DAVID MUIR AND HIS DAUGHTER PAY A VISIT TO COLONEL BRANDON.—THE MERCHANT BECOMES AMBITIOUS; HE ENTERTAINS PROJECTS FOR JESSIE’S FUTURE WELFARE, WHICH DO NOT COINCIDE WITH THAT YOUNG LADY’S WISHES.

While the events related in the preceding chapters were passing in the great Western wilderness, the days of early summer glided smoothly on at Mooshanne, uninterrupted by any incident worthy of record. Aunt Mary continued her round of busy occupation with her usual indefatigable activity. Never could there occur in the neighbourhood a case of sickness or of sorrow to which she did not hasten to administer the needful consolation; and in the town of Marietta her benevolent exertions were assisted by Jessie Muir, whose attendance in her father’s store enabled her to gather all the current news from the numerous customers who frequented it.

“The merchant” (for so David Muir was designated by all who did not wish to affront him) grew daily in importance and dignity. His speculations in trade had been, for the most part, successful; and two or three of his suggestions for the improvement of the town had been adopted. A sharp attack of fever had subdued for a season the domineering spirit of Dame Christie; and David found himself not only respected by the neighbours, but even enjoyed the sweet though brief delusion, that he was master in his own house.

Neither his pride nor his increasing wealth interrupted, however, his close attention to business; and Colonel Brandon, finding that the affairs entrusted to him were managed with great punctuality and skill, treated him with corresponding confidence.

On a fine summer’s morning, about a month after Ethelston’s departure for the Far–west, the merchant’s four–wheeled chaise stood before his door, drawn, not by a sorry pony, but by a strong horse, the condition and appearance of which betokened the thriving circumstances of the owner. Jessie Muir, wearing a very becoming bonnet, and a shawl newly arrived from England, had just cast a passing look into the oval mirror in the back–parlour, and was busily employed in giving directions respecting the contents of a parcel about to be placed in the seat of the chaise, while Henry Gregson was listening with ill–dissembled impatience to the repeated cautions given to him by David as to his conduct during the brief absence which he meditated.

“Noo, Hairy,” (for thus was the name of Harry pronounced in David’s north–country dialect,) “ye maun be vera carefu’ o’ the store, and see that the lads attend weel to the folk wha come to buy, and that Jane stays aye amang the caps an’ shawls and printed cottons, instead of keekin out o’ the window at a wheen idle ne’er–do–weels in the street; and as for the last lot of Bohea, ye can truly say it’s the finest that ever cam’ to Marietta: I’m thinkin’ the minister’s wife will be fain to buy a pun’ or twa. And, Hairy, mind that ye ... but the deil’s in the lad! what are ye glow’ring at, over my shoulder, as if ye se’ed a wraith, an’ no listening to what I’m sayin’?”

Here the merchant turned round, and his eye happening to fall upon a parcel of fire–irons so carelessly placed on an upper shelf, that they threatened the destruction of a pile of crockery below, he ordered the shop–boy to secure the offending tongs, and, turning to Harry, continued in a more complacent tone, “It’s nae wonder, lad, that ye could na tak’ your een off they irons; they had like to make an awfu’ smash amaing the cups and saucers; I’m glad to see that ye ‘re so canny and carefu’ o’ the goods.”

Harry bit his lips, and made no reply, while the merchant, who had already seen Jessie take her seat in the chaise, was preparing to follow, when he turned to the young man, and said in a low voice, “Ye ‘ll not forget that the mistress will need her gruel at midday?”

“I will take care that it is not forgotten, and I suppose, sir, the glass of French brandy is to be put into it?”

“Glass o’ French brandy, ya daft chiel,” said the merchant, forgetting for a moment the prudential whisper; then resuming it, he added, “Wha talks o’ glasses o’ French brandy? Ye ken tho’ that the mistress has no gotten her strength yet, and she said she would like just four spoonfu’s o’ brandy in the gruel to gie’t a taste and keep the cauld out o’ her wame. Ye ken the mistress’ ain spoon in the tea–cup–board?”

