husband.
Their daughter, still unmarried, was with them to anticipate their wishes. Thus this ageing pair were resting from their labors and gliding gently down the slope of life.
The vine-hung porch was often the resort of Farmer Lindsay. He loved to sit there in the dreamy afternoons, enlivening the hours with tales of olden time. His wife often sat beside him. Here a goodly view was spread out before them. To one side lay the out-buildings, the orchard, and the meadows that extended far beyond honest Wullie's cottage. On the other side rose the hills covered with mountain-ash and dwarf-oaks. The birds sang in the shade-trees, and the timid hares gambolled in the hedgerow, or gazed at them with soft eyes when no danger threatened. Among the hills were the pasture-lands; and the tinkle of the herd-bell was often borne to their ears by the balmy breath of the south wind.
Occasionally honest Wullie, accompanied by his wife, slowly climbed the little rise of ground that lay between the cottage and the farmhouse. There was always a kindly welcome and inquiries after the health of each other. The bairns, too, must be called and told "no to be shy, but to gang up and speak to their grandparents." Honest Wullie always asked many questions about the farm-work, for he loved to hear the praises of Davie. When he stayed to break bread with his daughter they all ate together, and spent a social hour at table. Wullie was listened to with the greatest respect, for he always had something good and sensible to say.
When they went home some of the Lindsays accompanied them a part of the way, as not to have done so would have been considered discourteous.
To Annie's home Wullie no longer attempted to walk; but Donald brought her parents twice a year to pay her a visit. These visits were always enjoyable, for Annie spared no pains to please her parents. "Annie behaves doucely," was honest Wullie's comment after returning home.
Jamie still came once a year to the cottage.
"Now that Davie is married," he said to his father, "I would like to have you and mother come and spend some time with me."
"I am too auld to leave hame, Jamie; but if I could gang, what would I do in Edinburgh? I would a'maist as soon be buried alive. Na, na, Jamie, I couldna do that; I couldna leave my auld hame. Here I hae lived, and here let me dee. I a'maist feel I couldna lo'e God as weel where I couldna see him in his warks. Na, na, Jamie, leave me where I can hear the sang o' the laverock,[A] the mavis,[B] and the cushat;[C] where the burn wimples and the daisy and the heather bloom; where the darkness fa's softly and the stars blink bonnily; where the sun wunna rise far before I can see the face o' it. Na, Jamie, Edinburgh is nae place for auld Wullie Murdoch."
Jamie knew that his father was right.
"I suppose no other place would seem to you like home," he replied; "but I would like to manifest the filial regard I feel for my parents."
Jamie then resolved to coax Davie to Edinburgh. He thought it would give his brother some idea of the world around him. Besides, he was a little curious to see the amazement with which his unsophisticated brother would view the wonders of the Scottish capital. It was, however, a long time before he succeeded in getting him there; but several summers after he had first proposed the journey Davie returned with him to Edinburgh. On their way they stopped at Glasgow. As Davie had so little desire for sight-seeing, he was more than satisfied with his short stay in that city, and wished then to return home; but Jamie persuaded him to go on to Edinburgh and Linlithgow. He pointed out to his brother the places of historic interest, the ancient fortresses, palaces, and ruins. None of these stirred his heart like old Grayfriars' Church, where, on the first of March, 1638, the first signatures were set to the National Covenant that bound Scotland to resist the civil and ecclesiastical tyranny of Charles I.; Grayfriars' churchyard, with its memories of martyr Covenanters; and the old national fortress, the Castle Rock. The sight of these stirs the heart of every true Scotchman, for all are associated with Scottish struggles for liberty. There was little else he could appreciate, although the magnificent churches impressed him with their grandeur, and recalled to his mind the description of the only one with which he was familiar, that grander temple reared by Solomon. The bells, too, with their solemn, sonorous call, filled him with reverential awe. Everything else wearied him. The handsome dwellings, the public buildings, the long rows of shops and markets, were tiresome to him; and the sound of the town-crier he would gladly have exchanged for the tinkle of the bell from the sheepfold. He did not feel at ease even in his brother's house. He considered everything too bonny to touch, and he failed to divest himself of the feeling of restraint until he again beheld the simple cottages, the moors and glens of Ayrshire. However, after he reached home he remembered that he had seen many fine sights, and he was really glad that he had made the journey; but he was equally glad that there was no prospect of having to repeat it.
