CHAPTER VIII
That night was a night of storms. When the heavy rain ceased, peals of thunder shook the house, and vivid lightning flashed through the darkness. When the funeral procession was safe, Marget fastened her plaid across the door of the dining-room as a precaution, and went up stairs to attend to the Mistress. She found the widow kneeling down, where she had stood, leaning her hands and her face against the railings of the gallery, not fainting, perfectly conscious, yet in a condition in comparison with which a swoon would have been happiness. Her hands clung tight and rigid about the rails. She had sunk upon her knees from pure exhaustion, and kept that position for the same reason. Yet she was terribly conscious of the approach of Marget, afraid of her in the darkness, as if she were an enemy. The faithful servant managed to rouse her after great pains, and at last was able to lead her down stairs, to the gathered fire in the kitchen, where the two sat in the darkness, with one red spark of fire preserving some appearance of life in the apartment, listening to the blast of rain against the window, watching the flashes of wild light which blazed through the three round holes in the kitchen shutter, and the thunder which echoed far among the distant hills. Sitting together without a word, listening with feverish anxiety to every sound, and fearing every moment that the storm must wake their undesired inmate, who could not stir in the dining-room without their hearing. It was thus the solemn night passed, lingering and terrible, over the heads of the women who remained at home.
And through that wild summer midnight—through the heavy roads, where their feet sank at every step, and the fluttering ghostly branches on the hedgerows, which caught the rude pall, a large black shawl, which had been thrown over the coffin—the melancholy clandestine procession made its way. When they had gone about half a mile, they were met by the old post-chaise from the Norlaw Arms, at Kirkbride, which had been waiting there for them. In it, relieving each other, the little party proceeded onward. At length they came to Tweed, to the pebbly beach, where the ferryman’s boat lay fastened by its iron ring and hempen cable. But for the fortunate chance of finding it here, Huntley, who was unrivaled in all athletic exercises, had looked for nothing better than swimming across the river, to fetch the boat from the other side. Rapidly, yet reverently, their solemn burden was laid in the boat; two of the men, by this time, had ventured to light torches, which they had brought with them, wrapt in a plaid. The rain had ceased. The broad breast of Tweed “grit” with those floods, and overflowing the pebbles for a few yards before they reached the real margin of the stream, flowed rapidly and strongly, with a dark, swift current, marked with foam, which it required no small effort to strike steadily across. The dark trees, glistening with big drops of rain—the unseen depths on either side, only perceptible to their senses by the cold full breath of wind which blew over them—the sound of water running fierce in an expanded tide; and as they set out upon the river, the surrounding gleam of water shining under their torches, and the strong swell of downward motion, against which they had to struggle, composed altogether a scene which no one there soon forgot. The boat had to return a second time, to convey all its passengers; and then once more, with the solemn tramp of a procession, the little party went on in the darkness to the grave.
And then the night calmed, and a wild, frightened moon looked out of the clouds into solemn Dryburgh, in the midst of her old monkish orchards. Through the great grass-grown roofless nave, the white light fell in a sudden calm, pallid and silent as death itself, yet looking on like an amazed spectator of the scene.
The open grave stood ready as it had been prepared this morning—a dark, yawning breach in the wet grass, its edge all defined and glistening in the moonlight. It was in one of the small side chapels, overgrown with grass and ivy, which are just distinguishable from the main mass of the ruin; here the torches blazed and the dark figures grouped together, and in a solemn and mysterious silence these solitary remains of the old house of God looked on at the funeral. The storm was over; the thunder clouds rolled away to the north; the face of the heavens cleared; the moon grew brighter. High against the sky stood out the Catherine window in its frame of ivy, the solitary shafts and walls from which the trees waved—and in a solemn gloom, broken by flashes of light which magnified the shadow, lay those morsels of the ancient building which still retained a cover. The wind rustled through the trees, shaking down great drops of moisture, which fell with a startling coldness upon the faces of the mourners, some of whom began to feel the thrill of superstitious awe. It was the only sound, save that of the subdued footsteps round the grave, and the last heavy, dreadful bustle of human exertion, letting down the silent inhabitant into his last resting-place, which sounded over the burial of Norlaw.
And now, at last, it was all over; the terrible excitement, the dismal, long, self-restraint, the unnatural force of human resentment and defiance which had mingled with the grief of these three lads. At last he was in his grave, solemnly and safely; at last he was secure where no man could insult what remained of him, or profane his dwelling-place. As the moon shone on the leveled soil, Cosmo cried aloud in a boyish agony of nature, and fell upon the wet grass beside the grave. The cry rang through all the solemn echoes of the place. Some startled birds flew out of the ivied crevices, and made wild, bewildered circles of fright among the walls. A pang of sudden terror fell upon the rustic attendants; the torch bearers let their lights fall, and the chief among them hurriedly entreated Huntley to linger no longer.