“Yes, sir, I know it well,” replied Harry, with demure gravity, adding, half–aloud, as his principal drove from the door, “and a precious gravy–spoon it is; before it is four times filled and emptied it will make the largest wine–glass in the store run over the brim, and the old lady’s tongue go like a mill–wheel. Never mind, for Jessie’s sake, I’ll brew the gruel as stiff as my father’s grog, and bear Dame Christie’s scolds without complaint.”

“He’s a canny, douce lad, yon Hairy,” said the merchant to his daughter, as they jolted leisurely along the uneven, but picturesque road that led from Marietta to Mooshanne, “and does na’ care to rin about the toon like ither idle gillies, but seems aye content to min’ the store; did ye see, Jessie, how he caught wi’ ae blink o’ his ee the airns that were about to fa’ amongst my best Wedgewood?”

Had the merchant not been occupied as he put this question, in guiding the wheels between sundry deep ruts and holes in the road, he could not have failed to observe the heightened colour that it brought into Jessie’s countenance; for the maiden was conscious that at the moment referred to, Harry’s gaze had been fixed, not upon the fire–irons or the Wedgewood, but upon her own comely self.

It is one of the peculiar properties and triumphs of love, that, not content with securing its own position in the human heart, it delights in unsettling and metamorphosing the tenants by which it was previously occupied. Under its wayward sway boldness becomes timidity, and fierceness is transformed into gentleness, while bashfulness is rendered bold, and simplicity has recourse to the devices of cunning.

Thus Jessie Muir, who was naturally of a frank open disposition, but who had a secret presentiment that her father would reject the suit of her lover if it were now to be declared, acquiesced demurely in his observation respecting the attention shown by Harry Gregson to the business of the store.

“Weel, a–weel,” continued the merchant, “he’s a gude lad, and no ill–faured neither; I’m thinkin’, Jessie, that he and Jean will maybe fancy each other; they’re aye thegither i’ the store, an’ the bit lassie might gae further and fare waur than by takin’ up wi’ Hairy.”

This speech was too much for Jessie’s equanimity; the coolness with which her father spoke of his servant–maid “takin’ up” with her lover, stung her to the quick, and she replied tartly, “Father, I wish you would mind your driving among these holes and stumps, instead of talking about Jean and her idle nonsense. Indeed, father, that last jolt nearly threw me out of the chaise.”

“Weel, Jessie, ye need na mak’ such a pother about a stump mair or less atween Marietta and Mooshanne; and though I’ll no say that my drivin’ is like that of Jehu, the son of Jehoshaphat, ye need na fear that I’ll coup the braw new chaise for a’ that.”

Jessie was well pleased to have turned her father’s thoughts into another channel; and being a little ashamed of the momentary irritation to which she had given way, she now exerted herself to please and amuse him, in which she succeeded so well that they reached Mooshanne in cheerful mood, and with wheels uninjured by hole or stump.

Colonel Brandon, seeing the merchant drive up to the door just as he, with Lucy and Aunt Mary, were about to sit down to dinner, went himself to the door, and, with the frank hospitality of his nature, invited him and his daughter to share their family meal. This invitation was no small gratification to the pride of David Muir, who had on former visits to Mooshanne regaled himself with Monsieur Perrot in the pantry. The boxes and parcels having been safely deposited, and the chaise sent round to the stable, Lucy aided Jessie to uncloak and unbonnet, and in a few minutes the party, thus increased, found themselves assembled at the Colonel’s table.

“My worthy friend,” said the latter, addressing his guest, “you seem to have brought an unusual variety of packages to–day; I suppose the greater part of them are for Lucy’s benefit rather than for mine?”