In the city he had remembered his nephews and nieces, and he brought them each a present, small though it was. But for his wife he brought a "braw new gown," to which he often afterwards referred with a good deal of complacency as "the gown I brought frae Edinburgh." His wife usually smiled secretly, saying to herself, "I will hae to tak gude care o' it, for it will be mony a lang day before he brings me anither frae there."
CHAPTER XIX. LENGTHENING SHADOWS.
Let us now look at our friends ten years later. We find some of them at life's sunset. But no storms of adversity have marred the serenity of the declining day of these simple people. Honest Wullie's years have already numbered more than fourscore. The locks that adorn his temples are no longer gray, but white. His frame is bent with labor and years.
Gradually he had left the heavier work to younger hands, and after a few years he had ceased to take his place among the laborers. In summer, however, he still planted and cultivated his little garden, and in winter he took care of the cows and kept the fires burning. But the time came when spade, mattock, and hoe were laid aside, and honest Wullie occupied his easy-chair. This was sorely against his will, as he said, for he liked to be of use to his family; but the infirmities of age left him no choice.
Then it was that the beauty of his soul shone forth in a clearer light, proving that "they also serve who only stand and wait." Always cheerful himself, he encouraged the despondent, mildly reproved those who were unduly elated, arrogant, or unyielding, and meted out to each the counsel most needed.
He looked patriarchal among his children and grandchildren, who vied with each other in manifesting their regard for him. He loved to have his grandchildren near him, and he often smiled at their innocent amusements. His wife, several years younger than himself, was still in good health. She was most attentive to the comfort of her aged husband, who for so many years had been her stay and support. Both were mindful of the many mercies that had attended them during their long life.
"When I look at you, Wullie, wi' sae mony comforts and sae few cares, and at a' our children sae weel provided for, I am reminded o' David of auld when he said, 'I have been young, and now am auld; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' Ay, Wullie, the blessings o' the righteous man hae been gien to you."
"Ay, Jeannie, we hae had a lang life, and mony joys as weel as sorrows. The Lord aye gies his children what is best for them. He remembereth our frame; he knoweth we are but dust, and he doesna pit upon us what we are no able to bear."
In the very evening of his days he had the pleasure of seeing his benefactor, the donor of the ten-pound note, whom he not only thanked and blessed, but whose bounty he offered to repay. "No, no, honest Wullie," said the good man, "I have never been the poorer for that gift, nor for any other given in like manner."
And now we come to the close of the good man's earthly pilgrimage. The chair in the chimney nook is vacant, and on the bed lies the once strong and active William Murdoch. The helplessness of age and exhaustion is upon him. He has no malady; he is simply passing away. The silver cord is being loosed, the golden bowl is being broken.
The sun was slowly sinking. The soft summer breeze came in at the cottage window and puffed the snowy curtains at either side. Order and quiet prevailed. Near the bed sat the faithful wife. Her knitting was not in her hands, neither was it in her lap. She sat with a sad yet composed expression on her face, thinking of the past, the present, and the future, all of which seemed now to be brought together. Near the ingle sat a younger, matronly woman, hushing an infant to rest. In her we recognize Annie McPherson, the same Annie, but ripened and softened by added years. From the farmhouse came tripping down the path a sprightly blooming girl, who reminded one of Belle. This was Alice Lindsay, Isabel's oldest child, come to say that her mother would be over to spend the night. She stooped and kissed her sleeping grandfather, and after asking her grandmother if there was anything she could do, she went out to her aunt Jeannie, who was milking the cows.
"Aunt Jeannie," she began, "are ye no weary? Let me milk ane o' the coos."
"Na, Alice, I am a'maist dune. Gang and talk wi' your cousins yonder; they are greetin' aboot their grandfaither. I hae but noo tauld them that he must soon dee."
Alice went to the rear of the cottage: there on a pile of sticks sat two fine little lads, whom Davie had quite naturally named Wullie and Jamie. They saw their cousin approaching, and tried to dry their tears on the back of their hands. She sat down between them and put her arm around Jamie, while Wullie dropped his head in her lap and sobbed out,
"Grandfaither is going to dee, Alice. He is gaen awa frae us, and they will pit him in a box and nail him doun, and pit him in the groun', and he wunna win oot till the resurrection morn, mither says, and we canna mak oot when that will be. Then there will be naebody to pat oor heids when we come to the ingle. Grandmither aye knits, and she never pats oor heids, and says, 'Puir wee lads! puir wee lads!'"
