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Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 06

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Title: Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 06

Compiler: John Mackay Wilson

Editor: Alexander Leighton


        
Release date: June 3, 2009 [eBook #29030]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29030

Credits: E-text prepared by David Clarke, Anne Storer, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND, VOLUME 06 ***


E-text prepared by David Clarke, Anne Storer, and the Project Gutenberg
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Transcriber's note:

   In the THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN, Charles' brother is referred
   to both as Harry and Henry on numerous occasions.





WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND.

Historical, Traditionary, & Imaginative.

With a Glossary.

Revised by

ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,

One of the Original Editors and Contributors.

VOL. VI.







London:
Walter Scott, 14 Paternoster Square.
and Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
1885.




CONTENTS.


                                                              Page

 THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM,          (_John Mackay Wilson_),    1

 THE SURGEON'S TALES,                     (_Alex. Leighton_)--
        THE SOMNAMBULIST OF REDCLEUGH,                          22

 THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN,               (_Oliver Richardson_),   47

 LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF AN AGED SPINSTER,
                                      (_John Mackay Wilson_),   80

 GEORDIE WILLISON, AND THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE GOWER,
                                      (_Alexander Leighton_),   93

 THE SNOW STORM OF 1825,              (_Alexander Campbell_),  117

 GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY,                            (_Anon._),  149

 THE SERGEANT'S TALES,                       (_John Howell_)--
        THE PALANTINES,                                        181

 THE PARSONAGE: MY FATHER'S FIRESIDE, (_Alexander Peterkin_),  213

 THE SEERS' CAVE,              (_William Hethrington, D.D._),  245

 THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH,
                                      (_John Mackay Wilson_),  260

 THE SABBATH WRECKS,                  (_John Mackay Wilson_),  276





 WILSON'S
 TALES OF THE BORDERS,
 AND OF SCOTLAND.


 THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM;
 OR,
 THE SURPRISE OF FAST CASTLE.


Near where St. Abb stretches, in massive strength, into the sea, still
terrible, even in ruins, may be seen the remains of Fast Castle, one
of the most interesting in its history--as it is the most fearfully
romantic in its situation--of all the mouldering strongholds which are
still to be traced among the Borders, like monuments of war, crumbling
into nothingness beneath the silent but destroying touch of time. After
the death of the bluff Harry the Eighth of England, who had long kept
many of the corruptible amongst the Scottish nobility and gentry in his
pay, the ambitious Somerset, succeeding to the office of guardian of the
young king, speedily, under the name of Protector, acquired an authority
nothing inferior to the power of an absolute monarch. He had not long
held the reins of government when he rendered it evident, that it was a
part of his ambition to subdue Scotland, or the better portion of it,
into a mere province of England.

The then governor of Scotland, Hamilton, Earl of Arran, (for Queen Mary
was but a child,) was not ignorant of the designs of Somerset, and every
preparation was made to repel him on his crossing the Borders. It was
drawing towards evening on the first of September, 1547, when the
Protector, at the head of an army of eighteen thousand men, arrived
at Berwick; and nearly at the same instant, while the gloaming yet lay
light and thin upon the sea, a fleet, consisting of thirty-four vessels
of war, thirty transports, and a galley, were observed sailing round
Emmanuel's head--the most eastern point of Holy Island. On the moment
that the fleet was perceived, St. Abb's lighted up its fires, throwing a
long line of light along the darkening sea, from the black shore to the
far horizon: and scarce had the first flame of its alarm-fire waved in
the wind, till the Dow Hill repeated the fiery signal; and, in a few
minutes, Domilaw, Dumprender, and Arthur's Seat, exhibited tops of fire
as the night fell down on them, bearing the tidings, as if lightnings
flying on different courses revealed them, through Berwickshire and the
Lothians, and enabling Roxburghshire and Fife to read the tale; while
Binning's Craig, repeating the telegraphic fire, startled the burghers
of Linlithgow on the one hand, and on the other aroused the men of
Lanarkshire.

Before, therefore, the vessels had arrived in the bay, or the
Protector's army had encamped in the Magdalen Fields around
Berwick--Berwickshire, Roxburgh, the Lothians, Fife, and Lanark were
in arms. The cry from the hills and in the glens was, "The enemy is
come--the English--to arms!" The shepherd drove his flocks to the
inaccessible places in the mountains; he threw down his crook and
grasped his spear.

At the same time that Somerset crossed the Borders on the east, the Earl
of Lennox, who, from disappointed ambition, had proved false to his
country, entered it at the head of another English army to the west.

But I mean not to write a history of Somerset's invasion--of the
plausible proposals which he made, and which were rejected--nor of the
advantages which the Scots, through recklessness or want of discipline,
flung away, and of the disasters which followed. All the places of
strength upon the Borders fell into his hands, and he garrisoned them
from his army and set governors over them. The first place of his attack
was Fast Castle; in which, after taking possession of it, he left a
governor and strong garrison, composed of English troops and foreign
mercenaries, causing also the people around, for their own safety, to
take to him an oath of fealty, renouncing their allegiance to the young
queen. But while there were many who obeyed his command with reluctance,
there were others who chose rather to endanger or forfeit their lives
and property than comply with it. It had not, however, been two years
in the hands of the English, when, by a daring and desperate act of
courage, it was wrested from them.

A decree went forth from the English governor of the castle, commanding
them to bring into it, from time to time, all necessary provisions
for the use of the garrison, for which they should receive broad money
in return; for Somerset and his chief officers--the Lord Grey and
others--had caused it to be published, that they considered the
inhabitants of that part of Scotland as the subjects of young Edward, in
common with themselves, and not as a people with whom they were at war,
or from whom their soldiers might collect provisions and pay them with
the sword.

The English, indeed, paid liberally for whatsoever they received;
and there was policy in their so doing, for there were not a few who
preferred lucre to their country, and the effigy of a prince upon a
coin to allegiance to their lawful monarch. But, while such obeyed
with alacrity the command of the governor of Fast Castle, to bring
provisions to his garrison, there were many others who acquiesced in it
reluctantly, and only obeyed from the consciousness that disobedience
would be the price of their lives.

At this period there dwelt in Coldingham a widow, named Madge Gordon.
She was a tall and powerful woman, and her years might be a little below
fifty. Daily she indulged in invectives against the English, and spoke
contemptuously of the spirit of her countrymen in submitting to the
mandate of the governor of Fast Castle. She had two cows and more than a
score of poultry; but she declared that she would spill the milk of the
one upon the ground every day, and throw the eggs of the other over the
cliffs, rather than that either the one or the other should be taken
through the gates of the castle while an English garrison held it.

Often, therefore, as Madge beheld her neighbours carrying their baskets
on their arms, their creels or sacks upon their backs, or driving their
horses, laden with provisions, towards the castle, her wrath would rise
against them, and she was wont to exclaim--

"O ye slaves!--ye base loun-hearted beasts o' burden! hoo lang will ye
boo before the hand that strikes ye, or kiss the foot that tramples on
ye? Throw doun the provisions, and gang hame and bring what they better
deserve; for, if ye will gie them bread, feed them on the point o' yer
faithers' spears."

Some laughed as Madge spoke; but her words sank deep into the hearts of
others; and a few answered--

"Ye are as daft as ever, Madge; but a haveral woman's tongue is nae
scandal, and ye ken that the governor winna tak cognizance o' ye."

"Me ken or care for him, ye spiritless coofs, ye!" she replied; "gae
tell him that Madge Gordon defies him and a' his men, as she despises
you, and wad shake the dirt frae her shoon at baith the ane and the
other o' ye. Shame fa' ye, ye degenerate, mongrel race! for, if ye had
ae drap o' the bluid o' the men in yer veins wha bled wi' Wallace and
wi' Bruce, before the sun gaed doun, the flag o' bonny Scotland wad wave
frae the castle towers."

"Mother! mother!" said an interesting-looking girl of nineteen, who
had come to the door as the voice of Madge waxed louder and more
bitter--"dinna talk foolishly--ye will bring us a' into trouble."

"Trouble! ye silly lassie, ye!" rejoined Madge; "these are times indeed
to talk o' the like o' us being brought into trouble, when our puir
bluiding country is groaning beneath the yoke o' an enemy, and we see
them harrying us not only oot o' hoose and ha', but even those that
should be our protectors oot o' their manhood! See," added she, "do ye
see wha yon is, skulking as far as he can get frae our door wi' the
weel-filled sack upon his shouthers? It is yer ain dearie, Florence
Wilson! O the betrayer o' his country!--He's a coward, Janet, like the
rest o' them, and shall ne'er ca' ye his wife while I live to ca' ye
daughter."

"O mother!" added the maiden, in a low and agitated voice--"what could
poor Florence do? It isna wi' a man body as it is wi' the like o' us. If
he didna do as the lave do, he wad be informed against, and he maun obey
or die!"

"Let him die, then, as a man, as a Scotchman!" said the stern guidwife
of Coldingham.

Florence Wilson, of whom Madge had spoken, was a young man of three or
four and twenty, and who then held, as his fathers had done before him,
sheep lands under the house of Home. He was one of those who obeyed
reluctantly the command of the governor to bring provisions to the
garrison; and, until the day on which Madge beheld him with the sack
upon his shoulders, he had resisted doing so. But traitors had whispered
the tale of his stubbornness and discontent in the castle; and, in
order to save himself and his flocks, he that day took a part of his
substance to the garrison. He had long been the accepted of Janet
Gordon; and the troubles of the times alone prevented them, as the
phrase went, from "commencing house together." He well knew the fierce
and daring patriotism of his intended mother-in-law, and he took a
circuitous route, in order to avoid passing her door, laden with a
burden of provisions for the enemy. But, as has been told, she perceived
him.

In the evening, Florence paid his nightly visit to Janet.

"Out! out! ye traitor!" cried Madge, as she beheld him crossing her
threshold; "the shadow of a coward shall ne'er fall on my floor while I
hae a hand to prevent it."

"I'm nae coward, guidwife," retorted Florence indignantly.

"Nae coward!" she rejoined; "what are ye, then? Did not I, this very
day, wi' my ain een, behold ye skulking, and carrying provisions to the
enemy!"

"Ye might," said Florence; "but ae man canna tak a castle, nor drive
frae it five hundred enemies. Bide ye yet. Foolhardy courage isna
manhood; and, had mair prudence and caution, and less confidence, been
exercised by our army last year, we wouldna hae this day to mourn owre
the battle o' Pinkie. I tell ye, therefore, again, just bide ye yet."

