The Brownie of Bodsbeck, and Other Tales Volume Ii Part 5

Lindsey dried himself; talked of indifferent matters, and then took the child on his knee and talked to him. The conversation had as yet been as free and unrestrained as possible, but Lindsey, by a blunder quite natural to a studious and absent man, cut it short at once. "Tell me your name, good lad?" said he to the child. "Let me hear you say your name?"

"Geoge," was the reply.

"But what more than George? Tell me what they call you more than George?"

"Just Geoge, sil. Mamma's Geoge."

"Pray, what is my young friend's surname?" said Lindsey, with the greatest simplicity.

The Wool-gatherer stooped to the floor as if lifting something, in order that she might keep her face out of the light; two or three times an answer seemed trembling on her tongue, but none came. There was a dead silence in the cot, which none had the courage to break. How our unfortunate fisher's heart smote him! He meant only to confer happiness, in place of which he had given unnecessary pain and confusion. The shower was past; he arose abruptly, said, "Goodb'ye, I will call and see my little George to-morrow," and home he went, more perplexed than ever, and not overmuch pleased with himself. But the thing that astonished him most of all was, the chearful serenity of her countenance and manners under such grievous misfortunes. He did not know whether to blame or approve of her for this; however, he continued to go up the water for the most part every day, and seldom failed to call at the cot.

He meant no ill--he was certain he meant no harm to any one--it was only to _see the child_ that he went, and why should any man be ashamed to go and see a child? Very well reasoned, gentle fisher! but beware that this is not the reverse of what you feel within. At all events, it is the world that must judge of your actions and mine, not we ourselves.

Scandal is a busy vixen, and none can make fame fly so fast on an errand as she.

Robin, the farmer, was hurt in the tenderest part that day when his laird went by his door, and took shelter in the Wool-gatherer's cot; and, on going in, he mentioned it in such a way, that his old maiden sister, Meg, took note of it, and circulated it among the men-servants, with strong injunctions of secrecy. The continuation of his visits confirmed their worst suspicions: It was now no longer a matter of doubt with them what was going on, but an obvious certainty. The shameful and sudden attachment was blabbed from tongue to tongue, until every ear in the parish had drunk the delicious draught, save those of the parties implicated, and the old lady, the original cause of all. When he was seen go into the cot, an event that was strictly watched, the la.s.ses would smile to each other,--the plowmen broke jests upon it,--and Meg would hold up both her hands and say,--"Hech wow, sirs! I wonder what our young gentles will turn to by an' by. It winna be lang till marriage be out o' the fas.h.i.+on a' thegither, an' the fock that pretend to be Christians a' living through other like the wild Tartarers."

Little wist the old lady of what was going on! She dreamed not once of a beautiful stranger among the cottagers at Todburn (the name of Robin's farm), that was working such deray, else woe would have been to her and all concerned; for there was nothing short of the sin not to be forgiven, that she dreaded so much as her son forming any attachment or connection with the country maidens. She had been congratulating herself mightily on the success of her expedient, in making him take such delight in a manly and healthful exercise, and one which led him insensibly to be acquainted with his people, and every part of his estate. She had even been boasting aloud of it to every one with whom she conversed; indeed her conversation with others was mostly about her son, for he being her only surviving child, she loved him with her whole heart, and her cares were all for him.

It happened one day that a little pert girl had come down from one of the cottages at Todburn to buy some milk, which the lady supplied to them from her dairy, and while skimming and measuring it, she fell into conversation with this little sly and provoking imp.

"Did you see my son fis.h.i.+ng in the water as you came down?"

"Na, na, mim; he was safe landit or I came away. He was fis.h.i.+ng wi'

Hoy's net."

"Safe landit? Fis.h.i.+ng wi' Hoy's net?--How do you mean?"

"He was gane in to tak a rest, mim,--that's a'."

"Oh, that was a'--was it? I'm glad to hear o' that. I never knew he had called upon his tenants, or looked after them at all!"

"I trow he disna look muckle after them, mim. He's keener o' lookin'

after something else."

"Oh ay, the trouts! To be sure they hae almaist gane between him an' his wits for some time; but he'll aye be seeing something o' his land, an'

something o' his fock. It was I that perswaded him to it. There are some lucky hits in life."

"Ay, an' some lucky misses too, mim, that some think he likes as weel."

"He's sae tender-hearted, I believe he may be as happy oft to miss the fish as to hit them; but that will soon wear away, as I tell him. He's tender-hearted to a fault."

"An' there's mae tender-heart.i.t nor him. There's some other kind o'

misses forbye trouts up the water."

"What is it you say?"

"I'll say nae mair about it--ane may very easily speak muckle nonsense."

"Didna ye say that my son was gane into Robin's house afore ye came away?"

"I never said sic a word, begging your pardon, mim. He wadna gang into Robin's, though it war raining auld wives and Jeddart staves."

"What house was he gone into then?"

"Into Jeany's, mim."

"Jeany's! What Jeany?"

"I dinna ken what they ca' her mair than Jeany. Little George's mother, ye ken, that lives at the head o' the Was.h.i.+ng-green."

"Jeany!--Little George's mother!--That lives at the head o' the Was.h.i.+ng-green!--Wha is she? Where comes she frae? Has she a husband?"

"Na, na, mim--nae husband."

