Exactly in such a situation stood our honest farmer, Robin Muckerland, plying his bonnet round with both hands in the same way--his head was likewise turned to one side, and his eyes immoveably fixed on the window--it was the girl's position to a hair. Let any man take his pen and describe the two att.i.tudes, there is not the slightest shade of difference to be discerned--the one knee of both is even slackened and bent gently forward, the other upright and firm, by its own weight made steadfast and immoveable. Yet how it comes I do not comprehend, and should like much to consult my friend, David Wilkie, about it--it is plain that the att.i.tudes are precisely the same, yet the girl's is quite delightful--Robin's was perfectly pitiable. He had not one word to say, but baked his bonnet and stood thus.

"This is my determination," continued Lindsey, "and you may pay what attention to it you please."

"Od, sir, I'm excessively vexed at what has happened, now when ye hae letten me see it in its true light, an' I sal do what I can to find her again, an' mak her what amends I am able. But, od ye see, naebody kens where she's ye see. She may be gane into the wild Highlands, or away to that outlandish country ayont the sea that they ca' Fife, an' how am I to get her? therefore, if I canna an' dinna get her, I hope you will excuse me, especially as neither the contrivance nor the act was mine."

"You and my honoured mother settle that betwixt you. I will not abate a t.i.ttle of that I have said; but, to encourage your people in the search, or whomsoever you are pleased to employ, I shall give ten guineas to the person who finds her and restores her to her home."

"Aweel, son Lindsey," said the lady, moving her head like the pendulum of a clock, "your mother meant ye good, an' nae ill, in what she has done; but them that will to Cupar maun to Cupar. For the sake o' Robin and his family, and no for the neighbourhood o' this whilly-wha of a young witch, I shall gi'e the body that finds her half as muckle."

"And I," said Robin, "shall gi'e the same, which will make up the reward to twenty guineas, an' it is mair than I can weel spare in sic hard times. I never saw better come o' women's schemes, as I say whiles to my t.i.tty Meg."

The company parted, not on the most social terms; and that night, before Robin dismissed his servants to their beds, he said, "Lads, my master informs me that I am to be plaguit wi' the law for putting away that la.s.sie Jeany an' her bit brat atween term-days. I gi'e ye a' your liberty frae my wark until the end o' neist week, if she be not found afore that time, to search for her; and whoever finds her, and brings her back to her cottage, shall have a reward o' twenty guineas in his loof."

A long conversation then ensued on the best means of recovering her; but Barnaby did not wait on this, but hasted away to the stable loft, where his chest stood at the head of his bed, dressed himself in his Sunday clothes, and went without delay to the nearest stage where horses were let out for hire, got an old brown hack equipped with a bridle, saddle, and pad, and off he set directly for his father's cottage, where he arrived next morning by the time the sun was up.

To describe all Barnaby's adventures that night would take a volume by itself, for it was the very country of the ghosts and fairies that he traversed. As his errand was, however, solely for good, he was afraid for none of them meddling with him, save the devil and the water-kelpie; yet so hardly was he beset with these at times, that he had no other resource but to shut his eyes close, and push on his horse. He by this resolute contrivance got on without interruption, but had been so near his infernal adversaries at times, that twice or thrice he felt a glow on his face as if a breath of lukewarm air had been breathed against it, and a smell exactly resembling (he did not like to say brimstone, but) _a coal fire just gaun out_!--But it is truly wonderful what a man, with a conscience void of offence towards G.o.d and towards his neighbour, will go through!

When the day-light began to spring up behind the hills of Glenrath, what a blithe and grateful man was Barnaby! "The bogles will be obliged to thraw aff their black claes now," said he, "an' in less than half an hour the red an' the green anes too. They'll hae to pit on their pollonians o' the pale colour o' the fair day-light, that the e'e o'

Christian maunna see them; or gang away an' sleep in their dew-cups an'

foxter-leaves till the gloaming come again. O, but the things o' this warld are weel contrived!"

Safely did he reach the glen, at the head of which his father's cottage stood, with its little kail-yard in the forkings of the burn; there was no dog, nor even little noisy pup, came out to give note of his approach, for his father and canine friends had all gone out to the heights at a very early hour to look after the sheep. The morning was calm and lovely; but there was no sound in the glen save the voice of his mother's grey c.o.c.k, who was perched on the kail-yard dike, and crowing incessantly. The echoes were answering him distinctly from the hills; and as these aerial opponents were the only ones he ever in his life had to contend with, he had learned to value himself extremely on his courage, and was clapping his wings, and braving them in a note louder and louder. Barnaby laughed at him, although he himself had been struggling with beings as unreal and visionary during the whole night; so ready we are to see the follies of others, yet all the while to overlook our own!

