The Laird of Norlaw; A Scottish Story

Sabbath night; a July night, sweet with summer stars and moonlight, and with no darkness in it: the water running soft with its quietest murmur, the thrush and blackbird beguiled to sing almost as late as the southland nightingale; the scent of the late roses coming round the corner of the house on the faint breeze; the stars clustered in a little crowd over the gaunt castle walls, and in the distance the three weird Eildons, standing out dark against the pale azure blue and flood of moonlight; a Sabbath evening with not a sound in it, save the sweetest sounds of nature, a visible holy blessing of quiet and repose.

But the table was spread in the dining-parlor at Norlaw; there was a basket of oat-cakes and flour “bannocks” upon the table, in a snowy napkin, and butter, and milk, and cheese, all of the freshest and most fragrant, the produce of their own lands. Two candles made a little spot of light upon the white table-cloth, but left all the rest of the room in dreary shadow. To see it was enough to tell that some calamity oppressed the house—and when the widow came in, with her face of exhaustion, and eyes which could weep no more for very weariness, when the boys followed slowly one by one, and Marget coming in with the solemn, noiseless step, so unusual to her, hovered about them with all her portentous gravity, and unwonted attendance, it was not hard to conclude that they ate and drank under the shadow of death. The Mistress had not appeared that day, from the early breakfast until now; it was the only time before or after when she faltered from the ways of common life.

When they had ended the meal, which no one cared to taste, and when the lads began to think with some comfort, in the weariness of their youth, that the day at last was over, Mrs. Livingstone drew her chair away from the table, and looked at them all with the sorrowful tenderness of a mother and a widow. Then, after a long interval, she spoke.

“Bairns!” she said, with a voice which was hoarse with solicitude and weeping, “you’re a’ thinking what you’re to do, and though it’s the Sabbath day, I canna blame ye, but me, I’m but a weak woman—I could not say a word to counsel ye, if it was to save the breaking of my heart this day.”

“We never looked for it, mother. There’s time enough! do you think we would press our plans on you?” cried the eager Huntley, who had been groaning but a few hours ago, at this compulsory delay.

“Na, I could not do it,” said the mother, turning her head aside, and drawing the hem of her apron through her fingers, while the tears dropped slowly out of her tired eyes; “this is the last Sabbath day that him and me will be under the same roof. I canna speak to you, bairns; I’m but a weak woman, and I’ve been his wife this five-and-twenty years.”

After a pause, the Mistress dried her eyes, and went on hurriedly:—

“But I ken ye must have your ain thoughts; the like of you canna keep still a long summer day, though it is a Sabbath; and, bairns, I’ve just this to say to you; ye canna fear mair than we’ll have to meet. I’m thankful even that he’s gane hame before the storm falls; for you’re a’ young, and can stand a blast. There’s plenty to do, and plenty to bear. I dinna forbid ye thinking, though it’s Sabbath night, and death is among us; but oh! laddies, think in a godly manner, and ask a blessing—dinna darken the Sabbath with worldly thoughts, and him lying on his last bed up the stair!”

The boys drew near to her simultaneously, with a common impulse. She heard the rustle and motion of their youthful grief, but she still kept her head aside, and drew tightly through her fingers the hem of her apron.

“The day after the morn,” continued the widow, “I’ll be ready with all that I ken, and ready to hear whatever you think for yourselves; think discreetly, and I’ll no’ oppose, and think soberly, without pride, for we’re at the foot of the brae. And we’ve nae friends to advise us, bairns,” continued the Mistress, raising her head a little with the very pride which she deprecated; “we’ve neither kith nor kin to take us by the hand, nor give us counsel. Maybe it’s a’ the better—for we’ve only Providence to trust to now, and ourselves.”

By this time she had risen up, and taking the candle which Patrick had lighted for her, she stood with the little flat brass sconce in her hand, and the light flickering over her face, still looking down. Yet she lingered, as if she had something more to say. It burst from her lips, at last, suddenly, almost with passion.