The lady breathed as short as if in the heat of a fever--hasted out to the air, and then returned with equal haste into the house, without being able to accomplish any thing, for her hands trembled like the aspin leaf; and, finally, after ordering the girl to send Robin down to her immediately, she took to her bed, and lay brooding over the great calamity of her son's shameful attachment. These low-bred women were her bane; especially if they were beautiful, she loathed, she hated, and, if she could, would have cleared the country of them. This, therefore, was a great trial; and before Robin arrived, she had made out to herself a picture of as many disagreeable objects as ever a distempered imagination conceived. Instead of a genteel respected wife, the head of a lovely family, a disgraceful connection, and an illegitimate offspring! Ills followed on ills, a dreadful train! She could think of nothing else, and the more she thought of it the worse did the consequences appear. Before her messenger _reached_ Robin, she had regularly determined on the young woman's dismissal from the estate, and, if possible, from the district.

We shall pa.s.s over a long conversation that took place between the old dame and Robin. It was maintained with great bitterness on the one hand, and servility on the other; but the final resolution was, that Jane should be ordered to depart from Todburn that night, or early the next morning; and if she refused, Robin was to bribe her to a compliance with any moderate sum of money, rather than that she should be suffered to remain longer; for the lady sagely observed, she might corrupt and lead astray all the young men in the country side, and would likely, at the long run, cost the parish more than if it were to maintain a company of soldiers. Last of all, it was decreed that their proceedings should be kept a profound secret from Lindsey.

Robin went home; and waiting upon Jane, told her abruptly to prepare for her immediate departure from the house that she occupied, for that she could not be longer there; and that he would be answerable for her furniture until she sent for it, or otherwise disposed of it; that she needed not to ask any questions as to his motives, for that he was obliged to do as he did, and the thing was decided that she was not to remain longer there.

She answered not a word; but, with the tears in her eyes, and many a half-smothered sob, she packed up a small bundle of clothes, and, taking that below her arm and little George on her back, she went away, having first locked the door and given the key to the farmer. "Farewell, Robin," said she; "you are turning two very helpless and friendless creatures out to the open fields; but think you, you may not rue this on a day when you cannot help it?"

Robin was affected, but he was obliged to do as he was desired, and therefore made no defence, but said simply, "Farewell! Farewell!--G.o.d help thee, poor thing!"--He then kept an eye on her, that she might not communicate with any of the rest until she was fairly across the end of the Todburn-Law, and he was agreeably surprised at seeing her take that direction.

As soon as she got out of sight of her late dwelling, she sought a retired spot by the side of a clear mountain rivulet, where she sat down and gave free vent to her tears. "My poor child," said she, clasping little George to her breast, "what is now to become of us, and where will our sorrows terminate? Here we are turned out on the wide world, and have neither house nor home to cover our heads; we have no bed now, George, but the cold earth, and no covering but that sky that you see over us."

"O no geet, mamma--no geet; Geoge vely wae," said the child, clasping her neck in return, and sobbing aloud; "no geet, else Geoge tuln bad child, and geet too."

"No, for your sake, my dear, I will not greet; therefore cheer up thy little kind heart, for there is One who will provide for us still, and will not suffer two helpless inexperienced beings like you and I to perish."

"Geoge like 'at man."

"It is no man that we must now depend on, my dear; we must depend on G.o.d, who will never forsake us."

"Geoge like G.o.d."

Here she kissed him and wept anew, yet was all the while trying to console him. "Let us be of good cheer, George; while I have health I will work for you, for you have no one else on earth that cares for you."

"But no geet, mamma, I tell you; Geoge wulk too. When Geoge tuln geat big man, Geoge wulk mole 'an two mans."

Here their tender prattle was interrupted by a youth named Barnaby, who was close at their side before they observed him. He was one of Robin's servants, who herded a few young sheep at the back of the hill where Jane was sitting. He was fifteen years of age, tall and thin, but had fine features, somewhat pitted with the small-pox. He had an inexhaustible fund of good-humour and drollery, and playing the fool among the rest of the servants to keep them laughing was his chiefest delight; but his folly was all affected, and the better part of his character lay concealed behind the screen of a fantastic exterior. He never mended his clothes like the rest of the servant lads, but suffered them to fall into as many holes as they inclined; when any expostulated with him on the subject, he said, "he likit them nae the waur o' twa or three holes to let in the air;" and, in truth, he was as ragged a youth as one would see in a summer day. His hat was remarkably broad-brimmed and supple, and hung so far over his eyes, that, when he looked any person in the face, he had to take the same position as if looking at a vertical star. This induced him often, when he wanted to see fairly about him, to fold in the fore part of the brim within the crown, which gave it the appearance of half a hat, and in this way was he equipped when he joined Jane and little George. They had been intimately acquainted from the first; he had done many little kind offices for her, and had the sagacity to discover that there was something about her greatly superior to the other girls about the hamlet; and he had never used the same freedom with her in his frolics that he was wont to do with them.

"What ails you, Jeany?" said he; "I thought I heard you greeting."

"No, no, Barnaby; I do not ail any thing; I was not crying."

"Why, woman, you're _crying_ yet, as you call it; tell me what ails you, and whar ye're gaun this wild gate?"

"I'm going to leave you, Barnaby. I am going far from this."