"Come in, Florence," said Madge; "draw in a seat and sit doun, and tell
me what ye mean."

"Hoots, Florence," said Janet, in a tone partaking of reproach and
alarm, "are ye gaun to be as daft as my mother? What matters it to us
wha's king or wha's queen?--it will be lang or either the ane or the
ither o' them do onything for us. When ye see lords and gentry in the
pay o' England, and takin its part, what can the like o' you or my
mother do?"

"Do! ye chicken-hearted trembler at yer ain shadow!" interrupted Madge;
"though somewhat past its best, I hae an arm as strong and healthy as
the best o' them, and the blood that runs in it is as guid as the
proudest o' them."

Now, the maiden name of Madge was Home; and when her pride was touched,
it was her habit to run over the genealogical tree of her father's
family, which she could illustrate upon her fingers, beginning on all
occasions--"I am, and so is every Home in Berwickshire, descended frae
the Saxon kings o' England and the first Earls o' Northumberland." Thus
did she run on, tracing their descent from Crinan, chief of the Saxons
in the north of England, to Maldredus, his son, who married Algatha,
daughter of Uthred, prince of Northumberland, and grand-daughter of
Ethelrid, king of England; and from Maldredus to his son Cospatrick,
of whose power William the Conqueror became jealous, and who was,
therefore, forced to fly into Scotland in the year 1071, where Malcolm
Canmore bestowed on him the manor of Dunbar, and many baronies in
Berwickshire. Thus did she notice three other Cospatricks, famous and
mighty men in their day, each succeeding Cospatrick the son of his
predecessor; and after them a Waldreve, and a Patrick, whose son,
William, marrying his cousin, he obtained with her the lands of Home,
and, assuming the name, they became the founders of the clan. From the
offspring of the cousin, the male of whom took the name of Sir William
Home, and from him through eleven other successors, down to George,
the fourth Lord Home, who had fallen while repelling the invasion of
Somerset a few months before, did Madge trace the roots, shoots, and
branches of her family, carrying it back through a period of more than
six hundred years; and she glowed, therefore, with true aristocratic
indignation at the remark of her daughter to Florence--"What can the
like o' you or my mother do?" And she concluded her description of her
genealogical tree by saying--"Talk noo the like o' yer mother, hizzy!"

"Aweel, mother," said Janet, mildly--"that may a' be; but there is
nae cause for you fleeing into a tift upon the matter, for nae harm was
meant. I only dinna wish Florence to be putting his life in jeopardy for
neither end nor purpose. I'm sure I wish that oor nobility would keep to
their bargain, and allow the queen, though she is but a lassie yet, to
be married to young king Edward, and then we might hae peace in the
land, and ither folk would be married as weel as them."

"We shall be married, Janet, my doo," said Florence, gazing on her
tenderly--"only ye bide a wee."

Now, it must not be thought that Janet loved her country less than
did her mother or her betrothed husband; but, while the land of blue
mountains was dear to her heart, Florence Wilson was yet more dear; and
it was only because they were associated with thoughts of him that they
became as a living thing, as a voice and as music in her bosom. For,
whence comes our fondness for the woods, the mountains, the rivers
of nativity, but from the fond remembrances which their associations
conjure up, and the visions which they recall to the memory of those who
were dear to us, but who are now far from us, or with the dead? We may
have seen more stupendous mountains, nobler rivers, and more stately
woods--but they were not _ours_! They were not the mountains, the
rivers, and the woods, by which we played in childhood, formed first
friendships, or breathed love's tender tale in the ear of her who was
beautiful as the young moon or the evening star, which hung over us
like smiles of heaven; nor were they the fountains, the woods, and the
rivers, near which our kindred, the flesh of our flesh, and the bone of
our bone, SLEEP! But I digress.

"Tell me, Florence," said Madge, "what mean ye by 'bide a wee?' Is
there a concerted project amongst ony o' ye, an' are ye waiting for an
opportunity to carry it into effect?"

"No," answered he, "I canna say as how we hae devised ony practicable
scheme o' owrecoming our oppressors as yet; but there are hundreds o' us
ready to draw our swords an' strike, on the slightest chance o' success
offering--and the chance may come."

"An' amongst the hundreds o' hands ye speak o'," returned Madge, "is
there no a single head that can plot an' devise a plan to owrecome an'
drive our persecutors frae the castle?"

"I doot it--at least I hae ne'er heard ony feasible-like plan proposed,"
said Florence, sorrowfully.

Madge sat thoughtful for a few minutes, her chin resting on her hand. At
length she inquired--"When go ye back to sell provisions to them again?"

"This day week," was the reply.

"Then I shall tak my basket wi' eggs an' butter, an' gae wi' ye,"
answered Madge.

"O mother! what are ye sayin?" cried Janet. "Ye maun gang nae sic
gate. I ken yer temper would flare up the moment ye heard a word spoken
against Scotland, or a jibe broken on it; an' there is nae tellin' what
might be the consequence."

"Leave baith the action an' the consequence to me, Janet, my woman,"
said the patriotic mother; "as I brew, I will drink. But ye hae naething
to fear; I will be as mim in the castle as ye wad be if gieing Florence
yer hand in the kirk."

The day on which the people were again to carry provisions to the
garrison in Fast Castle arrived; and to the surprize of every one,
Madge, with a laden basket on each arm, mingled amongst them. Many
marvelled, and the more mercenary said--

"Ay, ay!--Madge likes to turn the penny as weel as ither folk. The
English will hae guid luck if ony o' them get a bargain oot o' her
baskets."

She, therefore, went to the castle, bearing provisions with the rest of
the peasantry; but, under pretence of disposing of her goods to the best
advantage, she went through and around the castle, and quitted it not
until she had ascertained where were its strongest, where its weakest
points of defence, and in what manner it was guarded.

When, therefore, Florence Wilson again visited her dwelling, she
addressed him, saying--

"Noo, I hae seen oor enemies i' the heart o' their strength; an' I hae
a word to say to ye that will try yer courage, and the courage o' the
hunders o' guid men an' true that ye hae spoken o' as only bidin' their
time to strike. Noo, is it yer opinion that, between Dunglass an'
Eyemouth, ye could gather a hundred men willing an' ready to draw the
sword for Scotland's right, an' to drive the invaders frae Fast Castle,
if a feasible plan were laid before them?"

"I hae nae doot o't," replied he.

"Doots winna do," said she; "will ye try it?"

"Yes," said he.

"Florence, ye _shall_ be my son," added she, taking his hand--"I see
there is spirit in ye yet."

"Mother," said Janet earnestly, "what dangerous errand is this ye wad
set him upon?--what do ye think it could matter to me wha was governor
o' Fast Castle, if Florence should meet his death in the attempt?"

"Wheesht! ye silly lassie, ye," replied her mother; "had I no borne ye,
I wad hae said that ye hadna a drap o' my bluid i' yer veins. What is't
that ye fear? If they'll abide by my counsel, though it may try their
courage, oor purpose shall be accomplished wi' but little scaith."

"Neither fret nor fear, dear," said Florence, addressing Janet; "I hae a
hand to defend my head, an' a guid sword to guard baith." Then turning
to her mother, he added--"An' what may be yer plan, that I may
communicate it to them that I ken to be zealous in oor country's cause?"

"Were I to tell ye noo," said she, "that ye might communicate it to
them, before we were ready to put it into execution, the story wad
spread frae the Tweed to John o' Groat's, and frae St. Abb's to the
Solway, and our designs be prevented. Na, lad, my scheme maun be laid
before a' the true men that can be gathered together at the same moment,
an' within a few hours o' its being put in execution. Do ye ken the dark
copse aboon Houndwood, where there is a narrow and crooked opening
through the tangled trees, but leading to a bit o' bonny green sward,
where a thousand men might encamp unobserved?"

"I do," answered Florence.

"And think ye that ye could assemble the hundred men ye speak o' there,
on this night fortnight?"

"I will try," replied he.

"Try, then," added she, "and I will meet ye there before the new moon
sink behind the Lammermoors."

It was a few days after this that Madge was summoned to the village of
Home, to attend the funeral of a relative; and while she was yet there,
the castle of her ancestors was daringly wrested from the hands of the
Protector's troops, by an aged kinsman of her own, and a handful of
armed men. The gallant deed fired her zeal more keenly, and strengthened
her resolution to wrest Fast Castle from the hands of the invaders. She
had been detained at Home until the day on which Florence Wilson was
to assemble the stout-hearted and trust-worthy in the copse above
Houndwood. Her kindred would have detained her longer; but she resisted
their entreaties, and took leave of them saying, that "her bit lassie,
Janet, would be growing irksome wi' being left alane, an' that, at ony
rate, she had business on hand that couldna be delayed."

She proceeded direct to the place of rendezvous, without going onwards
to her own house; and, as she drew near the narrow opening which led to
the green space in the centre of the dark copse, the young moon was
sinking behind the hills. As she drew cautiously forward she heard the
sound of voices, which gradually became audible.

"Well, Florence," said one, "what are ye waiting for? Where is the grand
project that ye was to lay before us?"

"Florence," said others, "let us proceed to business. It is gaun to be
very dark, and ye will remember we have to gang as far as the Peaths[A]
the night yet."

  [A] The Pease Bridge.

Florence answered as one perplexed, but in his wonted words--"Hae
patience--bide a wee;" and added, in a sort of soliloquy, but loud
enough to be overheard by his companions--"She promised to be here
before the moon gaed down upon the Lammermoors."

"Wha did?--wha promised to be here?" inquired half a dozen voices.

"I did!" cried Madge, proudly, as she issued from the narrow aperture in
the copse, and her tall figure was revealed by the fading moonbeams.
With a stately step, she walked into the midst of them, and gazed round
as though the blood and dignity of all the Homes had been centred in her
own person.

"Weel, Madge," inquired they, "and, since ye are come, for what hae ye
brought us here?"

"To try," added she, "whether, inheriting, as ye do, yer faithers'
bluid, ye also inherit their spirit--to see whether ye hae the manhood
to break the yoke o' yer oppressors, or if ye hae the courage to follow
the example which the men o' Home set ye the other nicht."

"What have they done?" inquired Florence.