“A’s done!” said Willie Noble, lifting his bonnet reverently from his head. “Farewell to a good master that I humbly hope’s in heaven lang afore now. We can do him nae further good, and the lads are timid of the place. Maister Huntley, may I give them the word to turn hame?”
So they turned home; the three brothers, last and lingering, turned back to life and their troubles—all the weary weight of toil which he had left on their shoulders, for whom this solemn midnight expedition was their last personal service. The three came together, hand in hand, saying never a word—their hearts “grit” like Tweed, and flowing full with unspeakable emotions—and passed softly under the old fruit trees, which shed heavy dew upon their heads, and through the wet paths which shone in lines of silver under the moon; Tweed, lying full in a sudden revelation of moonlight, one bank falling off into soft shadows of trees, the other guarding with a ledge of rock some fair boundary of possession, and the bubbles of foam gleaming bright upon the rapid current, was not more unlike the invisible gloomy river over which they passed an hour ago, than was their own coming and going. The strain was out of their young spirits, the fire of excitement had consumed itself, and Norlaw’s sons, like lads as they were, were melting, each one silently and secretly, into the mood of tears and loving recollections, the very tenderness of grief.
And when Marget took down the shutter from the window, to see by the early morning light how this night of watching had at last taken the bloom from the Mistress’ face, three other faces, white with the wear of extreme emotion, but tender as the morning faces of children, appeared to her coming slowly and calmly, and with weariness, along the green bank before the house. They had not spoken all the way. They were worn out with passion and sorrow, and want of rest—even with want of food—for these days had been terrible days for boys of their age to struggle through. Marget could not restrain a cry of mingled alarm and triumph. That, and the sound of the bolts withdrawn from the door, did what the thunder storm could not do. It broke the slumbers of the sheriff’s officer, who had slept till now. He ran to the window hastily, and drew aside the curtain—he saw the face of the widow at the kitchen-door; the lads, travel-soiled and weary, with their wet clothes and exhausted faces, coming up to meet her; and the slumbrous sentinel rushed out of the room to entangle himself in the folds of Marget’s plaid, and overwhelm her with angry questions; for she came to his call instantly, with a pretense of care and solicitude exasperating enough under any circumstances.
“Where have the lads been?” cried Elliot, throwing down at her, torn through the middle, the plaid which she had hung across his door.
“They’ve been at their father’s funeral,” said Marget, solemnly, “puir bairns!—through the storm and the midnicht, to Dryburgh, to the family grave.”
The man turned into the room again in a pretended passion—but, sheriff’s officer though he was, perhaps he was not sorry for once in his life to find himself foiled.
CHAPTER IX
“Put on your bonnet, Katie, and come with me—the like of you should be able to be some comfort to that poor widow at Norlaw,” said Dr. Logan to his daughter, as they stood together in the manse garden, after their early breakfast.
After the storm, it was a lovely summer morning, tender, dewy, refreshed, full of the songs of birds and odors of flowers.
Katie Logan was only eighteen, but felt herself a great deal older. She was the eldest child of a late marriage, and had been mother and mistress in the manse for four long years. The minister, as is the fate of ministers, had waited long for this modest preferment, and many a heavy thought it gave him to see his children young and motherless, and to remember that he himself was reaching near the limit of human life; but Katie was her father’s comfort in this trouble, as in most others; and it seemed so natural to see her in full care and management of her four little brothers and sisters, that the chances of Katie having a life of her own before her, independent of the manse, seldom troubled the thoughts of her father.
Katie did not look a day older than she was; but she had that indescribable elder-sister bearing, that pretty shade of thoughtfulness upon her frank face, which an early responsibility throws into the looks of very children. Even a young wife, in all the importance of independent sway, must have looked but a novice in presence of the minister’s daughter, who had to be mistress and mother at fourteen, and had kept the manse cosy and in order, regulated the economies, darned the stockings, and even cut out the little frocks and pinafores from that time until now. Katie knew more about measles and hooping-cough than many a mother, and was skilled how to take a cold “in time,” and check an incipient fever. The minister thought no one else, save his dead wife, could have managed the three hundred pounds of the manse income, so as to leave a comfortable sum over every year, to be laid by for “the bairns,” and comforted himself with the thought that when he himself was “called away,” little Johnnie and Charlie, Colin and Isabel, would still have Katie, the mother-sister, who already had been their guardian so long.
“I’m ready, papa!” said Katie; “but Mrs. Livingstone does not care about a stranger’s sympathy. It’s no’ like one belonging to herself. She may think it very kind and be pleased with it, in a way; but it still feels like an interference at the bottom of her heart.”