“Bairns! take heed, in your very innermost hearts, that ye think no blame!” cried the widow; and when she had said these words, hastened away, as if afraid to follow up or to weaken them by another syllable. When she was gone, the lads stood silently about the table, each of them with an additional ache in his heart. There was blame which might be thought, which might be spoken; even she was aware of it, in the jealous regard of her early grief.

“The Mistress has bidden you a’ good night,” said Marget, entering softly; “ye’ve taen nae supper, and ye took nae dinner; how are ye to live and work, growing laddies like you, if you gang on at this rate? Ye mean to break my heart amang you. If ye never break bread, Huntley Livingstone, how will you get through the morn?”

“I wish it was over,” cried Huntley, once more.

“And so do I. Eh! bairns, when I see those blinds a’ drawn down, it makes my heart sick,” cried Marget, “and grief itsel’s easier to thole when ane has ane’s wark in hand. But I didna come to haver nonsense here. I came to bid ye a’ gang to your beds, like good laddies. Ye’ll a’ sleep; that’s the good of being young. The Mistress, I daur to say, and even mysel’, will not close an eye this night.”

“Would my mother let you remain with her, Marget?” said Huntley; “I can’t bear to think she’s alone in her trouble. Somebody should have come to stay with her; Katie Logan from the manse, perhaps. Why did not some one think of it before?”

“Whisht! and gang to your beds,” said Marget; “no fremd person, however kindly, ever wins so far into the Mistress’s heart. If she had been blessed with a daughter of her ain, it might have been different. Na, Huntley, your mother wouldna put up with me. She’s no ane to have either friend or servant tending on her sorrows. Some women would, but no’ the Mistress; and I’m o’ the same mind mysel’. Gang to your beds, and get your rest, like good bairns; the morn will be a new day.”

“Shut up the house and sleep; that’s all we can do,” said Cosmo; “but I canna rest—and he’ll never be another night in this house. Oh, father, father! I’ll keep the watch for your sake!”

“If he’s in this house, he’s here,” said Patrick, suddenly, to the great amazement of his hearers, moved for once into a higher imagination than any of them; “do you hear me Cosmo? if he’s out of heaven, he’s here; he’s no’ on yon bed dead. It’s no’ him that’s to be carried to Dryburgh. Watching’s past and done, unless he watches us; he’s either in heaven, or he’s here.”

“Eh, laddie! God bless you, that’s true!” cried Marget, moved into sudden tears. There was not composure enough among them to add another word; they went to their rooms silently, not to disturb their mother’s solitude. But Huntley could not rest; he came softly down stairs again, through the darkened house, to find Marget sitting by the fire which she had just “gathered” to last all night, reading her last chapter in the big Bible, and startled her by drawing the bolts softly aside and stepping out into the open air.

“I must breathe,” the lad said with a voice full of broken sobs.

The night was like a night of heaven, if such a glory is, where all glories are. The moon was more lavish in her full, mellow splendor, than she had ever been before, to Huntley’s eyes; the sky seemed as light as day, almost too luminous to show the stars, which were there shining softly in myriads, though you could scarcely see them; and the water flowed, and the trees rustled, with a perfection of still music, exquisite, and silent, and beyond description, which Nature only knows when she is alone. The youth turned back again with a sob which eased his heart. Out of doors nothing but splendor, glory, a beatitude calm and full as heaven; within, nothing but death and the presence of death, heavy, like a pall, upon the house and all its inmates. He went back to his rest, with the wonder of humanity in his heart; when, God help us, should this terrible difference be over? when should the dutiful creation, expanding thus, while the rebel sleeps, receive once more its fullest note of harmony, its better Eden, the race for whom sin and sorrow has ended for evermore?