“Maybe Jessie has brought a few things fresh frae Philadelphy for Miss Lucy to look at,” replied David; “but the maist part o’ what I hae wi’ me the day, came late yestreen, by Rob Mitchell’s batteau from St. Louis. There’s a wheen letters and parcels frae Messieurs Steiner and Roche, which will, nae doubt, explain the settlement o’ the matter anent your shares in the fur trade.”

“Are there not any other letters from Saint Louis?” inquired Lucy, colouring slightly.

“There’s nane, my bonny young leddy,” replied David, “excepting twa, ane frae auld Miller, to acknowledge the receipt o’ the last ten barrels o’ saut pork that I sent him, and anither frae Reuben Stiggs, wha keeps the great outfitting store for trappers, to order an early freight o’ blankets, bibles, religious tracts, scalp–knifes, and whisky, for the Indian trade.”

In spite of her disappointment, Lucy could not forbear smiling at the gravity with which the merchant enumerated this strange mixture of goods ordered for a warehouse, to which the missionary and the trapper both resorted for their respective supplies.

The dinner passed agreeably enough; and Jessie Muir having soon recovered from the diffident shyness by which she had been at first overcome, amused Lucy and Aunt Mary by her quiet, but shrewd, observations on persons and things in Marietta; while the merchant enjoyed, with evident satisfaction, several glasses from a certain bottle of madeira, which he knew to have been for some years deposited in his own warehouse.

As soon as dinner was over, the ladies retired to Lucy’s boudoir, where she examined the contents of the packages which Jessie had brought for her inspection, while Colonel Brandon looked over the letters and papers from St. Louis. These proved to be of considerable importance, as they announced that all the points in dispute with the other fur company had been satisfactorily arranged, and that his own shares, as well as those in which Ethelston’s property was chiefly invested, had risen greatly in value. During the perusal of this correspondence the Colonel spoke from time to time familiarly and unreservedly with his companion. He had learnt from Lucy the attachment that existed between Henry Gregson and the merchant’s daughter, and had formed an internal resolution to contribute to its successful issue by advancing to the young man a sum sufficient to enable him either to enter into partnership with the merchant, or to commence business on his own account; but it was not his intention to develope this scheme until he had spoken with the elder Gregson; wherefore, he contented himself for the present with sounding the merchant in vague and general terms respecting the disposal of his daughter’s hand.

“My good friend,” said the Colonel, “now that we have despatched our business, it occurs to me that I ought to remind you of a circumstance which may not yet have entered your thoughts, namely, that your daughter Jessie is grown up to be a very pretty, sensible, and discreet young woman, and that having no son of your own, you ought to seek for her a worthy husband, who might hereafter aid her in comforting the declining years of Dame Christie and yourself.”

During this address the merchant fidgeted on his chair, and betrayed other evident symptoms of uneasiness; but he made no reply, and the Colonel continued: “I think I know of a young man who has long entertained an attachment for her; and, if I am not mistaken, Miss Jessie would be more likely to smile than to frown upon his suit. Feeling myself not a little interested in his future prospects, I should, if Mrs. Muir and yourself approve the match, willingly contribute, as far as lies in my power, to their comfortable settlement.”

“Really, Colonel Brandon, ye’re vera kind, I can no’ fin’ words to thank ye,” stammered David, who seemed to have lost his self–possession; and before he could recover it so far as to make any distinct reply, Lucy came into the room; and taking the Colonel’s arm, looked up affectionately into his face, saying, “Dear father, you have given enough time now to business; come into my room and hear one of Jessie’s Scotch songs. I have just been listening to one which was written, as she tells me, by Robert Burns; it is so simple and so beautiful, she has promised to sing it over again for you.”

The Colonel smiled, and followed his daughter, saying to the merchant as they left the room, “We will speak further on that subject the next time that we meet.”

