Every one laughed aloud at George's description of the whelp, and his companion little Davie, save Jane, who was afraid he would discover where their retreat had been, rather prematurely. Breakfast was served; the old lady forced a complaisance and chatted to Meg, who answered her just with what chanced to come uppermost, never once to the point or subject on which she was previously talking; for all the time the good old dowager was addressing her, she was busied in adjusting some part of her dress--looking at the shape of her stays--casting a glance at the laird, and occasionally at Jane--then adjusting a voluptuous curl that half-hid her grey eye. She likewise occasionally uttered a vacant hem!

when the lady paused; and, as soon as she ceased, began some observation of her own. Robin was quite in the fidgets. "Dear Meg, woman, that's no what her ladyship was speaking about. That's no to the purpose ava."

"Speak ye to the purpose then, Rob. Ye think naebody can speak but yoursel, hummin an' hawin. Let us hear how weel ye'll speak to the purpose.--Whisht, sirs! haud a' your tongues; my billy Rob's gaun to mak a speech."

"Humph!" quoth Robin, and gave his head a cast round.

"Humph!" returned Meg, "what kind of a speech is that? Is that to the purpose? If that be to the purpose, a sow could hae made that speech as weel as you, and better. The truth is, mem, that our Rob's aye wantin to be on his hich horse afore grit folk; now I says till him, Rob, says I, for you to fa' to afore your betters, and be tryin to speak that vile nicky-nacky language they ca' English, instead o' being on your hich horse then, ye are just like a heron walkin on stilts, an' that's but a daft-like beast. Ye sude mind, says I,--Rob, man, says I, that her ladyship's ane o' our ain kind o' fock, an' was bred at the same heck an' manger wi' oursels; an' although she has light.i.t on a good tethering, ye're no to think that she's to gi'e hersel airs, an' forget the good auld haemilt blude that rins in her veins."

The lady's cheek was burning with indignation, for, of all topics, Meg was fallen on the most unlucky; nothing hurt her feelings half so much as hints of her low extraction. Lindsey, though vexed, could not repress a laugh at the proud offence on the one side, and the untameable vulgarity on the other. Meg discerned nothing wrong, and, if she had, would not have regarded it. She went on. "Ah, Meg, woman! quo' he, ye ken little thing about it, quo' he; when the sole of a shoe's turned uppermost, it maks aye but an unbowsome overleather; if ye corn an auld glide-aver weel, she'll soon turn about her heels, and fling i' your face."

Robin's whole visage changed; his eyes were set on Meg, but his brows were screwed down, and his cheeks pursed up in such a manner, that those were scarcely discernible; his mouth had meanwhile a.s.sumed the form and likeness of one of the long S's on the belly of a fiddle. Meg still went on. "Dear Rob, says I, man, says I, that disna apply to her ladyship ava, for every thing that she does, an' every thing that she says, shows her to be a douse hamely body; the very way that she rins bizzin through the house, an' fliting on the servants, proves that she maks nae pretensions to high gentility."

Lindsey, who now dreaded some explosion of rage subversive of all decorum, began and rallied Meg, commended her flow of spirits and fresh looks, and said she was very much of a lady herself.

"I wat, laird," said she, "I think aye if a body behaves wi' ease, an'

without ony stiffness an' precision, that body never behaves ill; but, to be sure, you grand fock can say an' do a hantle o' things that winna be ta'en aff our hands. For my part, when the great fike rase about you an' Jeany there, I says--says I"----

This was a threatening preface. Lindsey durst not stand the sequel. "I beg your pardon for the present, Miss Peggy," said he; "we shall attend to your observations on this topic after we have prepared the way for it somewhat. I was, and still am convinced, that this young woman received very harsh and unmerited treatment from our two families. I am desirous of making her some reparation, and to patronize her, as well as this boy, if I find her in any degree deserving of it. This protection shall, moreover, be extended to her in a manner that neither suspicion nor blame shall attach to it; and, as we are all implicated in the wrong, I have selected you as judges in this matter.--It is impossible,"

continued he, addressing himself to Jane, "to be in your company half an hour, and not discern that your education has been much above the sphere of life which you now occupy; but I trust you will find us all disposed to regard you with the eye of friendship, if you will be so good as relate to us the incidents of your life which have contributed to your coming among us."