"Hearken," said she, "ane and a' o' ye, and I will tell ye; for, wi' my
ain een, I beheld a sicht that was as joyfu' to me as the sight o' a
sealed pardon to a condemned criminal. Ye weel ken that, for near twa
years, the English have held Home Castle, just as they still hold Fast
Castle, beside us. Now, it was the other nicht, and just as the grey
gloam was darkening the towers, that an auld kinsman o' mine, o' the
name o' Home, scaled the walls where they were highest, strongest, and
least guarded; thirty gallant countrymen had accompanied him to their
foot, but before they could follow his example, he was perceived by a
sentinel, wha shouted out--'To arms!--to arms!' 'Cower, lads, cower!'
said my auld kinsman, in a sort o' half whisper, to his followers; and
he again descended the wall, and they lay down, with their swords in
their hands, behind some whin bushes at the foot o' the battlements.
There was running, clanking, and shouting through the castle for a time;
but, as naething like the presence o' an enemy was either seen or heard,
the sentry that had raised the alarm was laughed at, and some gaed back
to their beds, and others to their wine. But, after about two hours, and
when a'thing was again quiet, my kinsman and his followers climbed the
walls, and, rushing frae sentinel to sentinel, they owrecam ane after
anither before they could gie the alarm to the garrison in the castle;
and, bursting into it, shouted--'Hurra!--Scotland and Home for ever!'
Panic seized the garrison; some started frae their sleep--others reeled
frae their cups--some grasped their arms--others ran, they knew not
where--but terror struck the hearts o' ane and a'; and still, as the
cry, 'Scotland and Home for ever!' rang frae room to room, and was
echoed through the lang high galleries, it seemed like the shouting o'
a thousand men; and, within ten minutes, every man in the garrison was
made prisoner or put to the sword! And noo, neebors, what my kinsman
and a handfu' o' countrymen did for the deliverance o' the Castle o'
Home, can ye not do for Fast Castle, or will ye not--and so drive every
invader oot o' Berwickshire?"

"I dinna mean to say, Madge," answered one, who appeared to be the
most influential personage amongst her auditors--"I dinna mean to say
but that your relation and his comrades hae performed a most noble
and gallant exploit--one that renders them worthy o' being held in
everlasting remembrance by their countrymen--and glad would I be if we
could this night do the same for Fast Castle. But, woman, the thing is
impossible; the cases are not parallel. It mightna be a difficult matter
to scale the highest part o' the walls o' Home Castle, and ladders could
easily be got for that purpose; but, at Fast Castle, wi' the draw-brig
up, and the dark, deep, terrible chasm between you and the walls, like
the bottomless gulf between time and eternity!--I say, again, for my
part, the thing is impossible. Wha has strength o' head, even for a
moment, to look doun frae the dark and dizzy height o' the Wolf's
Crag?--and wha could think o' scaling it? Even if it had been possible,
the stoutest heart that ever beat in a bosom would, wi' the sickening
horror o' its owner's situation, before he was half-way up, be dead as
the rocks that would dash him to pieces as he fell! Na, na, I should hae
been glad to lend a helping and a willing hand to ony practicable plan,
but it would be madness to throw away our lives where there couldna be
the slightest possibility o' success."

"Listen," said Madge; "I ken what is possible, and what is impossible,
as weel as ony o' ye. I meant that ye should tak for example the
dauntless spirit o' my kinsman and the men o' Home, and no their manner
o' entering the castle. But, if yer hearts beat as their hearts did,
before this hour the morn's nicht, the invaders will be driven frae
Fast Castle. In the morning we are ordered to take provisions to the
garrison. I shall be wi' ye, and in the front o' ye. But, though my left
arm carries a basket, beneath my cloak shall be hidden the bit sword
which my guidman wore in the wars against King Harry; and, as I reach
the last sentinel--'Now, lads! now for Scotland and our Queen!' I shall
cry; and wha dare follow my example?"

"I dare! I will!" said Florence Wilson, "and be at yer side to strike
doun the sentinel; and sure am I that there isna a man here that winna
do or die, and drive oor enemies frae the castle, or leave his body
within its wa's for them to cast into the sea. Every man o' us, the
morn, will enter the castle wi' arms concealed about him, and hae them
ready to draw and strike at a moment's warning. Ye canny say, freends,
but that this is a feasible plan, and ye winna be outdone in bravery by
a woman. Do ye agree to it?"

There were cries of--"Yes, Florence, yes!--every man o' us!"--and "It
is an excellent plan--it is only a pity that it hadna been thocht o'
suner," resounded on all sides; but "Better late than never," said
others.

"Come round me, then," said Madge; and they formed a circle around
her. "Ye swear now," she continued, "in the presence o' Him who see'th
through the darkness o' night and searcheth the heart, that nane o' ye
will betray to oor enemies what we hae this nicht determined on; but
that every man o' ye will, the morn, though at the price o' his life, do
yer utmost to deliver oor groaning country frae the yoke o' its invaders
and oppressors! This ye swear?"

And they bowed their heads around her.

"Awa, then," added she, "ilka man to his ain hoose, and get his weapons
in readiness." And, leaving the copse, they proceeded in various
directions across the desolate moor. But Florence Wilson accompanied
Madge to her dwelling; and, as they went, she said--

"Florence, if ye act as weel the morn as ye hae spoken this nicht, the
morn shall my dochter, Janet, be yer wife, wi' a fu' purse for her
portion that neither o' ye kens aboot."

He pressed her hand in the fulness of his heart; but she added--

"Na, na, Florence, I'm no a person that cares aboot a fuss being made
for the sake o' gratitude--thank me wi' deeds. Remember I have said--a'
depends on yer conduct the morn."

When they entered the house, poor Janet was weeping, because of her
mother's absence, for she had expected her for two days; and her
apprehensions were not removed when she saw her in the company of
Florence, who, although her destined husband, and who, though he had
long been in the habit of visiting her daily, had called but once during
her mother's absence, and then he was sad and spoke little. She saw that
her parent had prevailed on him to undertake some desperate project, and
she wept for his sake.

When he arose to depart, she rose also and accompanied him to the door.

"Florence," said she, tenderly, "you and my mother hae some secret
between ye, which ye winna communicate to me."

"A' that is a secret between us," said he, "is, that she consents that
the morn ye shall be my winsome bride, if ye be willing, as I'm sure ye
are; and that is nae secret that I wad keep frae ye; but I didna wish to
put ye aboot by mentioning it before her."

Janet blushed, and again added--

"But there is something mair between ye than that, Florence, and why
should ye hide it frae me?"

"Dear me, hinny!" said he, "I wonder that ye should be sae apprehensive.
There is nae secret between yer mother an' me that isna weel-kenned to
every ane in the country-side. But just ye hae patience--bide a
wee--wait only till the morn; and, when I come to lead ye afore the
minister, I'll tell ye a'thing then."

"An' wherefore no tell me the noo, Florence?" said she. "I am sure that
there is something brewing, an' a dangerous something too. Daur ye no
trust me? Ye may think me a weak an' silly creature; but, if I am not
just so rash and outspoken as my mother, try me if I haena as stout a
heart when there is a necessity for showing it."

"Weel, Janet, dear," said Florence, "I winna conceal frae ye that there
is something brewing--but what that something is I am not at liberty
to tell. I am bound by an oath not to speak o't, and so are a hunder
others, as weel as me. But the morn it will be in my power to tell ye
a'. Noo, just be ye contented, and get ready for our wedding."

"And my mother kens," Janet was proceeding to say, when her mother's
voice was heard, crying from the house--

"Come in, Janet--what are ye doing oot there in the cauld?--ye hae been
lang enough wi' Florence the nicht--but the morn's nicht ye may speak to
him as lang as ye like. Sae come in, lassie."

As the reader may suppose, Madge was not one whose commands required to
be uttered twice; and, with a troubled heart, Janet bade Florence
"good-night," and returned to the cottage.

It was a little after sunrise on the following day, when a body of more
than a hundred peasantry, agreeably to the command of the governor,
appeared before the castle, laden with provisions. Some of them had the
stores which they had brought upon the backs of horses, but which they
placed upon their own shoulders as they approached the bridge. Amongst
them were fishermen from Eyemouth and Coldingham, shepherds from the
hills with slaughtered sheep, millers, and the cultivators of the
patches of arable ground beyond the moor. With them, also, were a few
women carrying eggs, butter, cheese, and poultry; and at the head of the
procession (for the narrowness of the drawbridge over the frightful
chasm, beyond which the castle stood, caused the company to assume the
form of a procession as they entered the walls) was Madge Gordon, and
her intended son-in-law, Florence Wilson.

The drawbridge had been let down to them; the last of the burden-bearers
had crossed it; and Madge had reached the farthest sentinel, when
suddenly dropping her basket, out from beneath her grey cloak gleamed
the sword of her dead husband!

"Now, lads!--now for Scotland and our Queen!" she exclaimed, and as she
spoke, the sword in her hand pierced the body of the sentinel. At the
same instant every man cast his burden to the ground, a hundred hidden
swords were revealed, and every sentinel was overpowered.

"Forward, lads! forward!" shouted Madge.

"Forward!" cried Florence Wilson, with his sword in his hand, leading
the way. They rushed into the interior of the castle; they divided into
bands. Some placed themselves before the arsenal where arms were kept,
while others rushed from room to room, making prisoners of those of the
garrison who yielded willingly, and showing no quarter to those who
resisted. Many sought safety in flight, some flying half-naked, aroused
from morning dreams after a night's carouse, and almost all fled without
weapons of defence. The effect upon the garrison was as if a thunderbolt
had burst in the midst of them. Within half an hour, Fast Castle was in
the hands of the peasantry, and the entire soldiery who had defended it
had either fled, were slain, or made prisoners.

Besides striking the first blow, Madge had not permitted the sword of
her late husband to remain idle in her hands during the conflict. And,
as the conquerors gathered round Florence Wilson, to acknowledge to him
that to his counsel, presence of mind, and courage, as their leader, in
the midst of the confusion that prevailed, they owed their victory, and
the deliverance of the east of Berwickshire from its invaders, Madge
pressed forward, and, presenting him her husband's sword, said--

"Tak this, my son, and keep it--it was the sword o' a brave man, and to
a brave man I gie it--and this night shall ye be my son indeed."

"Thank ye, mother--mother!" said Florence. And as he spoke a faint smile
crossed his features.

But scarce had he taken the sword in his hand, ere a voice was heard,
crying--

"Where is he?--where shall I find him?--does he live?--where is my
mother?"

"Here, love!--here! It is my Janet!" cried Florence; but his voice
seemed to fail him as he spoke.

"Come here, my bairn," cried her mother, "and in the presence of these
witnesses receive a hand that ye may be proud o'."

As part of the garrison fled through Coldingham, Janet had heard of
the surprise by which the castle had been taken, and ran towards it to
gather tidings of her mother and affianced husband; for she now knew the
secret which they would not reveal to her.