CHAPTER VI

The day of the funeral rose with a merciful cloud over its brightness—a sorrowful bustle was in the house of Norlaw; some of the attendants of the burial train were to return to dine, as the custom was, and Marget and Jenny were fully employed in the kitchen, with the assistance of the mother of the latter, who was a widow herself, full of sorrowful experience, and liked, as is not unusual in her class, to assist in the melancholy labors of such an “occasion.” The east room was open for the reception of the funeral guests, and on the table were set out decanters of wine, and liberal plates of a delicate cake which used to bear the dismal title of funeral biscuit in Scotland. The widow, who put on for the first time to-day, the dress which henceforward she should wear all her life, kept her own apartment, where the wife of the principal farmer near, and Catharine Logan, the minister’s daughter, had joined her; for though she would much rather have been left alone, use and precedent were strong upon the Mistress, and she would not willingly have broken through any of the formal and unalterable customs of the country-side. The guests gathered gradually about the melancholy house; it was to be “a great funeral.” As horseman after horseman arrived, the women in the kitchen looked out from the corner of their closed shutters, with mournful pride and satisfaction; every household of any standing in the district came out to show “respect” to Norlaw—and even the widow in her darkened room felt a certain pleasure in the sounds which came softened to her ear, the horses’ hoofs, the clash of stirrup and bridle, and the murmur of open-air voices, which even the “occasion” could not subdue beyond a certain measure.

The lads were all assembled in the east room to receive their guests, and with them, the earliest arrival of all, was the minister, lending his kindly support and aid to Huntley, in this earliest and saddest exercise of his new duties as head of the house. One good thing was, that the visitors did not feel themselves called upon to overwhelm the fatherless youth with condolences. A hearty grasp of rough hands; a subdued word of friendship and encouragement, as one by one, or in little clusters, those great rustic figures, all in solemn mourning, collected in the room, were all that “the family” were called upon to undergo.

The hum of conversation which immediately began, subdued in tone and grave in expression, but still conversation such as rural neighbors use, interspersed with inquiries and shakes of the head, as to how this household was “left,” was a relief to the immediate mourners, though perhaps it was not much in accordance with the sentiment of the time. It was etiquette that the wine and cake should be served to all present, and when all the guests were assembled, the minister rose, and called them to prayer. They stood in strange groups, those stalwart, ruddy southland men, about the table—one covering his eyes with his hand, one standing erect, with his head bowed, some leaning against the wall, or over the chairs. Perhaps eyes unaccustomed to such a scene might have thought there was little reverence in the fashion of this funeral service; but there was at least perfect silence, through which the grave voice of the minister rose steadily, yet not without a falter of personal emotion. It was not the solemn impersonal words which other churches say over every man whom death makes sacred. It was an individual voice, asking comfort for the living, thanking God for the dead—and when that was done the ceremonial was so far over, and Norlaw had only now to be carried to his grave.

All the preparations were thus far accomplished. The three brothers and Dr. Logan had taken their place in the mourning coach; some distant relatives had taken possession of another; and the bulk of the guests had mounted and were forming into a procession behind. Every thing had progressed thus far, when some sudden obstruction became visible to the horsemen without. The funeral attendants closed round the hearse, the horses were seized by strangers, and their forward motion checked; already the farmers behind, leaping from their horses, crowded on to ascertain the cause of the detention; but the very fact of it was not immediately visible to the youths who were most interested. When the sudden contention of voices startled Huntley, the lad gazed out of the window for a moment in the wild resentment of grief, and then dashing open the door, sprang into the midst of the crowd; a man who was not in mourning, and held a baton in his hand, stood firm and resolute, with his hand upon the door of the hearse; other men conspicuous among the funeral guests, in their every-day dress, kept close by him, supporting their superior. The guides of the funeral equipage were already in high altercation with the intruders, yet, even at their loudest, were visibly afraid of them.

“Take out the horses, Grierson—do your duty!” shouted the leader at the hearse door; “stand back, ye blockheads, in the name of the law! I’m here to do my orders; stand back, or it’ll be waur for ye a’—ha! wha’s here?”

It was Huntley, whose firm young grasp was on the sturdy shoulder of the speaker.

“Leave the door, or I’ll fell you!” cried the lad, in breathless passion, shaking with his clutch of fury the strong thick-set frame which had double his strength; “what do you want here?—how do you dare to stop the funeral? take off your hand off the door, or I’ll fell you to the ground!”