The smoke was issuing from his mother's chimney in a tall blue spire that reached to the middle of the hill; but when there, it spread itself into a soft hazy cloud, and was resting on the side of the green brae in the most still and moveless position. The rising sun kissed it with his beams, which gave it a light woolly appearance, something like floating down; it was so like a vision that Barnaby durst scarcely look at it. "My mither's asteer," said he to himself, "I ken by her morning reek; she'll be fiking up an' down the house, an' putting a' things to rights; an' my billies they'll be lying grumphing and snoring i' their dens, an' Jeany will be lying waking, listening what's gaun on, an' wee George will be sniffing an' sleeping sound in her bosom. Now I think, of a' things i' the warld a young mother an' her first son is the maist interesting--if she has been unfortunate it is ten times mair sae--to see how she'll sit an' look at him!--(here Barnaby blew his nose.)--I was my mother's first son; if she had been as bonny, an' as gentle, an'

as feele as Jeany, aih! but I wad hae likit weel!"

No one being aware of Barnaby's approach, he rode briskly up to the door and rapped, causing at the same time his horse's feet make a terrible clamping on the stones. His mother, who had been sweeping the house, came running out with the heather besom in her hand. "Bless my heart, callant, is that you? Sic a gliff as I hae gotten w'ye! What's asteer w'ye? or whar ir ye gaun sae early i' the morning on that grand cut-luggit beast?"

"I'm turned a gentleman now, mother, that's a'; an' I thought I wad g'ye a ca' as I gaed by for auld lang syne--Hope ye're all well?"

"Deed we're a' no that ill. But, dear Barny, what ir ye after?--Hae ye a' your senses about ye?"

"I thank ye, I dinna miss ony o' them that I notice. I'm come for my wife that I left w'ye--How is she?"

"_Your_ wife! Weel I wat ye'll never get the like o' her, great muckle hallanshaker-like guff."

"Haud your tongue now, mother, ye dinna ken wha I may get; but I can tell ye o' something that I'm to get. If I take hame that la.s.sie Jeany safe to her house, ony time these ten days, there's naebody kens where I hae her hidden, an' I'm to get twenty guineas in my loof for doing o't."

"Ay, I tauld ye sae, my dear bairn."

"Ye never tauld me sic a word, mother."

"I hae tauld ye oft, that ae good turn never misses to meet wi' another, an' that the king may come i' the beggar's way."

"Ramsay's Scots Proverbs tell me that."

"It will begin a bit stock to you, my man; an' I sal say it o' her, gin I sude never see her face again, she's the best creature, ae way an' a'

ways, that ever was about a poor body's house. Ah, G.o.d bless her!--she's a dear creature!--Ye'll never hae cause to rue, my man, the pains ye hae ta'en about her."

Jane was very happy at meeting with her romantic and kind-hearted Barnaby again, who told her such a turn as affairs had taken in her favour, and all that the laird had said to him about her, and the earnest enquiries he had made; and likewise how he had put Robin to his shifts. She had lived very happy with these poor honest people, and had no mind to leave them; indeed, from the day that she entered their house she had not harboured a thought of it; but now, on account of her furniture, which was of considerable value to her, and more particularly for the sake of Barnaby's reward, she judged it best to accompany him.

So after they had all taken a hearty breakfast together at the same board, the old shepherd returned thanks to the Bestower of all good things, and then kissing Jane, he lifted her on the horse behind his son. "Now fare-ye-weel, Jeany woman," said he; "I think you will be happy, for I'm sure you deserve to be sae. If ye continue to mind the thing that's good, there is Ane wha will never forsake ye; I come surety for him. An' if ever adversity should again fa' to your lot, ye shall be as welcome to our bit house as ever, and to your share o' ilka thing that's in it; an' if I should see you nae mair, I'll never bow my knee before my Maker without remembering you. G.o.d bless you, my bonny woman!

Fareweel."