“She’s a peculiar woman,” said Dr. Logan, “but you are not to be called a stranger, my dear: and it’s no small pleasure to me, Katie, to think that there are few houses in the parish where you are not just as welcome as myself.”
Katie made no reply to this. She did not think it would much mend the matter with the Mistress to be reckoned as one of the houses in the parish. So she tied on her bonnet quietly, and took her father’s arm, and turned down the brae toward Norlaw; for this little woman had the admirable quality of knowing, not only how to speak with great good sense, but how to refrain.
“I’m truly concerned about this family,” said Dr. Logan; “indeed, I may say, I’m very much perplexed in my mind how to do. A state of things like this can not be tolerated in a Christian country, Katie. The dead denied decent burial! It’s horrible to think of; so I see no better for it, my dear, than to take a quiet ride to Melmar, without letting on to any body, and seeing for myself what’s to be done with him.”
“I don’t like Mr. Huntley, papa,” said Katie, decidedly.
“That may be, my dear; but still, I suppose he’s just like other folk, looking after his own interest, without meaning any particular harm to any body, unless they come in his way. Oh, human nature!” said the minister; “the most of us are just like that, Katie, though we seldom can see it; but there can be little doubt that Melmar was greatly incensed against poor Norlaw, who was nobody’s enemy but his own.”
“And his sons!” said Katie, hastily. “Poor boys! I wonder what they’ll do?” This was one peculiarity of her elder-sisterly position which Katie had not escaped. She thought it quite natural and proper to speak of Patie and Huntley Livingstone, one of whom was about her own age, and one considerably her senior, as the “boys,” and to take a maternal interest in them; even Dr. Logan, excellent man, did not see any thing to smile at in this. He answered with the most perfect seriousness, echoing her words:—
“Poor boys! We’re short-sighted mortals, Katie; but there’s no telling—it might be all the better for them that they’re left to themselves, and are no more subject to poor Norlaw. But about Melmar? I think, my dear, I might as well ride over there to-day.”
“Wait till we’ve seen Mrs. Livingstone, papa,” said the prudent Katie. “Do you see that man on the road—who is it? He’s in an awful hurry. I think I’ve seen him before.”
“Robert Mushet, from the hill; he’s always in a hurry, like most idle people,” said the minister.
“No; it’s not Robbie, papa; he’s as like the officer as he can look,” said Katie, straining her eyes over the high bank which lay between his path and the high-road.
“Whisht, my dear—the officer? Do you mean the exciseman, Katie? It might very well be him, without making any difference to us.”
“I’m sure it’s him—the man that came to Norlaw yesterday!” cried Katie, triumphantly, hastening the good doctor along the by-road at a pace to which he was not accustomed. “Something’s happened! Oh papa, be quick and let us on.”
“Canny, my dear, canny!” said Dr. Logan. “I fear you must be mistaken, Katie; but if you’re right, I’m very glad to think that Melmar must have seen the error of his way.”
Katie was very indifferent about Melmar; but she pressed on eagerly, full of interest to know what had happened at Norlaw. When they came in sight of the house, it was evident by its changed aspect that things were altered there. The windows were open, the blinds drawn up, the sunshine once more entering freely as of old. The minister went forward with a mind perturbed; he did not at all comprehend what this could mean.
The door was opened to them by Marget, who took them into the east room with a certain solemn importance, and who wore her new mourning and her afternoon cap with black ribbons, in preparation for visitors.
“I’ve got them a’ persuaded to take a rest—a’ but Huntley,” said Marget; “for yesterday and last night were enough to kill baith the laddies and their mother—no’ a morsel o’ meat within their lips, nor a wink of sleep to their e’en.”
“You alarm me, Marget; what does all this mean?” cried Dr. Logan, waving his hand towards the open windows.
Katie, more eager and more quick-witted, watched the motion of Marget’s lips, yet found out the truth before she spoke.
“The maister’s funeral,” said Marget, with a solemn triumph, though her voice broke, in spite of herself, in natural sorrow, “took place yestreen, at midnicht, sir, as there was nae other way for it, in the orderings of Providence. Maister Huntley arranged it so.”
“Oh, poor boys!” cried Katie Logan, and she threw herself down on a chair, and cried heartily in sympathy, and grief, and joy. Nothing else was possible; the scene, the circumstances, the cause, were not to be spoken of. There was no way but that way, of showing how this young heart at least felt with the strained hearts of the family of Norlaw.
“Ye may say sae, Miss Katie,” said Marget, crying too in little outbursts, from which she recovered to wipe her eyes and curtsey apologetically to the minister. “After a’ they gaed through yesterday, to start in the storm and the dark, and lay him in his grave by torchlight in the dead of the night—three laddies, that I mind, just like yesterday, bits of bairns about the house—it’s enough to break ane’s heart!”