As soon as the little party was assembled in the boudoir, Colonel Brandon entreated Jessie Muir to fulfil her promise of singing again the song which had given so much pleasure to his daughter. Blushing slightly, Jessie complied, and sung, in a voice of much natural sweetness, and without accompaniment:—

“Oh! wert thou in the cauld, cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea;

My plaidie to the angry airt,[69]
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.

Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw;

Thy bield[70] should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.

“Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black an’ bare, sae black and bare;

The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there:

Or were I monarch of the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign;

The brightest jewel in my crown
Should be my queen, should be my queen.”

The Colonel having bestowed not undeserved praise upon the taste and feeling with which Jessie had sung her simple melody, added, “Yet I do not remember these words among the songs of the Ayrshire bard. Lucy, you have often read to me from the volume of his poems which came from England; do you recollect having seen this song amongst them?”

“Indeed I do not,” replied Lucy; “yet it is so full of his peculiar force of expression and feeling, that it is difficult to believe it to have been written by any one else.”

“I have been told,” said Jessie, “that this song was found among his papers after his death. This may be the reason why you have not seen it in your volume.”

The conversation having once turned upon the subject of the writings of Ayrshire’s immortal bard, whose fame was then spreading far and wide over the habitable globe, it dwelt for some time upon the attractive theme; and the tall pines were already beginning to cast their lengthened shadows over the lawn, ere the merchant remembered that Dame Christie might be “wearyin’” for his return, and perhaps scold him for exposing himself and his daughter to the perils of the Mooshanne stump–studded track in the dusk of the evening. The chaise having been ordered to the door, David Muir put on his hat and cloak, while Jessie donned her bonnet and shawl; and a few minutes saw them jogging steadily away on their return to Marietta.

For some time, neither broke the silence of the deep forest through which they were driving, for each had their own subject for meditation. Jessie, whose spirit was softened by the songs of her father–land, and had been touched by the gentle kindness of Lucy’s manner towards her, looked steadily towards the west; and while she thought that she was admiring the gigantic hemlock pines, whose huge limbs now came out in bold relief from the ruddy saffron sky beyond, her musings blended in sweet, but vague, confusion the banks of Allan, Doon, and Ayr, with those of the river beside her, and pictured the “Jamies,” “Willies,” and other “braw, braw lads” of Scottish minstrelsy, in the form of no less a personage than Harry Gregson.

She was roused from her reverie by the voice of her father, whose meditations had taken quite a different direction, as will be seen by the conversation that ensued between them.

“Jessie, it’s a gae bonnie house, yon Mooshanne, an’ the mailen’s[71] the best in th’ haill territory.”

“Indeed, father, it is a very pretty house, and most kind are those who live in it.”

“Wad ye no’ like to live in it yoursel, Jessie?”

“To say truth, father, I would rather live in a smaller house that I might call my own.”

“But suppose ye might ca’ yon fine house your own, what wad ye say then, lassie?” This inquiry was enforced with a significant poke from the merchant’s elbow.

Jessie looked up in her father’s face, and seeing that it was unusually grave, she replied, “Father, I do not understand what you are aiming at. I am very happy in our house at Marietta, and wish for none better.”

“Ye’re a fule,” said the merchant, angrily. “I tell ye, Jessie, ye’re no better than a fule; and when fortun’ hands oot her han’ to ye, ye’ll no’ gang half–way to tak’ it. Hae ye no’ seen how oft Maister Reginald comes to our store, and hangs aboot it like a tod round a hen–roost?”

“Indeed, father, I have made no such remark; and if Master Reginald did often come to our store, it was for powder, or a knife, or some trifle for Miss Lucy, and not for any other cause.”

“Hoot awa’ wi’ your pouther and knives, ye blind hizzie,” said the merchant; “it was to see and speak wi’ yoursel”, and no’ for any other cause.”

“Father, I am sure you are mistaken; Master Reginald would never so far forget the difference in our rank and condition, and I should be very sorry if he did.”

