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In the morning, William
found Arthur waiting to accompany him, as he had desired. He had judged
it prudent to hold a conversation with him, in the first instance, on
the subject of Jessie’s going to Glenlyn, before he even mentioned it to
his wife. If he found the boy averse to the plan, he scarcely thought
himseff at liberty to pursue it. Arthur listened to William’s story in
silence, and then, grasping his hand, said—
"I thank you, my dear father, for the confidence you have now placed in
me. Deeply do I feel your kindness in this, as well as in all your
conduct to us, since we have been your children. If I live, I trust I
shall be able to prove what my feelings are, by something better than
words. I am a proud boy, and I own, with shame, that, had you agreed to
give the laird my sister, without telling me of it, it is very likely I
might have been more angry ana hurt, than I have the smallest right to
be with any measure you think proper to adopt. But now the case is quite
different; and I feel that I am too young to pretend to give an opinion
upon the subject. You are by far the best judge of what is really for
Jessie’s advantage; and as Mrs. Beaumont does not mean her to be
considered in the light of a servant, I shall feel perfectly satisfied,
if you please to intrust her to her care, provided we may all continue
to see her, whenever we wish it.”
“Now, Arthur, you speak like a sensible boy, and you may rest assured,
that if I do part with dear little Jessie, it shall be perfectly
understood that she never is to be placed in the rank of a servant. The
advantage of a good education weighs more with me than even the
provision which the laird so liberally offers for her, in case of his
death; for, among so many boys, it would be hard if they could not
manage to support their sister; but if she is not educated when young,
she never could retrieve the lost time; and, as you say, Arthur, that
you are to be an officer, and I intend Allen shall be a clergyman, I
should wish Jessie to be at least enabled to bear her part in the
society her brothers mean to live in. My wife is a very good plain
woman, and would, perhaps, teach her to behave better than the common
run of peasant girls, from her having lived in gentlemen’s families and
seen how ladies ought to conduct themselves; but yet it is not in her
power or mine to give Jessie the manners of a lady; and, therefore, I am
inclined to agree to the laird’s proposal, so far as to allow her to go
to Glenlyn for a twelvemonth; during which time, I shall be pretty well
able to judge whether my child is as well attended to, in her morals and
religious duties, as I approve of.”
“Father,” answered Arthur, thoughtfully, “did the laird fix on Jessie,
in preference to Annie, or did he leave it to you to choose between
them?”
“He left it, my dear, entirely to myself; of course I had but one choice
to make. Annie is much better with her mother; she has no want of more
education than we can, ourselves, give her.”
Arthur’s lips trembled—“What a burthen and a hindrance have we been to
you?” “Quite the contrary, my dear. You are all as dear to me as if you
were my own children, and I shall feel as proud in seeing you advance in
the world, as though you really were so. The only uneasiness you ever
can give me, is by being idle or wicked. Make your mind easy with regard
to Annie, for I assure you, upon my word, that even had there been no
Jessie in the way, I would have refused the laird’s offer for her at
once, as I never could consent to place her in a different rank of life
from all connected with her.’
“You never shall have uneasiness from my being either wicked or idle;
but I must be a soldier, if possible; and if you will only trust me, my
dear father, I will manage to educate myself, so as to fit me for the
line I have chosen, without costing you a halfpenny. If Allen wishes to
be a clergyman, let him have the benefit of Linton school; and if you
would allow Jamie to take my place there, and at least gain as much
instruction as would be of use to him in fitting him for a companion and
brother to us, in whatever rank we fill, it would greatly relieve my
mind; for I cannot bear to think that you bestow more upon us than upon
your only son.”
William combated this plan very stoutly, and tried all he could to get
Arthur to consent to go to school. It was all in vain, and at last he
was forced to compromise the matter by agreeing to wait a year longer;
at the end of which time, Arthur said, if he had not made the progress
he expected, by his own exertions, he would submit to his father’s
wishes; and as both Jamie and Allen were yet rather young for walking so
far as Linton every day, it was determined that they should remain, for
the year, at home, receiving instructions from their father and brother
as usual.
Arthur left his father greatly relieved by having come to this
understanding with him. He hurried forward to John Gibson, more intent
than ever on making a little money, in order to be able to supply
himself with books, by the time he should be ready .for them.