"Grandfaither is going to dee, Alice."
"My puir wee lads," said Alice, "ye will hae freends left to you still. Do ye no ken that grandfaither wearies to be awa wi' his Faither in heaven? Ye canna understand all aboot it noo, Wullie, but ye will some time. Grandfaither is an auld man, and he canna get the pleasure oot o' the warld that you can. He canna rin aboot the green fields here; but yonder where he is gaen he will be made young again, and then he will walk in the green fields o' the heavenly warld, and never graw auld ony more. Sae dry your tears, that is a wee man; grandfaither wouldna like ye to greet sae sairly."
Now they heard footsteps, and, looking up, the lads saw their father coming down the home-path with quickened steps, for he was anxious to know how his father was. As he neared the door he slackened his pace and entered the cottage as noiselessly as possible. He stepped to the bedside and gazed on his father; as he turned away a heavy sigh escaped him.
After Alice had comforted her little cousins she hastened home, and her mother came. The twilight had deepened into night; the cottage door was closed and the candle lighted. In the room were now gathered all the children except Jamie, and of him all were thinking.
"I think your faither is nearer his end than we thought," said the mother. "I ken weel Jamie would like to be here."
"I think we should have sent for him," said Belle.
"I think sae myself," said Davie.
"Annie, ye gang and write a letter till him right awa," said the mother.
Annie promptly obeyed, going into another room, and the conversation continued. They talked without restraint, for if their father should wake he was too deaf to understand ordinary conversation.
"I fear it isna possible for Jamie to come in time to see his faither alive," said Belle.
"I think he willna live the week oot," said Davie.
The mother sat with closed eyes and folded hands. "Jamie was aye fond o' his faither; he was aye a gude lad," she said, thinking aloud.
"Ay, he was that, and his gude fortune hasna spoiled him, either," replied Isabel.
"It would be hard to spoil Jamie, I think," said Davie. "I often thought o' that when I was wi' him in Edinburgh; for he introduced me to a' his grand freends. To be sure, I made my best boo; but ye ken weel I am no like Jamie."
"Weel, ye needna be. The warld maun hae pleughmen as weel as scholars," said his wife.
"Ye are right there. Jamie would hae dune wrang if he hadna treated Davie wi' respect," said Belle.
"Some folk might think his wife is a bit proud, but she didna shaw her pride to me. She is right fond o' Jamie, I could see that, and she would treat me weel for his sake," said Davie.
Thus in conversation pertaining to family affairs the evening passed. Annie had finished her letter, and the time for prayers drew nigh. Davie, on whom this duty then devolved, read and prayed; but his voice was unsteady, and all knew that his heart was too full for a lengthy prayer. They remained on their knees for many moments, each heart silently beseeching the Heavenly Father to give needed grace and strength. As they arose a slight movement attracted their attention towards the aged man. A single gasp, and all was over. Honest Wullie had yielded up his spirit to his Maker.
"He is awa," said the mother.
"Ay, he is gone," said Davie.
There was no violent outburst of grief. Even sadness was, for the time, almost chased away by the near approach of heaven. Only the solemnity that followed the passing of the death-angel pervaded the cottage.
CHAPTER XX. ANOTHER SHEAF GATHERED.
The heather had bloomed but seven years on the grave of honest Wullie when the children were again assembled around the bed of death: their aged mother was about to leave them. Jamie had been summoned from Edinburgh, and he with the others silently awaited the inevitable parting.
In looking into the room where the sick mother lay one would notice few changes. The invalid lay just where her husband had lain. The same small stand stood beside the bed; over the sufferer were bending the same forms, or nearly the same, for some changes were noticeable in them. Time had left traces on the once smooth brows of youth, and lines of silver had crept alike into dark or auburn hair. Jamie, already past fifty, was still in his prime. His long residence in the capital had polished his manners, and he appeared the refined cultured gentleman that he was. His fine intellectual brow was furrowed by thought rather than by years. Isabel and Annie had passed the meridian of life, and their afternoon was crowded with duties, and sometimes shadowed by disappointments. They had reached that time when the parental heart knows scarcely more of hope than of fear; when the children, eager to begin the battle of life, rush out into the world, or, staying, are as likely to be vexed as pleased with home restraints. Davie was less changed in appearance than the others. His step, never light nor swift, was neither heavier nor slower than formerly; his broad shoulders showed no inclination to stoop; no shade of disappointment rested on his face; he had merely grown seven years older. Davie's wife moved quietly about, mindful of the comfort of all. Her sensible face, overcast with sadness, gave evidence that she felt the approaching separation no less than the sons and daughters: for this family was one of the few in which mother-in-law and daughter-in-law lived in harmony and succeeded in pleasing each other. Now this beautiful relationship and companionship was to be dissolved. Jeannie had ever been most careful of the comfort of the aged woman, and now in the last sad days her hand most tenderly ministered to her wants.