As she rushed forward, the crowd that surrounded Florence gave way,
and, as he moved forward to meet her, it was observed that he shook or
staggered as he went; but it was thought no more of; and when she fell
upon his bosom, and her mother took their hands and pressed them
together, the multitude burst into a shout and blessed them. He strove
to speak--he muttered the word "Janet!" but his arms fell from her neck,
and he sank as lifeless on the ground.

"Florence! my Florence!--he is wounded--murdered!" cried the maiden, and
she flung herself beside him on the ground.

Madge and the spectators endeavoured to raise him; but his eyes were
closed; and, as he gasped, they with difficulty could understand the
words he strove to utter--"Water--water!"

He had, indeed, been wounded--mortally wounded--but he spoke not of it.
They raised him in their arms and carried him to an apartment in the
castle; but, ere they reached it, the spirit of Florence Wilson had
fled.

Poor Janet clung to his lifeless body. She now
cried--"Florence!--Florence!--we shall be married
to-night?--yes!--yes!--I have everything ready!" And again she spoke
bitter words to her mother, and said that she had murdered her Florence.
The spectators lifted her from his body, and Madge stood as one on whom
affliction, in the midst of her triumph, had fallen as a palsy,
depriving her of speech and action.

"My poor bereaved bairn!" she at length exclaimed; and she took her
daughter in her arms and kissed her--"ye hae indeed cause to mourn,
for Florence was a noble lad!--but, oh, dinna say it was my doing,
hinny!--dinna wyte yer mother!--will ye no, Janet? It is a great comfort
that Florence has died like a hero."

But Janet never was herself again. She became, as their neighbours
said, a poor, melancholy, maundering creature, going about talking of
her Florence and the surprise of Fast Castle, and ever ending her
story--"But I maun awa hame and get ready, for Florence and I are to be
married the nicht."

Madge followed her, mourning, wheresoever she went, bearing with and
soothing all her humours. But she had not long to bear them; for, within
two years, Janet was laid by the side of Florence Wilson, in Coldingham
kirkyard; and, before another winter howled over their peaceful graves,
Madge lay at rest beside them.




THE SURGEON'S TALES.

THE SOMNAMBULIST OF REDCLEUGH.


It is now many years since I visited a patient, at the distance of some
sixty miles from the proper circuit of my practice. On one occasion,
when with him, I received a letter from a gentleman, who subscribed
himself as one of the trustees of Mr. Bernard[B] of Redcleugh,
requesting me to visit, on my return home, the widow of that gentleman,
who still resided in the old mansion, and whose mind had received a
shock from some domestic affliction, any allusion to which was, for some
reason, very specially reserved. I may remark, that I believe I owed
this application to some opinions I was known to entertain on the
subject of that species of insanity produced by moral causes, and which
is to be carefully distinguished from the diathetic mania, so often
accompanied by pathological changes in the brain. It is scarcely
necessary to inform the reader, that we have always a better chance for
a cure in the one case than in the other, insomuch indeed as, in the
first, we have merely functional derangement; in the second, organic
change. I always maintain there is no interest about insane people,
except to the man of science; and even he very soon gets to that "ass's
bridge," on the other side of which Nature, as the genius of occult
things, stands with a satirical smile on her face, as she sees the proud
savans toppling over into the Lethe of sheer ignorance, and getting
drowned for their insane curiosity. In the asylum in France, mentioned
by De Vayer, the inmates enjoyed exceedingly the imputed madness of the
visiting physician. The same play is acted in the world all throughout.
Our insanity has only a little more method in it--and while I avoid any
description of the madness of Mrs. Bernard, I will have to set forth a
story, which, leading to that madness, has in it apparently as much of
insanity as may be found in the ravings of a maniac.

  [B] I find it more convenient, in this tale, to give names to
  my personages, in place of initials.

I obeyed the call to Redcleugh, where I found the _res domi_ in a
peculiar position. There were few inmates in the large old house.
Besides the invalid herself, there was an old cook and a butler, by name
Francis, who had been in the family for many years, and whose garrulity
was supplied from an inexhaustible fountain--the fate and fortunes of
the Bernards. My patient was a lovely woman in body--a maniac in mind.
Her affliction had suddenly shot up into her brain, and left untouched
the lineaments of her beauty, excepting the expression of the eye, which
had become nervous and furtive, oscillating between the extreme of
softness and the intensity of ferocity. Having been cautioned by Francis
to make no allusion to her husband or to certain children, whom he
named, or to the word "book," and many other things, I contented myself,
in the first instance, with a general examination of her symptoms; and,
as it was late before I arrived, I resolved upon remaining all night,
which would enable me to see her again in the morning. I had supper
served up to me by Francis, who brought me some wine which had been in
the house for fifty years, and told me stories of the family, extending
back twice that period. Sometimes these old legends would be interrupted
for a moment by a shrill cry, coming from a source which we both knew.
All else in this house was under the spell of Angerana, the genius of
silence. There is something peculiar in the sound of a common voice in
a large house, filled with memorials of those who had lived in it, and
yet with no living sounds to break the dull heavy air, which seems to
thicken by not being moved. It appeared as if I had been suddenly thrown
into a region of romance, but my experiences were not pleasant. I wished
to escape to my own professional thoughts again, and desired to go to
bed.

I was accordingly, not without some efforts on the part of my
entertainer to prolong his stories, ushered into my bed-room--a large
apartment, hung with pictures, some very old, and some very new. Francis
put the candle down, and left me. It was not long before I was undressed
and under the bed-clothes; but not being sure about sleeping, I left the
candle burning, intending to rise and extinguish it when I found myself
more inclined to fall over into the rest I required. The old legends
began to pass through my mind, and I was engrossed with the spirit of
the past. Time makes poetry out of very common things, and then we are
to remember, what we do not often think of, that the most ordinary life
cannot be passed without encountering some incidents which smack of the
romantic. Nay, every man's life, as a bright gleam thrown on the dark
abyss which separates him from eternity, is all through a romance, in
the midst of that greater one, seen by us only as shadows--the negatives
of some positives, perhaps, witnessed by eyes on the other side. I
have always been tinged by something of the spirit of old Bruno,
that dreamer, whose most real realities were no other than umbery
forms--flakes of shadow--cast off by a central light from the real
objects, of which we are the mere shadowy representatives. All the
breathing, throbbing, active beings, who for two hundred years had run
along these narrow passages of the old house, and peered into half-open
doors, or out of the small skew-topped windows--danced, sang, laughed
and wept--died, and been carried out--were to each other as such umbery
things; and I, the present subsisting shadow, received them all into my
living microcosm, where, as in a mirror, they existed again, scarcely
less shadowy than before.

Somehow or another I could not get to sleep; not that I had any fears:
these were out of the question with me. My vigils were attributable to
a fancy, wrought upon by the recitals of the old butler, illustrated
by the very concrete things which had been used by the personages he
described. There were the chairs they sat on, the beds they slept on,
the piano they played on, all as they had been left. It was impossible
for me to conceive that there was yet no connection between these things
and the old family. The pictures, too, were still there, in the various
rooms, some of them in my bed-room. The light of my eyes seemed to have
disenchanted these silent staring personages. They came forth and
occupied themselves as they had been wont before they became pictures.
The chair of the first of the late Mr. Bernard's two wives--that "angel
whose look was an eternal smile," as Francis poetically described
her--appeared to have the power of drawing her down into it; but then
the attraction was not less for the second wife, "whose fate was a
terrible mystery;" and thus would I get confused. Then, to which of
these did the little dark fellow on the south wall belong--he who seemed
to have been scorched by too strong a sun--and the girl beside them, who
looked as if she had been blanched by too bright a moon--which of the
two was her mother?

At last I got out of bed, and rummaged for some stray volume to
disenchant me out of the imaginary world of these Bernards. I drew out
one or two drawers, which had been so long shut that they had lost their
allegiance to the hand. I peered into an escritoire, and another old
cabinet, which creaked and groaned at being disturbed by a hand not a
Bernard's. All was empty. There was one drawer which refused to come
out to the full extent. Something seemed to be jammed between it and
the back of the escritoire. Man is an enterprising animal; a little
resistance sets his energies a-spring. I would not be baulked. I
would know what the impediment was and work out the solution of the
difficulty. By pulling hard the obstacle gave way. The drawer followed
my hand, while my body fell back on the floor. Psha! some stray leaves
of an old pamphlet fluttered about. I had dismembered the obstacle, and
would now collect the fragments. I had got for my pains an old brochure,
embellished by dreadful woodcuts, of the old Newgate calender style, and
entitled, "The true and genuine history of the murderer, Jane Grierson,
who poisoned her mistress, and thereby became the wife of her master,
Josiah Temple;" the date 1742. I was no fancier of awful histories of
murderers, yet I would read myself asleep amidst horrors rather than
lie with my imagination in wakeful subjugation to the images of these
eternal Bernards. Bernard still! on the top of the title page was
written "Amelia Bernard." The charm was here too. Which of these fair
creatures on the wall was the proprietor of this brochure? She had read
it surely with care. She must have cherished it, or why identify it as
her own? Perhaps she was a lover of old books; it could not be that she
was a lover of cruel stories. Those eyes were made for throwing forth
the lambent light of affection and love; how unlike to the staring
blood-shot orbs of that Jane Grierson on that terrific woodcut! Yet,
true to the nature of my species, at least my sex, I found in the grim
pamphlet that inexpressible something which recommends coarse recitals
of human depravity even to cultivated minds, and which consists probably
in the conformity between the thing itself and the description of it;
the rugged words, semblances of the rugged implements, and the savage
actions of cruelty, address themselves to the latent barbarism which
lies as the lowest stratum of our many piled nature, and receive the
savage response at the moment we blush for humanity. These dire images
of the murderer's story were stronger than those of the Bernards--even
of those lovely faces on the wall--and as the candle burned down, and
the red wick grew up, I read and read on, how the cruel fiend did
destroy while she fawned upon her victim; how that victim, overcome by
the kindness of her enemy, praised her to her husband, who loved his
wife to distraction; and how she, even in her devoted gratitude,
recommended her murderer as her successor to the bed she lay on, and to
those arms where she so often had enjoyed the pressure of his love. Nor
was the recommendation ineffectual, for the said wicked Jane did become
the wife of her victim's husband. The old horrid savagery of our
criminal literature!--not yet abated--never to be abated--only glossed
with tropes and figures more hideous than the plain narrative of blood.