"The events of my life, sir," said she, "have been, like the patriarch's days, few and evil, and my intention was, never to have divulged them in this district--not on my own account, but for the sake of their names that are connected with my history, and are now no more. Nevertheless, since you have taken such an interest in my fortunes, it would both be ungrateful and imprudent to decline giving you that satisfaction. Excuse me for the present in withholding my family name, and I will relate to you the incidents of my short life in a very few words.

"My father was an eminent merchant. Whether ever he was a rich one or not I cannot tell, but he certainly was looked upon as such, for his credit and dealings were very extensive. My mother died twelve years ago, leaving my father with no more children than another daughter and myself. I received my education in Edinburgh along with my sister, who was two years older than I. She began to manage my father's household affairs at thirteen years of age, and I went to reside with an aunt in East-Lothian, who had been married to a farmer, but was now a widow, and occupied a farm herself.

"Whether it originated in his not finding any amus.e.m.e.nt at home, or in consciousness of his affairs getting into confusion, I know not, but our father about this time fell by degrees from attending to his business in a great measure, and sunk into despondency. My sister's letters to me were full of regret; my aunt being in a declining state of health I could not leave her for some months. At last she died, leaving me a legacy of five hundred pounds, when I hastened home, and did all in my power to a.s.sist my sister in comforting our father, but he did not long survive, and dying insolvent, we not only lost our protector, but had nothing to depend on save my little legacy and our own industry and exertions. We retired to a small lodging; none of our friends thought proper to follow us to our retreat; and now, bereaved as we were of our natural protector, we could not help perceiving that we were a friendless and helpless pair. My sister never recovered her spirits; a certain dejection and absence of mind from this time forth began to prey upon her, and it was with real sorrow and concern that I perceived it daily gaining ground, and becoming more and more strongly marked. I tried always to console her as much as I could for our loss, and often, to cheer her, a.s.sumed a gaiety that was foreign to my heart; but we being quite solitary, her melancholy always returned upon her with double weight. About this time I first saw a young officer with my sister, who introduced him carelessly to me as _the Captain_. She went out with him, and when she returned I asked who he was. "Bless me, Jane," said she, "do you not know the Captain?" I was angry at the flippancy of her manner, but she gave me no further satisfaction."

At the mention of this officer Lindsey grew restless and impatient, changing his position on the seat every moment.

"Things went on in this manner," continued Jane, "for some time longer, and still my sister grew more heartless and dejected. Her colour grew pale, and her eye heavy, and I could not help feeling seriously alarmed on her account.

"For nine or ten days she went out by herself for an hour or so every day, without informing me where she had been. But one morning, when I arose my sister was gone. I waited until noon before I took any breakfast; but nothing of my sister appearing, I became distracted with dreadful apprehensions. I went about to every place where I thought there was the least chance of hearing any news of her, yet durst I not ask for her openly at any one for fear of the answer I might receive; for, on considering the late dejected state of her mind, I expected nothing else than to hear that she had put an end to her existence. My search was fruitless; night came, and still no word of my sister; I pa.s.sed it without sleep; but, alas! the next night, and many others, came and past over without bringing a trace of her steps, or throwing a gleam of light on her fate. I was now obliged to set on foot a strict and extensive search, and even to have her advertised; yet still all my exertions proved of no avail.

"During this long and dreadful pause of uncertainty I thought there could not be conceived a human being more thoroughly wretched than I was. Only seventeen years of age; the last of all my father's house; left in a lodging by myself; all my neighbours utter strangers to me, and not a friend on earth to whom I could unbosom my griefs; wretched I was, and deemed it impossible to be more so; but I had over-rated my griefs, and was punished for my despondency.

"When some months had pa.s.sed away, one spring morning, I remember it well! after a gentle rap at the door, the maid entered, and said, _a man_ wanted to see me. 'A man!' said I; 'What man wishes to speak with me?'

"'I don't know, mem, he is like a countryman.'

"He was shown in; a pale man, of a dark complexion, and diminutive size.

I was certain I had never seen him before, for his features were singularly marked. He asked my name, and seemed at a loss to deliver his message, and there was something in his air and manner that greatly alarmed me. 'So you said your name is so so?' said he again.

"'I did; pray, tell me what is your business with me?'

"'There is a lady at our house, who I suppose wishes to speak with you.'