But the time came when no human hand could help, when life was fast ebbing, and the shadow of death darkened the household and filled every heart with solemn sadness. For several hours the dying woman had lain in a stupor, and no one expected her to speak again; but she opened her eyes, recovered consciousness, and, seeing the sorrowful faces around her, she spoke.
"Dinna grieve that I maun leave you. I hae stayed with you till ye can a' care for yoursels better than I can care for you: ye s'ould ask nae mair. Ye are aye in the hands of God; and he will guide you safely through this warld, and bring you to me in the better warld above. I shall greet my bairns on the other shore."
These were her last words. She fell asleep, and waked no more.
They buried her beside her husband and returned to their homes, feeling, as never before, that one generation had passed away and that theirs was the next to follow.
There is, perhaps, no relation in life the dissolution of which sunders so tender a tie as that of child and mother. Memory is so stirred that long-forgotten scenes pass before our mind's eye like a broad panorama. In the foreground stand acts of disobedience and our lack of filial affection, or rather our failure to manifest it as we should have done. Beside these stand the many proofs of maternal love, patience, and self-sacrifice. Happy the children who can recall other and pleasanter memories of their conduct when in the presence of the dead, cold clay of her who has done and suffered so much for them! And such was the case in this family. On the evening after their mother's burial the tone of their conversation was not wholly sad and regretful. Each son and daughter knew that the mother had indeed exercised much forbearance towards them all; but there came to them the assurance that they had in many ways, both in early and later years, given proofs of their love and respect. Annie, whose waywardness had perhaps given more trouble than all the rest, sincerely repented her faults, and grieved that she had ever been undutiful to so kind a mother.
"Nane o' the children," said she, speaking to her sister, "hae gien mother the trouble that I hae gien her. Alas, why doesna a bairn ken there is nae pleasure in wrang-doing!"
"O Annie," replied Isabel, "ye needna reproach yoursel; ye werena a troublesome bairn, only a little heidstrang; and I am sure naebody could hae been mair kind or respectful than yoursel these mony years past."
"I ken that," said Annie, "but I canna forget that I grieved her mony times when I kenned weel eneuch I was doing wrang; that isna pleasant to remember."
Jamie, now Professor Murdoch, remained long enough to visit his sisters in their own homes. He spent the evening after the funeral under the roof that had sheltered him in his boyhood; the sisters were there also. After speaking of the dead mother, her virtues, her faith in God, and the eternal happiness with the redeemed upon which she had now entered, the conversation became more general, running in various channels. Jamie had much to ask about the other families, but he took a special interest in Davie's little twin daughters. They looked so much alike that he declared he could not tell which was Maggie and which Nannie. They had large blue eyes and curly flaxen hair. It was their father's delight to sit with one on each knee, trotting them in his clumsy fashion, singing to them the rhymes that were sung to all babies, turning his face from side to side meantime, and gazing fondly at one or the other.
"Well, Davie, you look about as proud and pleased as a parent can be," remarked Jamie.
"Why should I no look proud? I will leave it to yoursel, Jamie; saw ye ever bonnier bit lassies?"
Jamie smiled good-naturedly. "I think not," he replied.
"Davie," interposed Jeannie, "ye are aye praisin' the bairns. Dinna be makin' ither folk praise them too. Do ye no ken that all parents see their bairns in the same way? Jamie has bairns o' his ain."
"Ay," replied Davie, "but Jamie has nae lassies in his family."
"No, I have no lassies, and my sons are as tall as I am; so I quite enjoy the novelty of seeing your wee daughters." Then, addressing his sisters, he continued, "I must see more of my nephews and nieces before I return. Some of them I saw only at the funeral, and I hardly recognized them, so much have they grown."