It was a vain thought that I should read myself asleep among the
terrible images suggested by my brochure. I was even more vigilant than
before. Then, that Francis seemed never at rest; I heard him clambering
up stairs, tramping along passages, shutting doors, speaking to himself,
just as if all the actions of his prior life were being gone over again.
I would have another visit, and another long narrative of some Bernard,
whose picture was somewhere in a red or blue room, and who had been, as
usual, with all those bearded individuals who hung on walls, either at
the crusades under Peter the hermit, or at Flodden under James, or at
Culloden under Charles. The clock struck, with a sound of grating rust,
two; and--tramp, tramp--he trudged along the passage. The door opened,
and in came my chronicler.

"Doctor, I saw your light," said he, "and you know it was always my
duty, when the family were in their old home here, to see that all the
lights were out o' nights; aye ever after the east wing was burned down,
through aunt Marjory's love of reading old romances. I hope I did not
disturb you."

"No," replied I; "pray, Francis, I need not ask which of these two
pictured beauties is Amelia, my patient? The likeness is good."

"Yes, there she is," said he, with a return of his old enthusiasm. "See
her light locks and her blue eyes. She was the mother of that fair
child. Don't you see the daughter in the mother and the mother in the
daughter? But I cannot look long on these pictures. My heart fails and
my head runs round. Look at the dark one. It was a terrible night that
when she came to Redcleugh. My wife, who now lies in Deathscroft, down
among the elms yonder, could not sleep for the screeching of the owls,
as if every horned devil of them shouted woe! woe!--to the house of
Redcleugh."

"Nonsense, Francis, omens--all nonsense," I said, interrupting him.

"So said I to Christy, just as you say, doctor. So say we all, every one
of us, here and everywhere, always, just until we are pulled up at a
jerk by some one of God's acts, when we see His finger pointed to the
sign. You are not so old as I am, and have something to learn. Signs are
made only when there are to be judgments, and judgments are not
according to the common ways of heaven."

"What did Mr. Bernard do," asked I, "to bring upon him this judgment
which appears to you to have been so fearful?"

"I am not in the secrets of God's ways with erring man," replied he.
"But who can tell how my master got Lillah--that's her there with these
dark eyes--his first wife? He had been away for years in the eastern
countries, and he never wrote to any one that he was to bring a wife
with him. He brought her, amidst the storm of that fearful night, as if
she had been a bird which he had rescued from the blast, so cowering and
timid did she appear, always clinging to the laird, and looking at him
with such beseeching eyes, and so unlike the women of our land--aye, for
it was no northern sun lighted up these eyes; and as for a heathen faith
imparting such gentleness, we could understand it no way. 'Twas all a
hurry in Redcleugh as well as a sort of fright among us in the hall,
every one whispering and wondering and questioning all to no end; for
from that night we never knew more of her home or kindred, save that it
was suspected she was a Circassian, and had left a noble home for the
love she bore to master. Nor was she ever inquired after by her friends,
except once, when a great eastern lord, as they said, came in a strange
equipage to see her; but her change to a Christian shocked and angered
him, so that high words rose and even reached our ears. He spoke of the
faith she had forsworn, of Allah, and Mahomet, and the Koran, and she
with tears responded Christ, the Saviour of all mankind, and his holy
mother, and the cross of Calvary, so that he was made more angry; and
then he spoke of Euphrosyne, her mother, as we thought, and again the
tears rolled down these cheeks, as she clung to master and lay upon his
neck, sobbing as if her heart would burst in the battle between the
daughter and the wife. The stranger departed in anger, nor did he break
his fast at Redcleugh, and many a day afterwards my young lady was in
tears. 'Twas not long till she had that boy, whom she bore after many
days of labour, with such pain that there was not a servant in the
household did not look as if her own salvation depended upon the issue
of that protracted struggle, so beloved was she, sir; so respected, so
adored, so pitied; and as for Mr. Bernard, he was not himself--scarcely
a man--and little wonder either, for his face was ever the attraction
of her eyes, and every look seemed to be watched by her as if all her
happiness hung upon one of his smiles. Such doings were the wonder of us
all in these parts; for you know we are rougher lovers in our cold land,
and neither Christy, nor I, nor any of us, could understand how, on the
face of this earth, there could be such affection--not a single drop of
bitterness, not a ruffle on the smooth surface. Why, sir! did we not
all, to satisfy our self-love, and our country's custom, call it very
idolatry; but it was only a little envy which we, as it were, stole to
ourselves, as a sweet unction to our sores, and when these were mended
we loved her the more--nay, we could do nothing less; for even the
devil's spleen couldn't detect an unevenness to hang upon it a suspicion
against her."

"You are even more partial, Francis, than the painter," said I, "whom I
have been charging with the fault of drawing upon his fancy to enable
him to draw upon our credulity. She looks scarcely earthly."

"It's no use my description, sir. There are certain perfections
we cannot attribute to God's creatures, because we suffer by the
comparison. They say if there's not now and then a little anger there's
a want. Oh! they will say God's image is not perfect if it have not a
dash of our own evil in it. But experience is the mother of wonders as
well as wisdom. Aye, sir, years of intercourse, even at a servant's
distance, are worth more than your theories in these days."

"I suspect you have been in the library, Francis," said I; "you have
opened books as well as bottles."

"Aye, sir, and _the book_ of all books," replied he seriously; "but I
hope I am not irreverend when I say that God may lead us to understand
the first image in Eden by showing us sometimes something better here
than what we can feel within our own hearts."

"Oh, I am not sceptical," said I; for I thought he was pained by my
remark, as if I doubted the qualities of his idol. "I believe all you
have said of poor Lillah; and I love for the sake of my own matrimonial
hopes to believe it, and more. But this idol died!"

"And died young, sir; perhaps because she was an idol," replied he.
"They don't live long, sir, these creatures. They're like some of those
bright winged things of the East, of which I have read, that exist only
so long as the rose blooms on which they hang and live. But my lady
Lillah never dwined--only there came a sadness over her, and master
noticed that she began to cherish more than usual a miniature which she
carried about with her in her bosom--the figure of a lady--I have seen
it often--so like herself you'd have said they were of the same
family--'twas her mother, whom she called Euphrosyne. Even now I think I
see her sitting in the rose arbour in the garden, with little Caleb by
her side, gazing at that picture, so long, so thoughtfully, so pitifully
that she seemed ready to weep; then she would, as if recalled by
remorse, hug the child, and bid him run for his father; then Mr. Bernard
would no sooner come than she would be so much more loving than was even
her wont, that he seemed oppressed by the very fervour of her affection.
Master was a quiet man, sir, and full of thought; and he soon saw that
it would be good for my lady that she should have a companion. So the
next thing we heard was that Amelia Temple, who had been governess over
the muir at Abbey Field, and had been several times at Redcleugh with
Mr. Orchardstoun's daughters, was engaged to come to us at the term. And
she came. The wind did not whistle that night, nor the owl sound his
horn; there was no omen, sir, and this will please you, though it does
not shake me in my faith in heaven's warnings. You see Amelia there
(holding up the candle, now nearly in the socket), I need not describe
what the painter has copied so faithfully. But master did not look
kindly on that face, beautiful as it is, with that flashing eye and
joyful expression. No, 'twas not till my lady grew distractedly fond of
her that he looked sweetly on her (in the right way) for the love she
gave to and got from her he loved the best of all the world. Oh! 'twas a
beautiful sight, sir, those women. The rose of the west was a match for
the lily of the east; then the pensive sweetness of the one, and the
innocent light-heartedness of the other, met and mingled in a friendship
without guile--a love without envy."

"Your last visit, Francis," I said, with a smile which I could not
conceal, "must have been to the poets of the library."

"'Tis only truth, sir," resumed he. "When one sees a beautiful thing
and feels the beauty--a privilege which is probably never denied at all
times to any of God's creatures, and does not belong exclusively to the
high born or the learned--he is a poet, be he a gauger or a butler. Aye,
sir, a man may be a poet when his nose is right over the mouth of a
bottle of burgundy, vintage '81."

"And not very poetical when he reflects that there is not a bottle left
in the house," said I.

"He has still 'the pleasures of hope,'" rejoined Francis, with a little
newborn moisture on his dry lips.

"Well," rejoined I, as I began to yawn from pure want of sleep, "there
is at least little of either poetry or pleasure in 'hope deferred.' We
will moisten these dry legends of the Bernards by a little of that
burgundy of theirs now."

And this chronicler of the Bernards, as well as of something better than
small beer, soon handed me a large glassful of this prince of wines.

"You will require all the benefit of that, sir," said he, "if I am to go
on with my story."

"I'm not afraid," said I, listlessly, "after what I have read of the
Grierson horrors."

The old man turned upon me a strange, wild look, rendered grotesque, if
not ludicrous, by the effect of the glassful he had at that moment taken
at my request. "Ah! you have heard--yet surely it is impossible. Was it
not all between me and master? Who other could know of it? And the book!
Oh, it was never found."

"I know nothing of these mysteries," replied I, not really understanding
him, yet amazed at his appearance, as with long grey locks, shaking by
his excitement, he kept staring at me in the dim light--for the candle
was now out, and the fire burned red and dull. A little more conjuring
would have brought all these pictures out into the room, and even as it
was, I was beginning to transform my companion's shadow, as it lay on
the arm chair behind him, into the very person itself of Lillah Bernard.

"Doctor," he said, gravely, "you must know the dark secret of this
apartment."

"Nothing," replied I. "Go on; you have roused my curiosity. I know
nothing of the Bernard's but what you have told me, and I request to
know more. Go on, Francis."

He was not satisfied; continued to search, so far as he could, my face;
but I wore him out.