"'What lady wishes to see me? Where is your house?'

"He named some place on the London road towards Berwick.

"'What lady can possibly be there,' said I, 'that knows any thing of me?'

"He looked at me again.--'Pray, mem, have you a sister? Or had you ever any that you know of?'

"This query paralyzed me. I sunk down on the sofa; but as soon as I could speak, I asked how long the lady had been with him?

"'Only since Friday evening last,' said he. 'She was taken ill at the inn on her way to Edinburgh, from whence she was conveyed to my house, for the sake of better and more quiet accommodation; but she has been very ill,--_very_ ill, indeed. There is now hope that she will recover, but she is still _very_ ill. I hope you are the lady she named when all was given over; at all events, you must go and see.'

"Scarcely knowing what I did, I desired the man to call a post-chaise.

We reached the place before even. I entered her apartment, breathless and impatient; but how shall I relate to you the state in which I found her! My heart bleeds to this day, when remembrance presents me with the woeful spectacle! She was lying speechless, unable to move a hand or lift an eye, and posting on, with rapid advances, to eternity, having some days before been delivered of this dear child on my knee."

At this moment the eyes of all the circle were fixed on Jane, expressing strongly a mixture of love, pity, and admiration. Lindsey could contain himself no longer. He started to his feet--stretched his arms toward her, and, after gasping a little for breath,--"Wh--wh--what!" said he, sighing, "are you not then the _mother_ of little George?"

"A poor subst.i.tute only for a better, sir; but the only parent he has ever known, or is likely to know."

"And you have voluntarily suffered all these privations, trouble, and shame, for the sake of a poor little orphan, who, it seems, is no nearer a kin to you than a nephew? If ever the virtuous principles and qualities of a female mind deserved admiration--But proceed. I am much to blame for interrupting you."

"I never for another moment departed from my sister's bed-side until she breathed her last, which she did in about thirty hours after my arrival.

During that time, there was only once that she seemed to recollect or take the slightest notice of me, which was a little before her final exit; but then she gave me such a look!--So full of kindness and sorrow, that language could not have expressed her feelings half so forcibly. It was a farewell look, which is engraven on the tablets of my mind, never to be obliterated while that holds intercourse with humanity.

"The shock which my feelings received by the death of the only friend of my heart, with the mysterious circ.u.mstances which accompanied it, deprived me for some time of the powers of recollection. My dreams by night, and my reflections during the day, were all so much blent and inter-mingled, and so wholly of the same tendency, that they became all as a dream together; so that I could not, on a retrospect, discover in the least, nor ever can to this day, what part of my impressions were real, or what were mere phantasy, so strongly were the etchings of fancy impressed on my distempered mind. If the man I mentioned before, who owned the house, had not looked after the necessary preparations for the funeral, I know not how or when it would have been set about by any orders of mine. They soon enticed me away from the body, which they suffered me to visit but seldom, and, it seems, I was perfectly pa.s.sive.

That such a thing as my sister's funeral was approaching, occurred but rarely to my mind, and then, it in a manner surprised me as a piece of unexpected intelligence was wont to do, and it as suddenly slipped away, leaving my imagination again to wander in a maze of inextricable confusion.

"The first thing that brought me to myself was a long fit of incessant weeping, in which I shed abundance of tears. I then manifested an ardent desire to see the child, which I recollect perfectly well. I considered him as the only remembrance left to me of a respectable and well-descended family, and of the dearest friend ever I remembered upon earth. When I first saw him, he was lying on an old woman's knee; and when I stooped to look at him, he, with a start of his whole frame, fixed his young unstable eyes on me, and stretched out his little spread hands toward me, in which position he remained steadily for a considerable time. This was so marked and uncommon, that all the standers-by took notice of it; and the woman who held him said, 'See!

saw ye ever the like o' that? I never saw the like o' that a' my life!

It is surely impossible he can ken ye?'

"It was, without doubt, an involuntary motion of the babe, but I could not help viewing it as a movement effected by the Great Spirit of universal nature. I thought I saw the child beseeching me to protect his helpless innocence, and not to abandon him to an injurious world, in which he had not another friend remaining, until he could think and act for himself. I adopted him that moment in my heart as my son--I took him into my arms as a part of myself!--That simple motion of my dear child fixed my resolution with respect to him at once, and that resolution never has been altered nor injured in the smallest part.