"Dear knows," said Annie, "my bairns do naething but graw. Jennie is half a heid taller than I am, and Robin is as tall as she is. The wee lad, my seven-year auld Donald, is weel grawn for his years."
"Let me see—how many bairns have we among us?" asked Jamie.
"A'thegither," said Davie, "we have fourteen: yoursel twa, Belle four, Annie three, and mysel five."
"We dinna number very many," said Isabel, "but for a' that I hae my hands full; and they will be mair than full when Alice gaes awa, for she is to be married at Hallowmas, and it will be a lang time before wee Annie graws strang eneuch to be ony help. And what wi' Sandy's notions about books and Robert's notions about waterwheels and mills, I needna look for muckle help frae them."
"Sandy must soon come to me, sister Belle," said Jamie.
"Has the lad been talking to you about going to school?"
Jamie was about to reply when the door opened, and Sandy, who had come to accompany his mother home, walked in. As he entered his mother looked at him half-threateningly, half-playfully, and shook her finger at him. He darted an inquiring look at his uncle, and the latter shook his head almost imperceptibly.
"I understand it all," said Isabel, who had been watching the two. "Sandy will leave home too, perhaps close upon the heels of Alice. Well, it is often sae. I think sometimes, What do parents rear bairns for? They arena mair than grawn before the flittin' begins."
"It is aye so," said Annie; "leastways in some families. There is my Robin; he takes a deal too muckle interest in information about America. I fear he will take it into his heid to gang there before mony years."
Davie with a startled look glanced towards his sons, who had been listening to all that had been said, as if he feared they might become infected with a desire to leave home too. But Wullie, already sixteen years old, was a home-loving lad; no fear for him. Jamie had always said, "I want to be a shepherd-lad, and rove amang green fields." The third son was a namesake of Archie Lindsay, with whom he was a great favorite, and he had said, "I will work for Uncle Archie when I'm a man." Davie recalled all this, and his fears subsided.
Soon Belle and Sandy arose to go home. Annie was to remain to break the lonely feeling of the household from which a dear one had just been carried.
Jamie and Annie talked a little longer with Davie and his wife, and then the little cottage was darkened and all within sought rest and sleep.
CHAPTER XXI. THE PROFESSOR VISITS HIS SISTERS.
The next morning was bright and sunny, and at an early hour Donald McPherson came to take his wife home. Jamie was to accompany her. The ride in the fresh morning air was delightful as Donald's stout farm-horses plodded easily along over the two miles that lay between the homes of the brother and sister. The conversation ran mostly on farm-work, for that was Donald's province; beyond that his knowledge was limited. The few neighbors that they met or passed raised their bonnets, for all had a profound respect for the man who had risen from their ranks to become a professor in a college. Some of the more inquisitive detained them to ask questions.
An interesting picture presented itself when they reached Annie's door. Douce Donald, leaning on his staff, stood at the gate to welcome them. His form was bowed with many years, but his face was pleasant and his greeting cordial. Behind him stood his grandson and constant companion, wee Donald, or Donald the third. In the door was Jennie, smiling, and looking a very picture of healthy and blooming girlhood. Robin left his hoe in the garden and hastened to welcome Uncle Jamie. Only the aged Katy McPherson remained within, and she was not less pleased than the rest.
Everything in and about the house gave evidence of thrift. The McPhersons had long since outgrown every look of poverty. Not only was there no lack of articles essential to comfort, but tokens of taste were not entirely wanting, for Jennie's nimble fingers fashioned and arranged many little things, which, though costing but a trifle, beautified the home and rendered it more cheerful and attractive.
After Jamie had conversed some time with the others he took a seat near Katy, whose hearing was "no vera gude," as she said, and entered into conversation with her. She spoke of his excellent mother and of honest Wullie, and her words fell not on indifferent ears.
"The warld has few men like your faither, Mr. Murdoch. Though he is dead and gane, the gude he has dune hasna gane wi' him. Ye may be a wiser man than he was, but ye canna be a better ane," said Katy, speaking with earnestness.
"You are right," said Jamie slowly and with evident emotion.
"I maun say," continued Katy, "that I hae great reason to be thankful that his influence was ever felt in my family."