"It's no use denying it, sir," he at length said, "but take your own
way now;" then heaving a deep sigh, which might have been heard at the
farthest end of the large room, so silent was all, he went on: "'Twas
not to last, sir, all that happiness among those three, and little Caleb
was the centre by which they were all joined. There's an enemy abroad to
such heart-unions--unseen by all but God, who views him with the eye of
anger, but lets him have his way for a season, and why we know it. Such
little Edens grow up here and there among roses, as if to remind us of
the one paradise which has gone, and to make us hope for the other which
is to come; the old tragedy is wrought within a circuit of a few feet
and the reach of a few hearts. Oh! the old fiend triumphs with the old
laugh on his dark cheek. Yes, sir, it is even so; there is nothing new
with the devil, nor nothing old, nor will there be till his neck is
fastened; but in this meanwhile of days and years of time, oh! how the
soul pants as it looks through the clouds of sorrow which rise under his
dark wing, and can see no light, save through the deep grave where lie
those once beautiful things in corruption. 'Twas the beauty did it all,
sir; the enemy cannot stand that loveliness; it makes him wild; he raves
to get between the hearts and tear them so that the sanctified temples
shall have no incense in them--nothing save the heavy odours of carrion.
My lady Lillah one day felt a drowsiness come over her; it seemed, as
Christy said, she felt only as if she had been inclined to sleep at an
unusual time; she made no complaint, but Mr. Bernard observed something
in her eye, and his watchfulness took alarm at every turn of her quiet
manner. The drowsiness increased, and then it was observed that her
pulse was slow and languid; it seemed to beat with fewer pulses every
hour, and then master became more alarmed, and Amelia could not be away
from her an instant. 'Twas strange the change which all of a sudden took
place in Miss Temple; the gay laugh which Mr. Bernard used to encourage
as a welcome light thrown on the soul of his wife was no more heard; a
pitiful sympathy took its place, and, as Christy described it, looked
like the light which we see so beautiful in the thin haze when the sun
seems to melt all through it; it was the spirit of love, sir, dissolved
in the shadows of grief. She hung over our dear lady as if she would
have poured her own spirit into her to raise the still ebbing pulses.
Nothing would stop that ebbing; the pulse would beat a little stronger
after something given to her, but never quicker. Then these long silken
eyelashes fell farther and farther down, and the voice which had ever
been all meekness, fell and fell into half whispers. At length she said
something into master's ear; and he motioned to Miss Temple to go out
for a little, but Christy remained. It was an awful moment, sir, when
she made a sign that she would speak. 'Dear Edward,' she said, as she
seemed to try to lift higher the drooping lids, 'I will never more see
the beautiful valley of the Kabarda, where stands my father's castle,
with its gardens and roses of Shiraz. Oh, strange it seems to me, as all
the things about me grow dim, the vision of those beloved scenes of my
childhood wax brighter and brighter. I hear my father's voice crying
Euphrosyne, and my mother's Lillah; my brothers and sisters take up the
cry, and the mountaineers salute the favourite daughter of their chief.
But she is here in this far land, and you, my best beloved, are there
before her. Edward, I am going to die--soon--soon. I wished the dear
Amelia away for a little--only a little--to be here again, and never to
go more. She is faithful and loving and true. Edward; listen, my love:
when I am gone, and you can forget me, take that dear girl into that
place where you treasured me--into your affections, as your wife,
Edward. The thought pleases me, for I think you will in her marry
happiness, and my life seems to ebb away in the hope that you may be
with her as you have been with me. Farewell; bring Caleb to kiss me
before I go. There is a voice in my ears; it is Allah! Allah! but it is
not listened to by the heart which whispers Jesus! the Mediator! the
Saviour!'

"And with these words in her lips she died. O, sir, had you seen
master--it was pitiful; and as for Amelia, who knew nothing of Lillah's
words, she kept weeping till her eyes were inflamed. But the grief was
everywhere throughout Redcleugh. It seemed as if some dreadful fate had
befallen the whole household; gloom--gloom and sadness all about--in
every face--in every heart; for never was a daughter of Scotland
beloved as was this dear lady of the far east; and I think somehow
it was her having died so far away from the land of her kindred that
softened the hearts of the people, and made them take on as I never saw
servants take on for a mistress. 'Twould be a sharp eye, sir, that could
distinguish now, in the vault of death's croft, the grey ashes of the
beautiful Circassian from the dust of the Bernards--ay, or that of my
poor Christian Dempster! It was now a long dark night to the house of
Redcleugh, but the longest night is at last awakened by a sun in the
morning. Mr. Bernard--always a moody man--scarcely opened his mouth for
months and months. He was like a tree, that stands erect after being
blasted--it may move by the winds, but the sun has no warmth for it, and
there is nothing inside or at the root to give it life. They say that
when a beloved wife dies, it is to the husband like the sun going away
out of the firmament, and that by-and-by she appears as a pale moon. Ay,
sir; everything here is full of change. Mr. Bernard's moon had no waning
in it, till he began to catch the echoes of Miss Amelia's voice as he
wandered among the woods. It was the grey dawn of another sun, and the
sun rose and rose, promising to gild the east again with its glory. The
long burden was taken off Amelia. Her laugh began again to enliven
Redcleugh, when she saw that Mr. Bernard was able to bear it. Then,
sir, to bear it was to begin to love it, for it was the most infectious
joyfulness that ever gladdened man's ears. The change, once begun, went
on; he hung upon her voice as if it had been music. Every laugh shook
him out of his long misery--it appeared to be to him like new life
running along the nerves of the old dead tabernacle. So might one think
of a man in the desert, as he looks down into the well, with the
reflection of the sun in it; the water is drunk in living light; he
shakes off all the horrors of his long-borne thirst, and rises renewed
and glad. It was pitiful--yea, it was pleasant too--to see how he
followed her, gazed at her, listened to her, just as if he were always
praying her, for mercy's sake, to give him some more of that medicine
of his spirit. But, perhaps, he never would have thought of marrying
Amelia, but for the parting words of Lillah. Christy, in her curious
way, said that it was Lillah's moon that lighted him on to the rising of
the new sun of Amelia; and as Christy wanted this new match, for the
sake of saving, as she thought, the life of our master--it was strange
enough that she saw no omens now save good ones; for was it not a good
one, that every living thing about Redcleugh looked as joyful as Amelia
herself? A wonderful work this world, sir! No magician could have worked
a greater wonder than the scene of that marriage after the scene of that
deathbed; yet it delighted me to see old Redcleugh all in a blaze again,
and to go down into the old catacombs for the old-crusted vintages.
Bless your heart!--it was just like the beginning of a new term of
life to me. Then the memory of Lillah threw no shade over the scene of
enjoyment, for we all knew that if her spirit were not hovering over her
beloved Circassia, it would be here looking down on the fulfilment of
her dying wish."

Here Francis drew breath, as if to prepare himself for something much
more wonderful. It may easily be conceived that he had enlisted my
sympathy, as well by the facts of his story, as his manner of telling
it; and as one turns to the woodcut of a tale to get his impressions
enlivened or verified, I felt a desire to see again, by the light of a
candle, the face of the second wife. Francis gratified me by getting
another candle, lighting it, and holding it up full in the face of
Amelia.

"'Twas all well for Redcleugh for a time," he resumed, "save for me, who
lost my dear Christy shortly after Mira was born. That's she there, sir,
as I have told you, alongside of my lady Amelia. When the grief was
still heavy upon me, I was surprised by an almost sudden change in Mr.
Bernard. I had gone up in the morning, expecting to find him in his
dressing-room, which, as you see, enters as well from the lobby as by a
door from the parlour, where breakfast was served. As I proceeded along
the passage, I saw my lady hurrying away, with her handkerchief over her
eyes, and her right hand held up, as if she were addressing Heaven; then
deep sobs came from her, and a groan, which burst from the heart as she
turned away into the west angle, sounded through the long lobbies and
corridors. Master was not in his dressing-room. I heard his voice
calling me from his bed-room, and I started at the sound, so unlike his
utterance--so deep, heart-ridden, and agonized. On entering, I found him
in his morning gown, sitting in that chair; his head thrown back, and
his eyes fixed on my lady Lillah's portrait. It seemed, also, as if
Amelia could not rest in the room in the west angle, where I thought I
had seen her hurrying. Her foot was distinctly heard as she passed again
along the lobby, which stretches along to the east tower, and passes
this room, where my master and I were. A succession of groans followed,
and died away as she receded. Mr. Bernard was too much occupied by some
heart-stupefying thought to heed these sounds, and I stood before him
not knowing what to say, far less what to do. At length he held up his
hands, and placing one on my arm, said, in a voice which seemed the
sound of one choking:--

"'Francis, you are an old friend, not a servant--not now at least. I
trust you. The house of Redcleugh is doomed, nor shall a Bernard be ever
again happy within its walls.'

"'What is wrong, master?' I inquired.

"'The core,' said he; 'the master's heart. I must go to the East again.
There may be peace there for me; here, in my father's house, there is
none. But what shall become of Caleb and Mira?'

"My heart was too full to answer, and still Amelia's groans came from
the passages, changing and changing, like the voice of a restless
spirit. My master rose, and, folding his arms, paced along the room. His
brow was knit tight as the muscles would draw. He seemed to contract his
arms, as if to compress his heart--nor did a word escape from him. A
thought seized me, that, like the older Bernards, he was under a fit of
alienation. I made for the door, to seek my lady Amelia, and even in her
agonies to consult her what was to be done. My master seized me sharply
by the arm.

"'Whither going?' he said.

"'For my lady,' replied I.

"'For Amelia?' he said--'for the murderer of my Lillah, my first love,
my angel?'

"I stood petrified, the word 'murderer' twittering on my shaking lips in
fragments.

"'Yes,' he said, 'come in, come in--bolt that door; the other is
already cared for. Francis, you know how my Lillah died; there was no
disease--she slept away as a drugged victim. Now, listen. During this
last night I was awoke by the restlessness of Amelia. I heard her leave
my side, and rise from the bed'--that on which you are now lying.--'The
rush-light burned on the mantelpiece, and I could see my wife, as she
rose and began to pace the floor. I called out gently, "Amelia;" but
got no answer. Her eyes, I saw, were fixed; and she moved her arms,
as if she were addressing some imaginary being. I concluded she was
sleep-walking, and immediately she began to speak, as she paced
backwards and forwards. Part of what she said I lost, but I could join
together enough for conviction.

"'"She stood between me and my love," she said, as she stopped for a
moment, laying one hand upon another, "and it was necessary she should
be put out of the way. A Grierson was never a waverer when a deed of
blood was to be done." "How did you do it?" "How did I do it? Poison! I
made her sleep the long sleep, which the sun never breaks, nor the moon,
nor time." "What poison did you say?" "The sleepy poison. I made for her
a draught, that I might draw the sweet life away; and"--

"'She stopped and laughed, as a sleep-walker laughs--hollow and distant.

"'"And get into the _Temple_ she occupied. Was you still kind to her
while you watched the effect of your draught?" "Was I, did you say? Yes,
very kind. Oh! I nursed her dying spirit, that he might think me a
ministering angel to his wife, whom I wanted to succeed. He was
deceived. Yes, yes; simple fool, he was deceived. Ay, and not deceived,
for I loved him."

"'She began to walk again to and fro, sometimes slowly, sometimes
quickly, then of a sudden turned and stood--"She was fair," she
continued, as she kept looking at the wall; "but so am I. He got as good
a bargain in me as in her." Then she made devious movements, turning and
returning, muttering to herself, but so thickly that I only caught words
much disjointed--"Remorse!--yes, yes!--no, no!--not till I am to be
hanged; but that cannot be; no one saw me. Say nothing, nothing!--mix
the draught--away to bed. 'Tis late, late! and I am cold."