Jane dropped a tear on her benefactor's hand, for who could stand such unaffected goodness? Barnaby, who had folded his plaid and held little George on it before him, turned his face towards the other side of the horse, and contracted it into a shape and contortion that is not often seen, every feature being lengthened extremely the cross way; but after blowing his nose two or three times he recovered the use of his rod, with which he instantly began a thrashing his nag, that he might get out of this flood of tenderness and leave-taking. It is not easy to conceive a more happy man than he was that day, he was so proud of his parents'

kindness to Jane, and of the good he thought he was doing to all parties, and, besides, the twenty guineas was a fortune to him. He went on prating to George, who was quite delighted with the ride on such a grand horse; yet at times he grew thoughtful, and testified his regret for the horse, lest he should be tired with carrying them all. "Geoge vely solly fol poole holse, Balny! Geoge no like to be a holse."

Many were the witch and fairy tales that Barnaby related that day to amuse his fellow travellers. He set down Jane and George safe at their cottage before evening, and astonished Robin not a little, who was overjoyed to see his lost gimmer and lamb (as he termed them,) so soon.

He paid Barnaby his twenty guineas that night in excellent humour, making some mention, meantime, of an old proverb, "They that hide ken where to seek," and without delay sent information to the mansion-house that Jane was found, and safely arrived at her own house, a piece of news which created no little stir at Earlhall.

The old lady had entertained strong hopes that Jane would not be found; or that she would refuse to return after the treatment she had met with, and the suspicions that were raised against her; in short, she wished her not to return, and she hoped she would not; but now all her fond hopes were extinguished, and she could see no honourable issue to the affair. It was like to turn out a love intrigue; a low and shameful business, her son might pretend what he chose. She instantly lost all command of her temper, hurried from one part of the house to another, quarrelled with every one of the maid servants, and gave the two prettiest ones warning to leave their places.

Lindsey was likewise a little out of his reason that night, but his feelings were of a very different kind. He loved all the human race; he loved the little birds that sung upon the trees almost to distraction.

The deep blue of the heavens never appeared so serene--the woods, the fields, and the flowers, never so delightful! such a new and exhilarating tone did the return of this beautiful girl (child, I mean) give to his whole vital frame. "What a delightful world this is!" said he to himself; "and how happy might all its inhabitants live, if they would suffer themselves to do so!" He did not traverse the different apartments of the house with the same hasty steps as his mother did, but he took many rapid turns out to the back garden, and in again to the parlour.

In the middle of one of these distant excursions his ears were a.s.sailed by the discordant tones of anger and reproach--Proud and haughty contumely on the one side, and the bitter complaints of wronged but humble dependance on the other.

"This is some one of my mother's unreasonable imputations," said he to himself; "it is hard that the fairer and more delicate part of my servants, who are in fact _my_ servants, receiving meat and wages from me, and whom I most wish to be happy and comfortable in their circ.u.mstances should be thus hara.s.sed and rendered miserable--I will interfere in spite of all obloquy." He went in to the fore-kitchen, "What is the matter? What is the meaning of all this disturbance here?"

"Matter, son! The matter is, that I will not be thus teased and wronged by such a worthless sc.u.m of menials as your grieve has buckled on me. I am determined to be rid of them for the present, and to have no more servants of his hiring."

So saying, she bustled away by him, and out of the kitchen. Sally, one of the maidens that wrought afield, whose bright complexion and sly looks had roused the lady's resentment, was standing sobbing in a corner. "What is this you have done, Sally, thus to irritate my mother?"

"I hae done naething ava that's wrang, sir; but she's never aff my tap; an' I'm glad I'm now free frae her. Had she tauld me my fault, an'

turned me away, I wad never hae regrett.i.t; but she has ca'd me names sic afore a' these witnesses, that I'll never get mair service i' the country. I see nae right ony body has to guide poor servants this gate."

"Nor I either, Sally; but say no more about it; I know you to be a very faithful and conscientious servant, for I have often enquired; remain in your place, and _do not_ go away--remember I order it--give no offence to my mother that you can avoid--be a good girl, as you have heretofore been, and here is a guinea to buy you a gown at next fair."

"Oh, G.o.d bless him for a kind good soul!" said Sally, as he went out, and the benediction was echoed from every corner of the kitchen.

He rambled more than half-way up the river side to Todburn; but it was too late to call and see _the dear child_ that night, so he returned--joined his mother at supper; was more than usually gay and talkative, and at last proposed to invite this fair rambler down to Earlhall to breakfast with them next morning. The lady was almost paralyzed by this proposal, and groaned in spirit!