Jamie, sad from his recent loss, replied with much feeling, "I see more and more clearly, as I grow older, that the good one does lives after him. My step-father was but a simple cottager, and yet I hear him spoken of almost with reverence. Goodness is better than greatness, and the memory of the just does not perish. We think of our friends, dead or living, and we find that nothing draws our affections towards them like sterling worth; wealth or beauty, wit or wisdom, cannot give permanence to our esteem for them."
"Ye are right, Mr. Murdoch. I hae had sic thoughts mysel, but I couldna hae worded them as weel as yoursel did."
Donald the first, or douce Donald, followed by Donald the third, now joined them. They had been with the lad's father and a neighbor to the stable, where the latter was negotiating for a fine young horse. Douce Donald could not think of letting the colt be sold without having something to say in regard to his merits. He was sure, he said, that his son would forget to tell "how strong o' limb the beastie was, how high he carried his heid, and how canny he was in the harness." The bargain had been satisfactorily concluded before he returned to the house.
Jamie soon perceived that the aged man had lost none of his ancient garrulity. He gave the history of several men who had played with Jamie when they were lads together; he asked questions about the improvements and inventions of the day; and could not sufficiently admire the railroad and the telegraph.
"The warld has grawn too wonderful for auld Donald McPherson," he said meditatively, shaking his head. "While the warld is changing men canna stand still. I'm muckle changed mysel frae the Donald I once was, and I owe the gude that is in me to your faither. I could a'maist as soon forget my ain name as to forget honest Wullie. I hae him as plainly before me as though he died but yesterday, and it is seven years agone. There will be mair o' us gane soon, or auld age will no hae dune its wark. God grant that when the angel o' death puts in the sickle we may a' be as ripe for the heavenly garner as your gude faither was."
He sighed and remained silent a few moments; then, regaining the buoyancy of spirits that was natural to him, he led his little grandson to his uncle, saying,
"What think ye o' this bairn? Is he na a fine lad?"
James Murdoch extended his hand and drew his nephew to his side. He told him stories of his own sons when they were small. "They are in school and at their books by this time; but no doubt they have had a long tramp before the school hour came."
"Robert and William are very unlike in some respects," he said, addressing his conversation to Annie, "but in one thing they do not differ: they love to seek out all the historical places in and around Edinburgh. They know more about the old castles and fortresses than I do myself. I do not know what they will accomplish in the world, but they are bright, active lads now."
The dinner hour arrived. There was no hurrying through this meal, for Uncle James had much to say to all, but particularly to Robin, whom he found intelligent, considering his opportunities. Jennie seemed to her uncle her mother's second self. She was staid enough then; but in her black eyes the vivacity of her nature could not wholly be concealed.
The dinner being over, Robin harnessed a horse and took his uncle to Archie Lindsay's, where he was to spend the afternoon. Robin chatted all the way, glad of an opportunity to satisfy his inquiring mind. The drift of his questions was towards America. "I would like to live in that country," said he.
"Why is that?" asked his uncle. "Is not Scotland a bonny country?"
"Scotland is well enough—leastways it is bonny enough; but I would like to live where one man is as gude as another; where one can buy land and settle as he pleases. Awa wi' the landlords! Mony of them are all right, but some of them are bad enough; and it often happens that an honest man maun work for a scoundrel, and maun dance to his piping whether he pipes right or wrang."
"Robin," said his uncle, "are you not indulging in unprofitable thoughts? Scotland rears many eminent men. Surely her sons have a chance to become both good and great. Emulate those who have become so, and do not vex yourself with that which is beyond your control. You certainly have nothing to complain of."
"No, I havena; but I see them that have. I see the poor far down, and there is nae way to help them up."
"You take a one-sided view of the matter. Do you suppose there are no poor in America?"
"Na, I dinna suppose that; but if they are puir, there is naebody to lord it over them. Uncle Jamie, ye mind auld Sawny McKay? Well, he is dead, but the auld wife lives. She is weak and seck, and she had a notion for some broth. Geordie, her youngest lad, took a hare frae the wood to mak a sup for his auld mither. Somebody told o' it, and a muckle ado was made aboot it, and the lad had to pay a heavy fine that was hard upon him, for he has but sma' wages. Noo, I dinna say it was right in Geordie—maybe it wasna—but I like him a' the better for it. He is a right gude lad, and he never would hae dune it for himsel; he tauld me sae. Weel, I was that angry I said, 'Geordie, let us gang to the United States of America. There ye may tak not only hares, but better game.' Ye s'ould hae seen the light glint in his eye! But it went frae them in a moment. 'Na, I canna; I wunna leave my mither,' said he."