"'She came to bed, Francis, cold and shivering. My mind began to regain
some form of thinking, after having been tossed about by the effect of
her horrible monologue, or rather part of a dialogue. The conviction was
instant, unavoidable, and certain. I never thought of awakening her to
question her, but lay distant from her as from a reptile. I slept none.
In the morning she turned to kiss me. I drew back my head in horror,
and saw that she too was horrified at my manner. I bade her begone for a
murderer, and, committed thus by my agony, told her she had confessed
the whole story in a fit of somnambulism. Then she flew from me, crying
she was innocent, tearing her hair in good acting--and there she walks
by the passages under the sting of her guilt. Oh! she dare not face me,
even were I to allow a meeting, which I wont. Francis, I am convinced.'

"My master," continued Francis, addressing me as I lay listening and
thinking of the old brochure, "was always moody, as I have said--ay, and
crotchety; no one had any power to drive from him a settled opinion or
resolution. After I had listened to him I said--

"'Master, permit me, your poor servant, to say that this is not evidence
on which I would beat a dog.'

"'I am convinced,' he replied sternly and unkindly, and he moved his
hand as a sign that I should leave him. I retreated, grieved to the
heart, for I knew master's nature. When I got to the top of the stair, I
saw my lady beckoning me from the door of the library. I went to her.

"'Francis,' she said, as she shut the door, 'what is this? Has my
husband told you anything?'

"'All,' I replied. 'He has recounted to me some strange words uttered by
you in your sleep, from which he infers that you poisoned my lady
Lillah.'

"'Repeat them--repeat them,' she said hurriedly.

"I did so, and when I mentioned the name Grierson, she seemed to
brighten a little. O how she hung upon my words!

"'Francis,' she said, 'I may be saved. You may help me. Some nights
ago I was occupied in reading the history of Jane Grierson--a little
pamphlet which you will find in the drawer of the escritoire, in
the dressing-room. There is the key. That story is the story I had
recounted in my sleep. Go get the book, and bring it to me. That will
save me, and nothing but that will save me.'

"'God be praised,' I ejaculated, and then hurried with all speed to get
the book. I searched the escritoire; it was not there. I examined other
drawers with no better success. At length I returned to my lady, and
reported my failure. Without saying a word she hurried away from me,
rushed along the lobby, and entered the parlour opening into the
dressing-room. Not doubting her word, and agitated by the hope of all
being thus satisfactorily explained when the book should be got, I flew
to my master's room through the door from the passage.

"'It is all explainable,' I cried, as I entered.

"'Indeed!' answered Mr. Bernard satirically.

"'My lady was some nights ago reading the story of Jane Grierson,' said
I, 'and her sleep-walking conversation was only a repetition of the
story.'

"'Grierson, Grierson!' cried my master, as he rose frantically, and
placed his hand on his forehead. 'Yes, yes! she mentioned the word. I
have never thought of that. Yes! yes! show me that book, and I shall be
satisfied.'

"I ran immediately to the door leading to the dressing-room, where I
heard my lady searching. Master had shut it. He opened it for me by the
key which he held in his hand, and locked it as I passed out. It seemed
he wanted no interview till the book should be got. Amelia was there,
searching and searching, trembling and sighing.

"'What means this?' she ejaculated, as she proceeded--then paused. 'I
must have placed it in the trunk, from whence I took it;' and she rushed
away to the room where the trunks lay, which she had brought with her to
Redcleugh.

"'Twas all in vain. That book could not be got, sir. That book was never
found. No copy of it could be procured. The loss of that book was the
ruin of the house of Redcleugh."

"There it is," said I, holding up the tattered brochure to the wondering
eyes of the old butler.

"Gracious Heaven!" cried the old man. "Yet not gracious--too late, too
late!" and he staggered, like one who is drunk. "Mr. Bernard is dead."

"And Amelia is mad," said I, sorrowfully.

"Yes, mad," said he, as he still gazed on the brochure, and turned it
over and over with trembling hands.

"But how did you come to get this," he inquired.

I told him, and he rose and hastened to the escritoire to examine it,
and satisfy himself of the truth of my statement.

"When that book could not be found, sir," he resumed when he came back,
"my master put his resolution into effect. He placed his children with
Mr. Gordon, one of his trustees, executed a settlement, and went to the
East. My lady Amelia never saw him from that morning, but he left word
with me, that if the pamphlet was found in the house, he should be made
acquainted with it through his trustee, Mr. Gordon. But, ah! sir, that
never happened, in God's mysterious providence; and now my poor Lady
Amelia could receive no advantage from this proof of her innocence. I
have heard from her own lips, before her reason gave way, that she was
the grand-daughter of Jane Grierson and Mr. Temple, and that was the
reason why she came to have this little book. The story haunted her, yet
she read it; while, at the same time, she concealed her possession of
it, and her connection with the parties."

Francis now left me, and if I had little inclination to sleep before, I
had less now. All the strange incidents of the story seemed to revolve
round myself; though my part in it seemed merely the result of chance, I
appeared to myself somehow as a directly-appointed agent for working
out some design of Providence. Yet what I was required to do I did not
know. I cogitated and recogitated, and came to no conclusion as to how I
should act; only I saw no great benefit in the meantime in endeavouring
to make any use of the pamphlet for the purpose of recovering the
aberrant reason of the poor lady. At length I fell asleep, and next
morning awoke to the strange recollections of what had occurred so
shortly before. I saw Amelia again; she was depressed and moody; the
fiend within her was dormant, but its weight pressed on the issues of
thought, and her vacant stare told unutterable woe.

I left Redcleugh without much hope, intending to pay another visit
shortly afterwards. About three or four days after reaching home, a
letter came to me from Francis, inclosing one from Mr. Gordon, the
latter of which contained the intelligence that there had been some
mistake as to the report of Mr. Bernard's death. A gentleman of the same
name had died at Aleppo, but the master of Redcleugh was still alive. A
gleam of the sunshine of hope darted through my mind. The dark images of
the story were illumined--even the figure of that poor lady enshrined in
the gloom of sorrow became bright with lustrous, meaning, intelligent
eyes. Within an hour I had a letter posted for Mr. Gordon, informing him
of the finding of the pamphlet, and requesting him to send for Mr.
Bernard by an express messenger.

In the meanwhile I visited Mrs. Bernard regularly, though the distance
was much beyond my usual journeys. Some parts of the intelligence were
broken to her through the medium of Francis, but without any marked
result, if exacerbations were not more frequent, ending in deeper
depression; as if a wild hope had risen and died away in the absence of
anything visible or tangible to justify it to the erring but suspicious
judgment of the victim of despair. Other preparations were made; the
old servants recalled; and Francis was glorying in the prospect of a
restoration of the old ways, if not the very continuation of that broken
happiness of which he was so full. At length Mr. Bernard arrived, along
with Caleb and Mira. Mr. Gordon was along with them, and I was sent for.
We were all assembled without Mrs. Bernard being aware of our presence
in the house. I counselled caution, and Mira was introduced to the
mother alone; but the child retreated under the fear of a scream which
might betoken either joy or despair; nor did her mother ask for her
again--a strange circumstance, and not of good omen; but we behoved to
persevere, and Mr. Bernard himself, accompanied by Mr. Gordon and me,
presented ourselves before her. Was there ever a meeting under such
circumstances? The husband clasped the unconscious wife to his bosom. I
stood to watch the effect of an act which I considered precipitate, if
not imprudent. The moment she felt herself in the arms of her husband
she struggled to release herself, uttered the loudest scream I ever
heard from her, and fell in a swoon upon the floor. That swoon gave me
hopes, for in confirmed madness we do not often find that moral causes
working on the mind show any power over the body. When she recovered,
and was placed in a chair, she panted for breath, like one choking; and
waving her hands and grasping convulsively the clothes of those next to
her, seemed as if she were testing the reality of all these appearances,
as things new and wonderful and incredible. I then held out to her the
pamphlet, in all its tattered condition. The effect was extraordinary.
She clutched it with such an intensity of grasp that she crumpled it all
up, and then tried with trembling hands to undo the crushed leaves, some
of which fell at her feet. I watched the rise of the natural expression
of wonder struggling through the look of insanity; but I could discover
no joy, only something like fear. I still augured favourably. She was
laid upon her bed, and in about an hour afterwards fell into a troubled
sleep. A day passed, yet amid my hopes I could see nothing on which I
could absolutely rely as an undoubted sign of a favourable change, till
on the evening of the second day, when she burst into a flood of tears.
I had Mr. Bernard at her side at the end of this paroxysm, and in a very
short time she was hanging upon his neck, sobbing like a child who is
reconciled to its mother.

Under a date some six months after these indications of Amelia's
convalescence, I find a note in my diary, "Dined at Redcleugh with
Mr. and Mrs. Bernard; the invalid restored, and again the object
of her husband's affection; the butler once more the pride of his
major-domoship; the old Burgundy produced and declared better than ever;
heard that musical laugh which once charmed Mr. Bernard from the depth
of his sorrow, as it now mingled, like a fluid, with the glory of a
summer sun shining through the green blinds, and spread joy throughout
the old house of Redcleugh."




THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN.