Jane was much more rejoiced than either her husband or Arthur had been,
when she was informed of the laird’s offer for Jessie. She absolutely
wept for joy, to find that her dear child would now be brought up as the
daughter of her beloved mistress ought to be; and, to the honour of her
kind and affectionate heart, she never once thought of the advantages
for her own daughter, which she was sacrificing in favour of the little
orphan.
“Now, dear William,” exclaimed she, “I see that the hand of Providence
watches over these helpless infants, and will enable us to do far better
for them than I ever could believe. Many a weary night have I spent, in
thinking how they ever could be reared as they ought to be. Jamie and
Annie never troubled me at all. They will do very well, without any more
teaching than your own; but my dear mistress’s children—it broke my
heart to think they should be without the means of education, and Jessie
would suffer most of all; for the boys could go to school, but she could
never learn anything that a lady ought to know, living with us in a
house like this.”
“My dear wife, it is all very well that the lady has agreed to take
Jessie; but even if the dear child were to remain with us, though she
would not, perhaps, learn to be as prettily behaved, and as clever in
many ways, as ladies are, she yet would learn, both by example and
precept, the best of all lessons and habits—a firm reliance on the truth
and justice of God Almighty, and that meek and gentle spirit, which
ought, in all ranks, to belong to the character of a true and faithful
Christian.”
“Ah, dear William, yours is, indeed, the true Christian temper, for let
what will happen, you never repine, and only strive the more to do your
duty faithfully, both to God and your fellow men.”
William kissed his wife, and, laughing, told her he was too old to
believe in flattery; he then finished his meal, and heard the children
their lessons, before he left them for his evening’s walk, as he had
promised to meet the laird at Lochmore, that day, after he had dined, in
order to inspect the house and premises, to judge how much money would
be requisite to put the farm in proper repair.
Colonel Beaumont, during this afternoon, was more and more surprised
with the acuteness and strong good sense that William shewed in his
remarks and conversation with regard to the farm, and became, if
possible, more satisfied than ever with the prospect of having him for
his tenant. When they had finished their business, William said, that if
the Colonel did not want him any more at that time, he ’wished to call
upon Mr. Brown, to thank him for his kindness in recommending him to his
new master. The Colonel shook hands with him at parting, and said, that
he had little doubt that he should have to thank Mr. Brown himself, for
giving him a tenant so every way answering the description of the one he
wanted for Lochmore.
William then directed his steps towards the house, where he found Mr.
Brown, walking in his garden. After thanking him for the great
obligation he felt hin^elf under for the service he had so kindly
rendered him, he continued—
“I have, likewise, sir, another favour to ask of you, which your
kindness has emboldened me to propose, and which I have very much at
heart that you should grant. It is simply to afford me the benefit of
your advice on the agreement I wish to make with the laird concerning my
little girl, Jessie.
He has offered most kindly to take her into his family, and bring her up
as a companion to his lady, and, if I agree to this, will settle five
hundred pounds upon her, in case of his death; and this money is to be
placed in the hands of any respectable person I may choose to act as her
guardian. I am a poor man, and know no one that I can apply to, who
would faithfully discharge this trust: yet I feel, that in justice to my
child, it ought to be done before she is placed in a different situation
from the rest of my family. Will you, sir, undertake the office, and act
towards her as a true friend?”
Mr. Brown hesitated a moment: at length he answered, that he would
accept this trust, if he particularly wished it. “I think,” said he,
“William, that you are perfectly right in having everything of that kind
settled before you give up your child; and since you have asked me to
become her guardian, I will accept the trust you are so willing to
repose in me: while I live, I shall watch over her interest as
faithfully as I would that of my own child. Your conduct, as well as
that of your wife, has been most exemplary, ever since you have been in
my parish; and I have no hesitation in saying, that I think if Mr£
Beaumont really intended to adopt a child, she could not have chosen any
one that is more likely to turn out a blessing to her, and a comfort to
all that belong to her.”
At William’s desire they then retired to the house, where Mr. Brown drew
up an agreement between Colonel Beaumont and himself, containing the
terms on which he was willing to part with the child, in which he
inserted a power removing her at the end of the first twelve months, in
case he should, < luring that time, find anything he did not approve of
in the principles or habits in which she was reared; in which case, he
resigned all claim upon the Colonel for the sum that she became entitled
to, if she continued to reside in his family. They then parted, Mr.