“Whisht, lad, whisht—it’s a sheriff’s officer; speak him canny and he’ll hear reason,” cried one of the farmers, hastily laying a detaining grasp on Huntley’s arm. The intruder stood his ground firmly. He took his hand from the door, not in obedience to the threat, but to the grief which burned in the youth’s eyes.

“My lad, it’s little pleasure to me,” he said, in a voice which was not without respect, “but I must do my duty. Felling me’s no’ easy, but felling the law is harder still. Make him stand aside, any of you that’s his friend, and has sense to ken; there’s no mortal good in resisting; this funeral can not gang on this day.”

“Let go—stand back; speak to me,” said Huntley, throwing off the grasp of his friend, and turning to his opponent a face in which bitter shame and distress began to take the place of passion; “stand aside, every man—what right have you to stop us burying our dead? I’m his son; come here and tell me.”

“I am very sorry for you, my lad, but I can not help it,” said the officer; “I’m bound to arrest the body of Patrick Livingstone, of Norlaw. It may be a cruel thing, but I must do my duty. I’m Alexander Elliot, sheriff’s officer at Melrose; I want to make no disturbance more than can be helped. Take my advice. Take in the coffin to the house and bid the neighbors back for another day. And, in the meantime, look up your friends and settle your scores with Melmar. It’s the best you can do.”

“Elliot,” said Dr. Logan, over his shoulder, “do you call this law, to arrest the dead? He’s far beyond debt and trouble now. For shame!—leave the living to meet their troubles, but let them bury their dead.”

“And so I would, minister, if it was me,” said Elliot, twirling his baton in his hand, and looking down with momentary shame and confusion; “but I’ve as little to do with the business as you have,” he added, hurriedly. “I give you my advice for the best, but I must do my duty. Grierson, look to thae youngsters—dang them a’—do ye ca’ that mair seemly? it’s waur than me!”

Cosmo Livingstone, wild with a boy’s passion, and stupefied with grief, had sprung up to the driving-seat of the hearse while this discussion proceeded; and lashing the half-loosed horses, had urged them forward with a violent and unseemly speed, which threw down on either side the men who were at their heads, and dispersed the crowd in momentary alarm. The frightened animals dashed forward wildly for a few steps, but speedily brought up in their unaccustomed career by the shouts and pursuit of the attendants, carried the melancholy vehicle down the slope and paused, snorting, at the edge of the stream, through which, the boy, half mad with excitement, would have driven them. Perhaps the wild gallop of the hearse, though only for so short a distance, horrified the bystanders more than the real interruption. One of the funeral guests seized Cosmo in his strong arms, and lifted him down like a child; the others led the panting horses back at the reverential pace which became the solemn burden they were bearing; and after that outbreak of passion, the question was settled without further discussion. Patrick Livingstone, his eyes swollen and heavy with burning tears, which he could not shed, led the way, while the bearers once more carried to his vacant room all that remained of Norlaw.

The mass of the funeral guests paused only long enough to maintain some degree of quietness and decency; they dispersed with natural good feeling, without aggravating the unfortunate family with condolence or observation. Huntley, with the minister and the principal farmer of the district, Mr. Blackadder, of Tyneside, who happened to be also an old and steady friend of their father, stood at a little distance with the officer, investigating the detainer which kept the dead out of his grave; the melancholy empty hearse and dismal coaches crept off slowly along the high road; and Cosmo, trembling in every limb with the violence of his excitement, stood speechless at the door, gazing after them, falling, in the quick revulsion of his temperament, from unnatural passion into utter and prostrate despondency. The poor boy scarcely knew who it was that drew him into the house, and spoke those words of comfort which relieved his overcharged heart by tears. It was pretty Katie Logan, crying herself, and scarcely able to speak, who had been sent down from the widow’s room, by Mrs. Blackadder, to find out what the commotion was; and who, struck with horror and amazement, as at a sacrilege, was terrified to go up again, to break the tender, proud heart of Norlaw’s mourning wife, with such terrible news.