Robin paused, expecting his uncle to approve of the indignation he had felt. But James Murdoch said nothing. Taking from his pocket a sovereign he put it into Robin's hand.
"Give this to Mistress McKay," said he. "I remember her well. She has patted my head many a time."
By this time they had reached Archie Lindsay's. Uncle and nephew shook hands at parting.
"I hope you will soon lose your discontent, Robin, and convince yourself that Scotland is still a land good enough for all her sons."
"No, Uncle Jamie, my heart is set on America; and it will not be many years before I will put the sea between me and Scotland."
At the home of the Lindsays, no less than at Donald McPherson's, was James Murdoch a welcome and honored guest. Since his arrival his time and attention had been so much occupied with his mother's sufferings and death, and afterwards with the preparation for the funeral, that he had spent very little time with Belle, although she lived so near. But on this afternoon he had come for a visit. Isabel met him at the door and showed him into the cool, pleasant best-room. Sandy and Robert had been excused from performing any labor in the field that they might be with their uncle. Alice laid aside her work, although so much had to be accomplished before Hallowmas, and entertained her uncle in a manner so easy and womanly that he was greatly pleased with her. Only little Annie was missing. During occasional intervals in the conversation low tones were heard in an adjoining room.
"It is wee Annie," said Alice, observing that her uncle listened. "She aye reads to her grandmither till she falls asleep. Puir lass, I think she will find it hard to bide her time the day."
Presently the sound ceased, and a fair, slight child entered, softly closing the door behind her, thus indicating that the aged woman slept, and no longer needed her services. She approached her uncle and offered her hand. He took it, and stooping, kissed the gentle little one, wishing in his heart that he had just such a sweet flower to brighten and gladden his own home.
As the afternoon drew near its close, Belle invited her brother to go and see the aged couple in the other part of the house. Mrs. Lindsay was feeble, and evidently near the end of her pilgrimage. Though younger than her husband, she was more infirm. Mr. Lindsay, now very aged, was in good health; but he was like the sere, brown leaf in autumn, ready to fall at the wind's first blast. He was glad to see James Murdoch. He spoke of many things that had occurred in the distant past, and mentioned with kindest feelings the friends and acquaintances of his early manhood. He spoke of Mrs. Murdoch's death, and cast a significant glance towards the room where his wife lay.
"She will soon be awa too," he said, "and I maun follow at no distant day. Weel, that is the way in this warld; in the ither warld there will be nae mair removes. We shall meet and ken our freends there, Jamie. Do ye think our freends will be the first to greet us on the ither shore?"
"Perhaps so," said Jamie, speaking guardedly.
"Maybe it is a queer fancy, but I hae been thinking aboot your mither: how when she came to that blest land we read of she would, perhaps, feel strange; and then she might see Wullie beckoning to her; and she would gang to him, and he would lead her to the dear Lord he lo'ed sae weel while on earth; and the Lord himsel would put a crown on her head. You see," said he, by way of apology or explanation, "whiles my mind taks to thinking o' sic things now. The warld isna lang for me, and yet it is pleasant to my auld een. The spring is bonny, and simmer-time is bonnier still; but autumn minds me o' auld age, and hard by are the frosts o' winter and death. Your faither had no fear o' death. I hae had mony a talk wi' him, and they hae dune me gude. Lang may Scotland hae sic men reared amang her sons o' toil, for even there they hae an influence that maun be felt."
Jamie went to Mrs. Lindsay's bedside to speak to her.
"I am right glad to see ye ance mair, Jamie. Sit ye doun, and speak a wee to your auld freend."
But Jamie could say but little: the scene recalled his mother's sick-bed. Mrs. Lindsay understood his feelings.
"Ay, your mither is awa," said she, "and I am gaen soon. This life maun come to an end wi' us a'. Nae doot it is weel wi' your mither; and I trust in the mercy o' God, through Jesus Christ, that it will be weel wi' me. It was honest Wullie wha helped me to lose the fear o' death. He often spoke to the gude-man and mysel o' spiritual things."
The next day, as James Murdoch was speeding on towards his own home, many thoughts filled his mind, but uppermost was this one: "Will my life be as fruitful in good works as my step-father's was? After all of me that is mortal has turned to dust, will any say of me as they say of him, 'He helped me on in the way to heaven'?"