Brown promising to meet William at Glenlyn on the following Monday, the
day fixed for his giving the laird his final answer.
Nothing particular occurred till that evening, when William repaired to
his master, and stated the terms on which he was willing to give up the
child, which terms were readily agreed to by both Colonel and Mrs.
Beaumont; and the agreement, signed by both parties, was placed in Mr.
Brown’s hands, as guardian, in future, to the little Jessie. When all
was finished, William said—
“I scarcely know, ma’am, how my poor little girl will like the change at
first. I have never hinted to any of them, but Arthur, what was intended
us, till everything was settled; I thought it better that they should
know nothing about it; but my wife and I will talk to her to-night, and
to-morrow I will bring her to Glenlyn in the evening. You must not mind
her being strange at first, and, perhaps, poor little soul, fretting
after her mother and Annie. It is natural that she should love them
dearly, and you must not think the worse of her for it.”
“No, indeed, William, I shall think all the better of her, for loving
her natural connexions; and you may all rest assured She shall never be
induced by me to lessen either the respect or love she now feels for
you.”
When William came home, he found his wife sitting at the door of the
cottage, spinning, and the two little girls busily engaged at her feet,
platting a crown of rushes, which, they told their father, laughing* was
for their mother, who had promised to wear it the next day, which was
Annie’s birthday.
“I did not recollect that,” answered he, gravely; “I must go back to
Glenlyn, and delay what I intended till Wednesday. I have not the heart
to divide the two dear creatures on that day.”
“Oh! not to-morrow, William, surely not so soon as to-morrow?” cried
Jane, bursting into tears. “I cannot part with her yet, and of all days
in the year, not to-morrow.”
“Well, well, Jane, it shall not be to-mor-row, but 1 believe it must be
Wednesday; now that it is all settled, the sooner it is over the better
for us all. I really do not like to think of it myself, and therefore
there is no great wonder that you, her mother, should feel unhappy; but
we both know that we have decided, as we think, in the way that is most
likely to be for her advantage; therefore we must try to bear the
parting as well as we can, comforting ourselves with the certainty that
she is not far from us, and may see us every day.”
Jane’s cheerfulness, however, was gone for that night. The certainty of
parting from the little creature she had nursed from infancy with such
care, now that the time was come, quite overcame her; and, in spite of
all the advantages she was satisfied were likely to arise from her
residence at Grlenlyn, the mother’s feelings predominated, and her tears
fell fast from her eyes during the whole evening, though she endeavoured
to conceal them from the children, and succeeded pretty well, excepting
from Arthur, who, knowing where his father had been, immediately
understood what was affecting his mother, As she went towards the
dresser, for some spoons for supper, he glided softly up to her, and,
putting his arms round her neck, whispered, “Don’t fret, dear mother,
sister Jessie will never forget any of us,- and will grow up to be a
blessing to you and father in your old age.”
Jane’s heart was too full to speak, but she strained him to her breast,
and wept upon his shoulder till her husband’s voice recalled her to
herself, by cheerfully asking if Arthur had promised not to be a
soldier, that she was kissing him so tenderly.
“Oh! that he would do that,” answered Jane, “then I think I could bear
other troubles far easier.”
William rose early in the morning and went to Glenlyn before his
work-hour. The Colonel perfectly entered into the propriety of his
delaying the separation of the children on Annie’s birthday, and
willingly agreed to wait till Wednesday for Jessie, making him promise
to bring Annie with her sister when she came on that day.
The birthday passed in great delight with the children. June’s pudding,
made with Jessie’s eggs, was most excellent, and all was peace and
harmony among them till the evening, when William called Jessie to him,
and informed her that she was going to be the lady of Glenlyn’s little
girl, and live at the house for the future.
Jessie listened to her father, and then said, looking up into his face,
u And does Annie go there too?”
“No, my dear, it is only you that are to live there; but you will see
Annie and us all as often as you please, if you are a good girl.”
"I won’t leave Annie, father. What could I do without Annie? I should
have nobody at the house to love me at all.”