"Certainly, son! certainly! your house is your ain; invite ony body to it you like; nane has a better right! a man may keep ony company he chooses. Ye'll hae nae objections, I fancy, that I keep out o' the party?"

"Very great objections, mother; I wish to see this girl, and learn her history; if I call privately, you will be offended; is it not better to do this before witnesses? And I am likewise desirous that you should see her, and be satisfied that she is at all events worthy of being protected from injury. Let us make a rustic party of it, for a little variety--we will invite Robin, and his sister Miss Margaret, and any other of that cla.s.s you chuse."

"O certainly! invite them ilk ane, son--invite a' the riff-raff i' the parish; your mother has naething to say."

He was stung with this perversity, as well as with his love for _the child_ on the other hand--he did invite them, and the invitation was accepted. Down came Robin Muckerland, tenant of the Todburn, dressed in his blue and gray thread-about coat, with metal b.u.t.tons, broader than a Queen Ann's half-crown, dark corduroy breeches, and drab-coloured leggums (the best things, by the bye, that ever came in fashion;) and down came haverel Meg, his sister, _alias_ Miss Peggy, for that day, with her cork-heeled shoon, and long-waisted gown, covered with broad stripes, like the hangings of an ancient bed. She had, moreover, a silken bonnet on her head for laying aside in the lobby, under that a smart cap, and under that, again, an abundance of black curly hair, slightly grizzled, and rendered more outrageously bushy that morning by the effects of paper-curls over night. Meg was never seen dressed in such style before, and I wish from my heart that any a.s.sembly of our belles had seen her. She viewed the business as a kind of _show of cattle_ before the laird, in the same way as the young ladies long ago were brought in before King Ahasuerus; and she was determined to bear down Jane to the dust, and carry all before her. The very air and swagger with which she walked was quite delightful, while her blue ribbon-belt, half a foot broad, and proportionally long, having been left intentionally loose, was streaming behind her, like the pennon of a ship. "It is rather odd, billy Rob," said she, "that we should thus be invited alang wi' our ain cottar--However, the laird's ha' levels a'--if she be fit company for him, she maunna be less for us--fock maun bow to the bush that they seek beild frae."

"E'en sae, Meg; but let us see you behave yoursel like a woman the day, an' no get out wi' ony o' your vollies o' nonsense."

"Deed, Rob, I'll just speak as I think; there sall naething gyzen i' my thrapple that my noddle pits there. I like nane o' your kind o' fock that dare do naething but chim chim at the same thing ower again, like the gouk in a June day. Meg maun hae out her say, if it sude burst Powbeit on her head."

As they came down by the washing-green, Jane joined them, dressed in a plain brown frock, and leading little George, who was equipt like an earl's son; and a prettier boy never paddled at a mother's side.

The old lady was indisposed that day, and unable to come down to breakfast; and it was not till after the third visit from her son, who found he was like to be awkwardly situated with his party, that she was prevailed on to appear. Robin entered first, and made his obeisance; Meg came in with a skip and a courtesy, very like that of the water-owzel when she is sitting on a stone in the middle of the stream. Poor Jane appeared last, leading her boy; her air was modest and diffident, yet it had nothing of that awkward timidity, inseparable from low life, and a consciousness that one has no right to be there. The lady returned a slight nod to her courtesy, for she had nearly dropt down when she first cast her eyes upon her beauty, and elegance of form and manner. It was the last hope that she had remaining, that this girl would be a vulgar creature, and have no pretensions to that kind of beauty admired in the higher circles; now that last hope was blasted. But that which astonished every one most, was the brilliancy of her eyes, which all her misfortunes had nothing dimmed; their humid l.u.s.tre was such, that it was impossible for any other eye to meet their glances without withdrawing abashed. The laird set a seat for her, and spoke to her as easily as he could, but of that he was no great master; he then lifted little George, kissed him, and, setting him on his knee, fell a talking to him. "And where have you been so long away from me, my dear little fellow? Tell me where you have been all this while."

"Fal away, at auld Geoldie's, little Davie's falel, ye ken; him 'at has 'e fine bonny 'halp wi' a stipe down hele, and anolel down hele.--Little Davie vely good till Geoge, an vely queel callant."