"I hired a nurse for him; and, it being term time, gave up my house, and sold all my furniture, save the little that I have still, and retired to a cottage at Slateford, not far from Edinburgh. Here I lived frugally with the nurse and child; and became so fond of him, that no previous period of my life, from the days of childhood, was ever so happy; indeed, my happiness was centered solely in him, and if he was well, all other earthly concerns vanished. I found, however, that after paying the rent of the house, the expences of the two funerals, and the nurse's wages, that my little stock was reduced nearly one-third; and fearing that it would in a little while be wholly exhausted, I thought the sooner I reconciled myself to hardships the better; so leaving the remainder of my money in the bank as a fund in case of sickness or great necessity, I came and took this small cottage and garden from your farmer. I had no ambition but that of bringing up the child, and educating him, independent of charitable a.s.sistance; and I cannot describe to you how happy I felt at the prospect, that the interest of my remaining property, with the small earnings of my own industry, was likely to prove more than an equivalent to my yearly expences. I have from the very first acknowledged little George as my own son. I longed for a retirement, where I should never be recognised by any former acquaintance. In such a place I thought my story might gain credit; nor could I think in any degree to stain the name of my dear departed sister by any surmises or reflections that might in future attach to it by telling the story as it was. How I should have felt had he really been my son, I cannot judge; but instead of feeling any degradation at being supposed his mother, so wholly is my existence bound up in him, that I could not bear the contrary to be supposed.

"Who his father is, remains a profound, and, to me, unaccountable mystery. I never had the slightest suspicion of the rect.i.tude of her behaviour, and cannot understand to this day how she could possibly carry on an amour without suffering me to perceive any signs of it. She had spoke but little to the people with whom I found her; but their impressions were, that she was not married, and I durst not enquire farther; for, rather than have discovered his father to be unworthy, I chose to remain in utter ignorance concerning it, and I could not think favourably of one who had deserted her in such circ.u.mstances. There was no man whom I had ever seen that I could in the least suspect, if it was not the young officer that I formerly mentioned, and he was the least likely to be guilty of such an act of any man I ever saw."

Here Lindsey again sprung to his feet. "Good G.o.d!" said he, "there is something occurs to my mind--the most extraordinary circ.u.mstance--if it be really so. You wished to be excused from giving your surname, but there is a strange coincidence in your concerns with my own, which renders it absolutely necessary that I should be informed of this."

Jane hesitated, and said she could not think of divulging that so as to make it public, but that she would trust his honour, and tell it him in his ear. She then whispered the name M'----y.

"What!" said he aloud, forgetting the injunction of secrecy, "of the late firm M'----, Reynolds and Co.?"

"The same, sir."

The positions into which he now threw himself, and the extravagant exclamations that he uttered, cannot here be all described. The other three personages in the room all supposed that he was gone out of his reason. After repeating, till quite out of breath, "It is she! it is she! it is the same! it is the same!" and, pressing both her hands in his, he exclaimed, "Eternal Providence! how wonderful are thy ways, and how visible is thy superintendance of human affairs, even in the common vicissitudes of life! but never was it so visible as in this! My dear child," continued he, taking little George in his arms, who looked at him with suspicion and wonder, "by how many fatal and untoward events, all seemingly casual, art thou at last, without the aid of human interference, thrown into the arms of thy natural guardian! and how firmly was my heart knit to thee from the very first moment I saw thee!

But thou art my own son, and shalt no more leave me; nor shall your beautiful guardian either, if she will accept of a heart that her virtues have captivated. This house shall henceforth be a home to you both, and all my friends shall be friends to you, for you are my own."

Here the old lady sprung forward, and, laying hold of her son by the shoulder, endeavoured to pull him away. "Consider what you are saying, Lindsey, and what you are bringing on yourself, and your name, and your family. You are raving mad--that child can no more be yours than it is mine. Will you explain yourself, or are we to believe that you have indeed lost your reason? I say, where is the consistency in supposing that child can be yours?"

"It is impossible," said Robin.

"I say it's nae sic a thing as unpossible, Rob," quoth Meg. "Hand your tongue, ye ken naething about it--it's just as possible that it may be his as another's--I sal warrant whaever be aught it, it's no comed there by sympathy! Od, if they war to come by sympathy"----