“O yes, my dear, the lady will love you very much, if you are good, and
do what she desires you.”
“Ah! father, that is the very thing; for I often am not good, and don’t
do what I am desired; yet both Annie and mother always love me, and try
to make me better; but tne lady will care nothing for me, unless I am
always good, and that I am quite sure I can never be. And what would
become of me, if I had no one to love or care for me ? No, no, you must
not send me away; or, at least, you must send Annie with me if you do,
for cannot go without her.”
All William’s, and even Jane’s arguments, were in vain. Nothing could
reconcile Jessie to parting from her sister. She did not cry, as most
children in similar circumstances would have done; but she steadily
maintained that nothing could make her live separated from Annie, and
that, unless the lady would take her likewise, she would not go to
Glenlyn.
Poor Annie, who was the most affectionate little creature in the world,
though a very different child from Jessie, wept incessantly from the
moment her father mentioned that her sister was to leave her. And though
Jessie tried all in her power to comfort her, she had cried herself
almost into fits, when her mother undressed her and put her to bed, in
the hope that she would forget her sorrows, and go to sleep. Jessie
soothed her in her arms for some time, and at last found that she had
really fallen asleep.
“What can this lady want with me?” thought Jessie. “I am sure I won’t
vex Annie in this way to please her, nor leave her either. But father
says I must go to Glenlyn, and I dare not disobey him, I know that, if
he commands me; but I know what I can do. I will just tell the lady
that, if she wishes me to be good, and mind what she says, she must
bring Annie to be with me, and then I will love her dearly, and never
vex her as long as I live.”
Pleasing herself with the hopes that the lady must be convinced by such
arguments, the affectionate little creature fell asleep, and next
morning, greatly to William’s and Jane’s surprise, she made no
opposition to being dressed to go with her father. Annie’s agony,
however, was unabated, and William thought it best to say nothing about
the invitation she had received to accompany her sister the first day.
About seven in the evening, William announced that it was time for
Jessie to go with him. Jane hastily caught her in her arms, and, after
kissing her, put her into her husband’s, saying, hurriedly, u Here,
here, take her away at once, or I shall never be able to keep my
resolution.” Jessie looked very pale; but, though a tear now and then
might be seen stealing down her cheek, she yet refrained from absolutely
crying. After kissing her mother, she allowed William to take her; but,
raising her head from his shoulder, as he was leaving the house, she saw
Annie struggling with her mother to get leave to run after her.
“Put me down, dear father, for one minute, and I will come back to you
directly. I cannot go till I have said one word to Annie. She would not
leave me crying in that way for all the ladies in the land.”
“No, no,” answered her father, “you will do no good; let us go away at
once, and she will then listen to her mother’s comfort.”
“I will not go, then, father, at all,” cried Jessie, struggling
violently, “if you won’t let me speak to Annie. I promise, if you will
only let me speak one word, I will come to you again directly.”
William, who had been surprised with her going so willingly before,
would much rather not have put her down; but, as he thought it was
likely that she would cry and scream, if he did not yield, and so allow
Mrs. Beaumont to see how unwillingly she came to her, he did as she
wished, telling her he could not wait a minute.
She ran to Annie, and, putting her arms round her neck, drew her to the
other end of the cottage, and, whispering to her for a few minutes, left
her, and joined her father, who hurried her directly out of the cottage,
without allowing her to look again behind her.
Annie’s tears dried up in a minute; she drew towards her mother, and,
leaning her little head on her shoulder, wiped away the tears that were
running down Jane’s face, saying, “Dear mother, I will never leave you,
and Jessie will be sure to come back and see us every day as long as she
stays with the lady.”
“So she will, Annie; arid we must try to love one another, more and
more, now that we are left together.”
"Yes, mother; but we must not forget Jessie, for she will never forget
us, I am sure of that.”
In the hope of amusing both herself and Annie, Jane proposed that they
should go and see Janet Finley, a poor girl, who lived near them, who
was very ill, in a deep decline, and who had always been very kind to
Annie, and often got her to come and read the Bible to her, when she was
too ill to do it herself.
