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“Katie?—some one else? My darling, does he love her?” said Madame
Roche. “Then it is God who has undone all, Desirée, and I am content. Let
him come to me, and I will bless him. I will bless you all, my children,” she
said, raising herself up, and stretching her hands toward them. “Ah, friends,
do you see them—so young and so like each other! and it was he who
sought us, and not Huntley; and it is I who am wrong—and God is right!”
Saying which, Madame Roche kissed Huntley’s cheek, dismissing him
so, and took Cosmo into her arms instead. Her sweet temper and facile
mind forgot even her own failure. She put back Cosmo’s hair tenderly from
his forehead and called him her hero. He was her son at least; and Desirée
and Melmar, the two dreams of his fancy, between which, when he saw the
girl first, he suspected no possible connection, came at once, a double gift,
the one eagerly sought, the other totally unthought of, into the Benjamin’s
portion of Cosmo Livingstone.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
“There’s aye plenty fools in this world,” said bowed Jaaoob; “a’thing
else that’s human fails; but that commodity’s aye ready. I had my hopes of
that laddie Livingstone. He has nae discrimination, and hasna seen the
world, like some other folk, but for a’ that I thought I could perceive a ring
of the right metal in him, and I’m no’ often wrang. And so Cosmo’s to be
marriet! I dinna disapprove of his taste—that’s a different matter. I even had
a great notion of her mysel’; but when the lad’s married there’s an end of
him. Wha ever heard tell of a man coming to distinction with a wife at his
tail?—na! I wash my hands of Cosmo—he shall never mair be officer of
mine.”
Jaacob did not address himself to any one in particular. The news with
which Kirkbride was ringing was great news in its way, and a little crowd
had collected in the corner, close by the smithy, to discuss it, a crowd
composed chiefly of women, chief among whom, in a flush of triumph and
importance, stood Marget of Norlaw. Jaacob did not often concern his lofty
intelligence with the babble of women, but the little giant was interested in
spite of himself, and had a warm corner in his heart for both the heroes who
were under present discussion. A lusty blacksmith apprentice puffed at the
great bellows within that ruddy cavern, and Jaacob stood at the door, with
one or two male gossips lingering near him, which was a salve to his
dignity; but Jaacob’s words were not addressed even to his own cronies;
they were a spontaneous effusion of observant wisdom, mingled with
benevolent regret.
“The man’s in a creel!” cried the indignant Marget—“an officer of yours,
Jaacob Bell?—yours, ye objeck! and I would just like to ken wha gave the
like of you ony right to ca’ our son by his christened name? Na, sirs, ye’re
a’ wrang—it just shows how little folk ken about onything out of their ain
road; and canna haud their peace either, or let them speak that have the
knowledge. The auld lady—her that was Mary of Melmar—would have
given our Huntley baith the land and the bonnie lass, if it had been her will,
for she’s a real sensible woman, as it’s turned out, and kens the value of lads
like ours. But Huntley Livingstone, he said no. He’s no’ the lad, our
Huntley, to be ony wife’s man—and he has his awn yestate, and an aulder
name and fame than Melmar. There’s no’ an auld relick in the whole
country-side like our auld castle. I’ve heard it from them that ken; and our
Huntley would no mair part with the name than wi’ his right hand. Eh! if
auld Norlaw, puir man, had but lived to see this day! Our Cosmo is very
like his father. He’s just as like to be kent far and near for his poems and his
stories as Walter Scott ower yonder at Abbotsford. It’s just like a story in a
book itsel’. When he was but a laddie—no’ muckle bigger than bowed
Jaacob—he fell in with a bonnie bit wee French lady, in Edinburgh. I mind
him telling me—there’s never ony pride about our sons—just as well as if it
was yesterday. The callant’s head ran upon naething else—and wha was this
but just Miss Deseera! and he’s courted her this mony a year, whaever
might oppose; and now he’s won and conquered, and there’s twa weddings
to be in Kirkbride, baith in the very same day!”
“In Kirkbride? but, dear woman, Miss Logan’s no’ here,” suggested one
of the bystanders.
“Wha’s heeding!” cried Marget, in her triumph, “if ane’s in Kirkbride,
and ane in anither kirk, is that onything against the truth I am telling? Sirs,
haud a’ your tongues—I’ve carried them a’ in my arms, and told them
stories. I’ve stood by them and their mother, just me and no other person,
when they were in their sorest trouble; and I would like to hear wha daur
say a word, if Norlaw Marget is just wild and out of her wits for aince in her
life to see their joy!”
“I never look for discretion at a woman’s hand mysel’,” said bowed
Jaacob, though even Jaacob paused a little before he brought the shadow of
his cynicism over Marget’s enthusiasm; “they’re easy pleased, puir things,
and easy cast down—a man of sense has aye a compassion for the sex—it’s
waste o’ time arguing with them. Maybe that’s a reason for lamenting this
lad Livingstone. A man, if he’s no’ a’ the stronger, is awfu’ apt to fall to the
level of his company—and to think of a promising lad, no’ five-and-twenty,
lost amang a haill tribe—wife, mother, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and
gude kens how mony friends forbye—it’s grievous—that’s just what it is; a
man goes down, a man comes to the calibre of the woman. For which
cause,” said bowed Jaacob, thrusting his cowl on one side of his head,
twisting still higher his high shoulder, and fixing a defiant gaze upon the
admiring crowd with his one eye; “in spite of mony temptations—for I’ll
say that for the women, that they ken a man of sense when they see him—
I’m no’, and never will be, a marrying man mysel’!”