“I am very much startled,” said Dr. Logan, pacing slowly up and down the room; “it was a very out-of-the-way proceeding. Dear me!—at midnight—by torchlight!—Poor Norlaw! But still I can not say I blame them—I can not but acknowledge I’m very well pleased it’s over. Dear me! who could have thought it, without asking my advice or any body’s,—these boys! but I suppose, Katie, my dear, if they are all resting, we may as well think of turning back, unless Marget thinks Mrs. Livingstone would like to have you beside her for the rest of the day.”
“No, papa; she would like best to be by herself—and so would I, if it was me,” said Katie, promptly.
“Eh, Miss Katie! the like of you for understanding—and you so young!” cried Marget, with real admiration; “but the minister canna gang away till he’s seen young Norlaw.”
“Who?” cried Dr. Logan, in amazement.
“My young master, sir, the present Norlaw,” said Marget, with a curtsey which was not without defiance.
The good minister shook his head.
“Poor laddie!” said Doctor Logan, “I wish him many better things than his inheritance; but I would gladly see Huntley. If you are sure he’s up and able to see us, tell him I’m here.”
“I’ll tell him wha’s here,” said Marget, under her breath, as she went softly away; “eh, my puir bairn! I’d gie my little finger cheerful for the twa of them, to see them draw together; and mair unlikely things have come to pass. Guid forgive me for thinking of the like in a house of death!”
Yet, unfortunately, it was hard to avoid thinking of such profane possibilities in the presence of two young people like Huntley and Katie—especially for a woman; not a few people in the parish, of speculative minds, who could see a long way before them, had already lightly linked their names together as country gossips use, and perhaps Huntley half understood what was the meaning of the slight but significant emphasis, with which Marget intimated that “the minister and Miss Katie” were waiting to see him.
The youth went with great readiness. They were, at least, of all others, the friends whom Huntley was the least reluctant to confide in, and whose kindness he appreciated best.
And when pretty Katie Logan sprang forward, still half crying, and with bright tears hanging upon her eye-lashes, to take her old playmate’s hand, almost tenderly, in her great concern and sympathy for him, the lad’s heart warmed, he could scarcely tell how. He felt involuntarily, almost unwillingly, as if this salutation and regard all to himself was a sudden little refuge of brighter life opened for him out of the universal sorrow which was about his own house and way. The tears came to Huntley’s eyes—but they were tears of relief, of ease and comfort to his heart. He almost thought he could have liked, if Katie had been alone, to sit down by her side, and tell her all that he had suffered, all that he looked forward to. But the sight of the minister, fortunately, composed Huntley. Dr. Logan, excellent man as he was, did not seem so desirable a confidant.
“I don’t mean to blame you, my dear boy,” said the minister, earnestly; “it was a shock to my feelings, I allow, but do not think of getting blame from me, Huntley. I was shut up entirely in the matter, myself; I did not see what to do; and I could not venture to say that it was not the wisest thing, and the only plan to clear your way.”
There was a little pause, for Huntley either would not, or could not, speak—and then Dr. Logan resumed:
“We came this morning, Katie and me, to see what use we could be; but now the worst’s over, Huntley, I’m thinking we’ll just go our way back again, and leave you to rest—for Katie thinks your mother will be best pleased to be alone.”
“Do you think so?” said Huntley, looking eagerly into Katie’s face.
“Yes, unless I could be your real sister for a while, as long as Mrs. Livingstone needed me,” said Katie, with a smile, “and I almost wish I could—I am so good at it—to take care of you boys.”
“There is no fear of us now,” said Huntley. “The worst’s over, as the minister says. We’ve had no time to think what we’re to do, Dr. Logan; but I’ll come and tell you whenever we can see what’s before us.”
“I’ll be very glad, Huntley; but I’ll tell you what’s better than telling me,” said Dr. Logan. “Katie has a cousin, a very clever writer in Edinburgh—I knew there was something I wanted to tell you, and I had very near forgotten—if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go in, it’s not very far, and get him to manage the whole thing for you. Here’s the address that Katie wrote down last night. Tell your mother about it, Huntley, and that it’s my advice you should have a sound man in the law to look after your concerns; and come down to the manse as soon as you can, if it were only for a change; and you’ll give your mother our regards, and we’ll bid you good-day.”
“And dinna think more than you should, or grieve more, Huntley—and come and see us,” said Katie, offering him her hand again.
Huntley took it, half joyfully, half inclined to burst out into boyish tears once more. He thought it would have been a comfort and refreshment to have had her here, this wearied, melancholy day. But somehow, he did not think with equal satisfaction of Katie’s cousin. It seemed to Huntley he would almost rather employ any “writer” than this one, to smooth out the raveled concerns of Norlaw.