Jessie, meantime, after shedding a few tears on her father’s neck, began
to raise her head, and answer him when he spoke to her, more composedly
than he had hoped; her serenity was, however, nearly lost, when, in
turning into the glen, she met her brother Arthur, who had purposely
watched to see her before she got to Glenlyn. She was excessively fond
of him, and, next to him, Annie was the one she most loved in the
cottage. Arthur himself was not very composed; the idea of his sister
going to be educated and brought up as a lady, gratified his pride and
ambition excessively; but then to part from her was a severe struggle.
“I have only Allen now,” thought he, “who at all belongs to me; and,
though my dear father and mother, as well as Jamie and Annie, love me
dearly, yet I know that I am not related to any of them, and some how 1
seem now to love Jessie better than I ever did, and feel more unhappy at
parting from her, than I could have believed possible.”
Jessie held out her arms to him the moment she saw him, and he snatched
her to his breast, and kissed her again and again without speaking.
“Come, Arthur, we are very late, be a good boy, and leave us: you shall
see Jessie again in a few days.”
Jessie clung still to her brother; but he, ashamed that his father
should see his tears, unclasped her hold from his neck, and, putting her
again in William’s arms, darted into the wood, without speaking a word.
It required a little time to bring Jessie back to her former composure;
but, by speaking cheerfully to her, and telling her about au the pretty
things she would see at Glenlyn, William accomplished it before they had
quite reached the house; and, when they were shewn into the
drawing-room, she had again recovered a steady, quiet appearance, which
induced him to hope that the interview between her and her new friends
would pass off better than he had expected.
Mrs. Beaumont, who had been waiting anxiously for her, rose on their
coming into the room. William advanced towards her, and, placing the
child’s hand in hers, said, “There, madam, is my child; I intrust her to
four care, fully believing that, in doing so, I am acting in the best
possible manner for promoting her welfare, both in this life and in that
which is to come. May God so prosper you and yours as you do your duty
to this poor infant.”
Mrs. Beaumont, greatly affected, solemnly pronounced “Amen,” and for a
moment was evidently engaged in silent prayer. At last, she said,
“William, I feel at this instant more fully the duties I have taken upon
myself, by adopting this dear little girl, than I ever before did; yet,
believe me, I do not shrink from the performance of them ; find, if ever
you should, at a future time, perceive any failure on my part, in the
watchfulness and tenderness you have a right to expect me to shew
towards her, I give you free leave to remind me of this moment, which
must recall instantly recollections which are much too powerful to be
slighted, and vows which no Christian would ever dare to break.”
“Enough, madam; I am satisfied,” answered William, as he took the chair
that the Colonel placed for him; “I have now no fear for the welfare of
my child. You will, however, I hope, trust her now and then with her
mother and sister, who have suffered much on parting from her, and who
are now in great affliction.”
“Undoubtedly, my friend,” answered Mrs. Beaumont; “I can have no reason
for wishing to deprive you, or any of your family, of constant
intercourse with my little girl. But Jessie, dear, will you love me, and
mind my instructions as much as you have ever done your mother’s?”
“I will try, ma’am,” answered the child, “to be very good indeed, if you
will let Annie come here, too; but I cannot be happy, nor good either,
if my own dear sister is not with me; and, oh! how much I shall love
you, if you will do that; I will never be naughty as .long as I live, if
she is with me.
“We will talk about that to-morrow, my dear; at present, here is a nice
piece of cake for you, and another for your father to carry home to
Annie, from you, and he may tell her that we shall both come to visit
her tomorrow, when we take our morning’s walk.”
Jessie looked pleased as her father took the cake, wrapped up in a nice
piece of paper, and put it into his pocket. She sate silent, holding her
own cake in her hand, which Mrs. Beaumont observing, asked her if she
did not like the cake!
“Yes, ma’am, very much, but I should like better to send it to my
brothers, if you would not be angry.” “Not in the least, my love; here,
give it me, and I will wrap it up, and your father can put it in his
other pocket.”
This was immediately done, and Mrs. Beaumont then gave her another piece
for herself, saying she was a good child to think of her brothers.
William now rose to take leave, but, the moment he moved, Jessie’s cake
fell to the ground, and she sprung forward, calling, “Take me, take me,
father; ohl do not leave me here.”