Presently the mournful little party came in to the east room, which still stood as they had left it, with the funeral bread and wine upon the table. Patrick came to join them immediately, and the two lads bent their heads together over the paper: a thousand pounds, borrowed by a hundred at a time from Mr. Huntley, of Melmar, over and above the mortgages which that gentleman held on the better part of the lands of Norlaw. The boys read it with a passion of indignation and shame in their hearts; their father’s affairs, on his funeral day, publicly “exposed” to all the countryside; their private distress and painful prospects, and his unthrift and weakness made the talk of every gossip in the country. Huntley and Patrick drew a hard breath, and clasped each other’s hands with the grip of desperation. But Norlaw lay unburied on his death-bed; they could not bury him till this money was paid; it was an appalling sum to people in their class, already deeply impoverished, and in the first tingle of this distressing blow, they saw no light either on one side or the other, and could not tell what to do.

“But I can not understand,” said Dr. Logan, who was a man limited and literal, although a most pious minister and the father of his people; “I can not understand how law can sanction what even nature holds up her hand against. The dead—man! how dare ye step in with your worldly arrests and warrants, when the Lord has been before you? how dare ye put your bit baton across the grave, where a righteous man should have been laid this day?”

“I have to do my duty,” said the immovable Elliot, “how daur ye, is naething to me. I must do according to my instructions—and ye ken, doctor, it’s but a man’s body can be apprehended ony time. Neither you nor me can lay grips on his soul.”

“Hush, mocker!” cried the distressed clergyman; “but what is to be done? Mr. Blackadder, these bairns can not get this money but with time and toil. If that will do any good, I’ll go immediately to Me’mar myself.”

“Never,” cried Huntley; “never—any thing but that. I’ll sell myself for a slave before I’ll take a favor from my father’s enemy.”

“It’s in Whitelaw’s hands, the writer in Melrose. I’ll ride down there and ask about it,” said Blackadder; “whisht, Huntley! the minister’s presence should learn you better—and every honest man can but pity and scorn ane that makes war with the dead; I’ll ride round to Whitelaw. My wife’s a sensible woman—she’ll break it softly to your mother—and see you do nothing to make it worse. I suppose, Elliot, when I come back I’ll find you here.”

“Ay, sir, I’m safe enough,” said the officer significantly, as “Tyneside” rose to leave the room. Huntley went with him silently to the stable, where his horse stood still saddled.

“I see what’s in your eye,” said Blackadder, in a whisper; “take heart and do it; trust not a man more than is needful, and dinna be violent. I’ll be back before dark, but I may not chance to speak to you again. Do what’s in your heart.”

Huntley wrung the friendly hand held out to him, and went in without a word. His old restless activity seemed to have returned to him, and there was a kindling fire in his hazel eyes which meant some purpose.

Good Dr. Logan took the lad’s hands, and poured comfort and kindness into his ears; but Huntley could scarcely pause to listen. It was not strange—and it seemed almost hard to bid the youth have patience when the vulgar law—stubborn and immovable—the law of money and merchandise, kept joint possession with death of this melancholy house.

CHAPTER VII

Huntley could not see his mother after this outrage became known to her. The widow resented it with all a woman’s horror and passion, and with all the shame of a Scottish matron, jealous, above all things, of privacy and “respect.” Pretty Katie Logan sat at her feet crying in inarticulate and unreasoning sympathy, which was better for the Mistress than all the wisdom and consolation with which good Mrs. Blackadder endeavored to support her. In the kitchen, Jenny and her mother cried too, the latter telling doleful stories of similar circumstances which she had known; but Marget went about with a burning cheek, watching “the laddies” with a jealous tenderness, which no one but their mother could have surpassed, eager to read their looks and anticipate their meaning. It was a sultry, oppressive day, hot and cloudy, threatening a thunder storm; and it is impossible to describe the still heavier oppression of distress and excitement in this closed-up and gloomy house. When Marget went out to the byre, late in the afternoon, several hours after these occurrences, Huntley came to her secretly by a back way. What he said roused the spirit of a hero in Marget’s frame. She put aside her pail on the instant, smoothed down her new black gown over her petticoat, and threw a shawl across her head.