“What do ye mean, lass, about difference o’ rank and condeetion? Are the Muirs no’ as weel–born as ony lord or duke in the auld kintra? Do ye no’ ken that my mother’s father’s sister was married to Muir of Drumliwhappit, an’ that he was near cousin to the Laird o’ Blagowrie, wha married the sister o’ the Earl o’ Glencairn? Rank and condeetion, indeed! as I tauld ye, just now, ye’re neither mair nor less than a fule, Jessie. Why, the Colonel spak’ wi’ me anent the matter this vera day, an’ said that he’d do what lay in his power to mak a’ smooth an’ comfortable.”

Jessie Muir was now, indeed, surprised; for she had hitherto imagined that the idea of Reginald Brandon having taken a fancy to her, was one of those crotchets which the merchant sometimes took up, and which he would then maintain with all the pertinacious obstinacy of his character; but she knew him to be incapable of a direct untruth, and was therefore overwhelmed with astonishment at the communication last made to her.

We should not faithfully portray Jessie’s character, were we to say that she experienced no secret gratification when she learnt that her hand was sought by one possessed of so many advantages of person and fortune; but we should do her injustice were we not to add, that the sensation endured only for a moment; and then, her heart reverting to Henry Gregson, she thought only of the increased obstacles which would now interfere with their attachment, and she burst into tears.

“Dinna greet, lassie, dinna greet,”[72] said the merchant, surprised and somewhat softened by this unexpected emotion, and he muttered to himself, “There’s no kenning the twists and krankums o’ a woman’s mind! I tell her that she’s courted by a weel–faured young man, wi’ the best prospects in the haill territory, and she taks on to greet like a skelpit wean.”[73]

After various ineffectual attempts to draw from her any explanation of the cause of her grief, he ceased to interrogate her, wisely resolving to consult Dame Christie on the subject, and they drove on in silence until they reached their home in Marietta.

As they entered the house they were met by Harry Gregson, who led the way into the parlour, where he placed in the merchant’s hand a paper which had arrived during his absence, and which proved to be an extensive order for articles to be shipped for St. Louis on the following day.

Whilst David Muir ran his eye over the list, calculating the amount of profit which he might expect to realise from the whole, young Gregson, observing the tears not yet dry upon Jessie’s cheek, cast upon her a look of anxious affectionate inquiry, which seemed only to increase her confusion and distress.

“Father, I am tired,” she whispered, in a subdued voice, “and will go to my room to rest.” Having received his embrace, she turned towards the door, where Gregson presented to her a candle that he had lighted for her, and in so doing he took her hand and pressed it; she withdrew it gently, and, in reply to his “Good night, Miss Jessie,” gave him in silence a parting look so full of mingled tenderness and grief, that his anxiety was no longer to be controlled, and he resolved to draw from the merchant some explanation of her agitation. Seeing that he had at length finished his careful perusal of the paper, he said, “I think, sir, that Miss Jessie looks very unwell this evening; has any thing happened to hurt or alarm her?”

“Naething, naething, my gude lad, only I tauld her some news that ought to have made her blithe as a lavrock,[74] and she thought fit to wet her een wi’ dool[75] anent it.”

“That is strange, indeed,” replied the young man; and he added, in a hesitating tone, “I hope, sir, you will not think me impertinent, as I take so much interest in all that concerns your family, if I inquire what was the nature of the good news that you communicated to Miss Jessie?”

“Why, Hairy,” replied the merchant, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “as ye’re a discreet cannie lad, that’ll no crack[76] about they things all ower the toon, I may just tell ye that, Jessie—“

“David! David!” screamed a shrill voice from the room above, “are ye gaun to haver[77] there the lee–lang night?”

“Comin’ this moment, Christie,” said the obedient husband, leaving the room as he spoke, with the air and countenance of one so thoroughly hen–pecked, that Harry Gregson, in spite of his anxiety, laughed outright; saying to himself, as many a lover has said before and since, “How unlike is Jessie’s voice to that of her mother!”