“Eh, but Jaacob,” cried a saucy voice, “if you could have gotten her, you
might have put up with Miss Roche.”
“Humph—I had a great notion of the lassie,” said Jaacob, loftily; “men
at my years get above the delusion of looking for a woman as a companion.
It makes nae muckle matter whether she’s ca’ed a foolish woman or a
sensible ane; its naething but a question of degree; and when a man finds
that out, he has a right to please his e’e. When you hear of me married, it’s a
wife of sixteen, that’s what I’ll have gotten; but you see, as for Miss
Deeseera, puir thing, she may be breaking her heart, for onything I ken. I’m
a man of honor, and Cosmo’s a great friend of mine—I wouldna, for twenty
Melmars, come between my friend and his love.”
And amid the laughter which echoed this magnanimous speech, bowed
Jaacob retired into the ruddy gloom of the smithy and resumed his hammer,
which he played with such manful might and intention upon the glowing
iron, that the red light illuminated his whole swarthy face and person, and
the red sparks flashed round him like the rays round a saint in an old
picture. He was not in the least a saintly individual, but Rembrandt himself
could not have found a better study for light and shade.
A little time sufficed to accomplish these momentous changes. The
Mistress gave up her trust of Norlaw, the cows and dairies which were the
pride of her heart, the bank-book, with its respectable balance, and all the
rural wealth of the farmsteading, to her son. And Huntley warned the
tenants to whom his mother had let the land that he should resume the
farming of it himself at the end of the year, when their terms were out.
Every thing about Norlaw began to wear signs of preparation. The Mistress
spoke vaguely of going with Patie, the only one of her sons who still
“belonged to his mother"—and making a home for him in Glasgow. But
Patie was an engineer, involved over head and ears in the Herculean work
of the new railways; he was scarcely three months in the year, take them
altogether, at the lodging which he called his head quarters—and perhaps,
on the whole, he rather discouraged the idea.
“At least, mother, you must wait to welcome Katie,” said this astute and
long-headed adviser of the family—and the Mistress, with her strong sense
of country breeding and decorum, would not have done less, had it broken
her heart. But she rather longed for the interval to be over, and the matter
concluded. The Mistress, somehow, could not understand or recognize
herself adrift from Norlaw.
“But I dinna doubt it would be best—it’s natural,” said the Mistress
—“they should have their good beginning to themselves,” and with that she
sighed, and grew red with shame to think it was a sigh, and spoke sharply to
Marget, and put the old easy chair which had been “their father’s!” away
into a corner, with a little momentary ebullition of half resentful tears. But
she never lost her temper to Huntley—it was only Nature, and not her son
who was to blame.
It was early in August when Katie came home. The Mistress stood at the
door waiting to receive her, on a night which was worthy such a
homecoming. Just sunset, the field-laborers going home, the purple flush
folded over the Eildons like a regal mantle, the last tender ray catching the
roofless wall of the Strength of Norlaw, and the soft hill rising behind, with
yellow corn waving rich to its summit, soon to be ripe for the harvest. Tears
were in the Mistress’s heart, but smiles in her face; she led her new
daughter in before even Huntley, brought her to the dining-parlor, and set
her in her own chair.
“This is where I sat first myself the day I came home,” said the Mistress,
with a sob, “and sit you there; and God bless my bairns, and build up
Norlaw—amen!”
But Katie said the amen too, and rose again, holding the Mistress fast
and looking up in her face.
“I have not said mother for ten years,” said Katie. “Mother! do you think
dispeace can ever rise between you and me, that you should think once of
going away?”
The Mistress paused.
“No dispeace, Katie—no, God forbid!” said Huntley’s mother, “but I’m
a hasty woman in my speech, and ever was.”
“But not to me,” said the Katie who was no more Katie Logan—“never
to me! and Huntley will be a lonely man if his mother goes from Norlaw,
for where thou goest I will go, and where thou dwellest I will dwell.
Mother, tell me! is it Patie or poor Huntley who is to have you and me?”
The Mistress did not say a word. She suffered herself to be placed in the
chair where she had placed Katie, and then put her apron over her face and
wept, thinking strangely, all at once, not of a new daughter-in-law and a
changed place, but of him who lay sleeping among the solemn ruins at
Dryburgh, and all the sacred chain of years that made dear this house of
Norlaw.
The other marriage took place after that, with much greater glory and
distinction, to the pride of the Mistress’s heart. It was a great festival when
it came—which was not till the season of mourning was over—to all of
whom Madame Roche could reach. Even Joanna Huntley and Aunt Jean
were persuaded to come to gladden the wedding of Desirée and Cosmo; and
it is even said that Joanna, who is of a very scientific turn of mind, and has
a little private laboratory of her own, where she burns her pupils’ fingers,
was the finder of that strange little heap of dust and cinders which revealed
to Huntley the mineral wealth in the corner of the Norlaw lands, which now
has made him rich enough to buy three Norlaws. At any rate, Joanna was
put into perfect good humor by her visit, and thenceforward, with the
chivalry of a knight-errant, worshiped above all loveliness the beautiful old
face of Madame Roche.
This is about all there is to tell of the Livingstone family. They had their
troubles, and are having them, like all of us; but, like all of us, have great
joy-cordials now and then to make them strong; and always Providence to
work a clear web out of the tangled exertions which we make without
witting, and which God sorts into His appointed lot.
THE END.
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