He tried, by soothing, and promising to come and see her next day, to
quiet her; but she still grasped his hand, and, looking up in his face,
with such an expression of woe in her little countenance as went to his
heart, said, “You surely don’t love me, father, or you would not give me
away to any lady.”
This was too much for poor William; he strained her to his breast, while
the tears ran down his cheeks; and it might have been doubtful whether
he would have had courage to persevere in leaving her, had not the
Colonel come to his assistance, and, gently lifting Jessie in his arms,
said—
“My dear, I am afraid you do not love your father, or you would not
distress him so much as you are doing; only see, you have made him cry.”
“My father cry!” exclaimed Jessie; “I never saw him cry in all my life.
I will do anything you like, to make him happy again.”
“Then go up to him and kiss him, and tell him you will be a good girl
till you see him again to-morrow night.”
“I will,” answered Jessie, sighing deeply, “since he will leave me; but
it is very hard to bear.”
“And that is true, my own dear girl,” said ; “but I hope it is for the
best.”
He bowed slightly as he put the child down, and ran out of the room;
for, at the moment, he dreaded to hear another word, lest his resolution
should give way, and he should take the child home with him. He
instantly quitted the house, and never stopped till he arrived at his
own cottage, where h«, endeavoured, by prayer, to compose both his own
mind and that of his wife.
Jessie tried to keep her word in being a good girl, but the tears would
start, and the heavy sights that escaped from her, convinced both the
Colonel and Mrs. Beaumont that she was truly unhappy. They tried, at
first, to amuse her, but, finding all their efforts in vain, Mrs.
Beaumont asked her if she would go to bed. “As you please, ma’am,” was
her answer, as she rose from her seat; but a fresh gush of tears
prevented her from saying more, and she drew back, as if afraid.
“Come, my love, don’t be afraid: you are to sleep in a nice little bed
of your own, in my dressing-room; and, if you want me, you have only to
speak to me, and I will come to you in a minute.”
Jessie held out her hand, and walked away with her friend. She suffered
her to undress her, and put her into bed, but she wept so much that it
was several hours before Mrs. Beaumont could leave her. At last, she had
the satisfaction of seeing her fall into a quiet sleep, and, leaving the
housekeeper to watch her, she returned to her husband.
The next morning it rained so violently that it was quite impossible to
go to the village. Jessie bore her disappointment better than could have
been expected. She read to Mrs. Beaumont, who told her that she was
always, in future, to call her aunt, and the Colonel, uncle, as she was
now their little niece. A week passed before the weather would admit of
her going to see her mother, and, during the whole of that time, though
she was obedient, and evidently pleased with the instructions bestowed
on her, yet she never regained her cheerfulness, but, the moment she was
left to herself, retired into a corner, and Mrs. Beaumont could see that
she kept wiping her eyes, and sighing so deeply as made her truly
unhappy.
One day, when sitting together, after she was gone to bed, the Colonel
said, “My love, this won’t do; to go on, we must contrive some way to
gain Jessie’s affections, and it strikes me that the best thing we can
do, is to ask William to allow Annie to come here for an hour or two
every morning; at least for a little while, till Jessie is more
reconciled to her change of situation. The dear little creature will
fret herself sick, if some means are not found to interest and please
her.”
“That is the very thing I have been thinking of,” answered Mrs.
Beaumont; “I have little doubt that, if Annie were to come for a few
hours every day, we should all go on, ever after, extremely well.”
“Very well, my dear, I will go up to William to-morrow morning, and make
the proposal. 1 have had a note from him, saying.
that he had kept away on purpose, as he thought Jessie would do better
not to see any of her family for a little while. But she is not of a
temper to forget her friends in that way, and, if I mistake not, the
other plan will answer much better.”
The result of this conversation was, that William agreed to allow Annie
to go to Glenlyn immediately after breakfast, and remain for a couple of
hours, every day, and to share in the instructions bestowed upon Jessie.
The benefit of this arrangement soon became apparent upon both children.
Jessie recovered her health and spirits completely, and Annie so far
overcame her natural timidity as to feel not only easy at Glenlyn, but
delighted when the hour of her visit came round; though she privately
told her mother, that she was very glad that the lady liked to keep
Jessie best, for she was sure she never could talk* and laugh with the
laird as her sister did. |