When I was a boy, I used to pass the summer vacation in the Isle
of Bute, where my father had a small cottage, for the convenience
of sea-bathing. I enjoyed my sea-side visits greatly, for I was
passionately fond of boating and fishing and, before I was sixteen, had
become a fearless and excellent swimmer. From morning till night, I was
rambling about the beach, or either sailing upon or swimming in the
beautiful Frith. I was a prime favourite among the fishermen, with most
of whom I was on familiar terms, and knew them all by name. Among their
number was one man who particularly attracted my attention, and excited
my curiosity. He was civil and obliging, though distant and reserved in
his manners, with a shade of habitual melancholy on his countenance,
which awakened my sympathy, at the same time that his "bearing," which
was much above his station, commanded my respect. He _appeared_ to be
about sixty years of age; particularly prepossessing in his appearance;
and his language and demeanour would have done honour to any rank of
society. I felt involuntarily attracted towards him, and took every
opportunity of showing my wish to please and become better acquainted
with him; but in vain. He seemed gratified by my attentions; but I made
no nearer approach to his confidence. He went, among his companions, by
the name of "Gentleman Douglas;" but they appeared to be as ignorant of
the particulars of his history as myself. All they knew of him was, that
he had come among them a perfect stranger, some years before, no one
knew from whence; that he seemed to have some means of support
independent of his boat; and that he was melancholy, silent, and
reserved--as much as possible avoiding all communication with his
neighbours. These particulars only served to whet my boyish curiosity,
and I determined to leave no means untried to penetrate to the bottom of
Douglas' mystery. Let me do myself justice, however: my eagerness to
know his history proceeded from an earnest desire to soothe his sorrow,
whatever it might be, and to benefit him in any way in my power. Day
after day I used to stroll down to the beach, when he was preparing to
get his boat under way, and volunteer to pull an oar on board. At first
he seemed annoyed by my officiousness; and, though he always behaved
with civility, showed, by his impatient manner, that he would rather
dispense with my company; but the constant dripping of water will wear
away a stone, and hard indeed must be the heart that will not be
softened by unremitting kindness. My persevering wish to please him
gradually produced the desired effect--he _was_ pleased, and evinced it
by his increasing cordiality of manner, and by the greater interest
he seemed to take in all my movements. In a short time we became
inseparables, and his boat hardly ever left the shore without me. My
father was not at all adverse to my intimacy with Douglas; he knew him
to be a sober, industrious man, and one who bore an irreproachable
moral character; and as he was anxious that I should strengthen my
constitution as much as possible in the sea-breeze, he thought I could
not roam about under safer or less objectionable protection. On a
further acquaintance with Douglas, I found him a most agreeable
companion; for, when his reserve wore off, his conversation was amusing
and instructive; and he had tales to tell of foreign lands and of
distant seas, which he described with that minuteness and closeness
which only a personal acquaintance with them could have produced. Often,
in the course of his narration, his eye would brighten and his cheek
glow with an emotion foreign to his usual calm and melancholy manner;
and then he would suddenly stop, as if some sound he had uttered had
awakened dark memories of the past, and the gloom clouded his brow
again, his voice trembled, and his cheek grew pale. These sudden
transitions alarmed and surprised me; my suspicions were excited, and I
began to imagine that the man must have been guilty of some unknown and
dreadful crime, and that conscience was at such times busy within him.
Douglas must have observed my changing manner; but it made little
alteration in his demeanour towards myself.

"What is the matter, Douglas?" said I, one day, when I observed him
start and turn pale at some casual observation of mine.

"Do not indulge a vain and idle curiosity, Master Charles, at the
expense of another's feelings," replied he, gravely and mournfully, "nor
endeavour to rake up the ashes of the past. The heart knows its own
bitterness: long may yours be a stranger to sorrow! I have observed,
with pain, that you, as others have done, begin to look upon me with
suspicion. Be satisfied with the assurance, that I have no crimes
needing concealment, to reproach myself with; and the sorrows of age
should be sacred in the eyes of youth."

I was humbled by the old man's reproof, and hastened to express my
concern for having hurt his feelings.

"Enough said, enough said, Mr. Charles," said he; "curiosity is natural
at your age, and I am not surprised at your wishing, like some of your
elders, to learn the cause of the melancholy which hangs over me like a
cloud darkening the path of life, and embittering all its pleasures. At
some future time I will tell you the reason why you see me what I am;
but I cannot now--the very thought of it unmans me."

Time wore on; every year I returned to the sea-side during the summer,
and was always welcomed with unaffected cordiality by my old ally,
Douglas. I was now a strapping youth of nineteen, tall and powerful of
my age--thanks to the bracing sea-air and constant exercise. One day
Douglas told me he was going over to Largs, and asked if I would
accompany him.

"With all my heart," said I; and in ten minutes we were standing across
the Frith with a fine steady breeze. We were close over to the Ayrshire
coast, when a sudden puff of wind capsized the boat, and we were both
thrown into the water. When I rose to the surface again, after my
plunge, I looked around in vain for Douglas, who had disappeared. He
had on a heavy pea-jacket, and I was at first afraid the weight and
encumbrance of it must have sunk him; but, on second thoughts, I dived
under the boat, and found him floundering about beneath the sail, from
whence I succeeded with great difficulty in extricating him. He was
quite exhausted, and it required all my strength to support him to the
gunnel of the boat. After hanging on there some time, to recover breath,
we swam together to the beach, which was not far distant. When we
landed, he seated himself on a large stone, and remained silent for some
time, with his face buried in his hands.

"Douglas," said I, wondering at his long silence, "are you hurt?"

To my great surprise I heard low sobs, and saw the tears trickling
between his fingers. Thinking that he was grieved at the loss of his
boat, I said--

"Cheer up, man! If the boat be lost, we will manage among us to get
another for you."

"'Tisn't the boat, sir, 'tisn't the boat; we can soon raise _her_ again:
it is your kindness that has made a fool of me."

He then looked up in my face, and, drying his glistening cheek with one
hand, he shook mine long and heartily with the other.

"Mr. Charles, before I met you, I thought I was alone in the world;
shunned by most around me as a man of mystery. Because I could not join
in their rude sports and boisterous merriment, they attributed my
reserve and visible dejection to sinister causes--possibly to some
horrible and undiscovered crime." A blush here flitted across my
countenance; but Douglas did not remark it. "Young, and warm, and
enthusiastic, _you_ sought me out with different feelings; you were
attracted towards me by pity, and by a generous desire to relieve my
distress. It was not the mere impulse of a moment; your kindness has
been constant and unwavering--and now you have crowned all by saving
my life. I hardly know whether or not to thank you for what was so
worthless to myself; but I _do_ thank you from the bottom of my heart
for the friendly and generous feeling which actuated you. You shall know
the cause of the sorrow that weighs upon my heart; I would not that one
to whom I owe so much should look upon me with the slightest shade of
suspicion. I think, when you know my story, you will pity and sympathize
with me; but you will judge less harshly, I doubt not, than I do of
myself."

"Do not call up unnecessary remembrances, which harrow your feelings,
Douglas. That I have often thought there is mystery about you, I will
not deny; but only once did the possibility of a cause of guilt flash
across my mind. That unworthy suspicion has long past, and I am now
heartily ashamed of myself for having harboured it for a moment. But we
are forgetting the boat; we must try to get assistance to right her."

We soon fell in with one of the fishermen on the coast, with whose
assistance she was speedily righted and baled out; and, after having
done what we came for at Largs we returned homewards.

"Meet me to-morrow at ten o'clock, Mr. Charles," said Douglas, as he
grasped my hand at parting, "and you shall then hear my story, and judge
whether or not I have cause to grieve."

At the appointed hour next morning I hastened to the rendezvous. The
fisherman was already there, waiting for me.

"I daresay you are surprised to see me here so soon," said he; "but
now that I have determined to make you my confidant, I feel eager to
disburden my mind, and to seek relief from my sorrows in the sympathy of
one whom I am so proud to call my friend.

"I was not always in the humble station in which you now see me,
Mr. Stewart; but, thank Heaven! it was no misconduct of my own that
occasioned the change. My father was an English clergyman, whose
moderate stipend denied to his family the luxuries of life; but we had
reason to acknowledge the truth of the wise man's saying, that 'a dinner
of herbs, where love is, is better than more sumptuous fare where that
love is not'. We were a united and a happy family, contented with the
competence with which Providence had blessed us, and pitying, not
envying, those who, endowed with greater wealth, were exposed to
greater temptations. Oh! those happy, happy days! It sometimes almost
maddens me, Mr. Stewart, to compare myself, as I am now, with what I
was then. Every morning I rose with a light and happy heart, exulting
in the sunbeam that awakened me with its smile, and blessing, in the
gladfulness of youthful gratitude, the gracious Giver of light and life.
My heart overflowed with love to all created beings. I could look back
without regret, and the future was bright with hope. And now, what am I?
A broken-hearted man, but still, after all my sufferings, grateful to
the hand which has chastened me. I can picture the whole family grouped
on a summer evening, now, Mr. Stewart, as vividly as a sight of
yesterday, though fifty years have cast their dark shadows between. My
mother, seated beside her work-table under the neat verandah in front of
our cottage, encouraging my sisters, with her sweet smile and gentle
voice, in the working of their first sampler; my father, seated with his
book, under the shade of his favourite laburnum tree; while my brother
and I were trundling our hoops round the garden, shouting with boyish
glee; and my little fair-haired cousin, Julia, tottering along with her
little hands extended, to catch the butterfly that tempted her on from
flower to flower. My brother Henry was two years younger than myself,
and was at the time I speak of a remarkably handsome, active boy, of ten
years of age--full of fun and mischief, unsteady and volatile. My father
found considerable difficulty in confining Henry's attention to his
studies; for, though uncommonly quick and intelligent, he wanted
patience and application. He could not bear the drudgery of poring over
musty books. He used to say to me--'How I should like to be an officer,
a gallant naval officer, to lead on my men through fire and smoke to
victory!' And then the little fellow would wave his hand, while the
colour flushed his cheeks, and shout--'Come on! come on!' He had,
somehow or other, got possession of an old naval chronicle; and from
that moment his whole thoughts were of ships and battles, and his
principal amusement was to launch little fleets of ships upon the pond
at the bottom of the garden. My father, though mild and indulgent in
other matters, was a strict disciplinarian in education; and often did I
save Henry from punishment by helping him with his exercises and other
lessons. Dearly did I love my gallant, high-spirited little brother; and
he looked up to me with equal fondness.

"I will not weary you with details, but at once jump over the next twelve
years of my life. The scene was now greatly changed at the parsonage.
Death had been busy among its inmates; a contagious disorder had carried
off my mother and sisters, and my poor father was left alone in his old
age--not alone, for Julia was still with him. I forgot to say before,
that she was the orphan daughter of his elder brother. Julia, at
sixteen, was beautiful. I will not attempt to describe her, although
every feature, every expression of her lovely countenance, is vividly
pictured in my heart. She was its light, its pride, its hope. Alas!
alas! she had grown up like a sweet flower beside me, and, from her
infancy, had clung to me with a sister's confidence, and more than a
sister's affection. Was it wonderful that I loved her? Yes, I loved
her fondly and devotedly; and I soon had the bliss of knowing that my
affection was returned. I had been for some time at college, studying
for the church, when a distant relation died, and left me a comfortable
competency. My father now consented with pleasure to my union with
Julia; and a distant day was fixed for the marriage, to enable my
brother Henry to be present. He had been abroad for some time in the
merchant service, and his constant employment had prevented his visiting
home for many years; but he had written to say that he expected now to
have a long holiday with us. At length he returned, and great was my
joy at meeting my beloved brother once more. He was a fine, handsome,
manly-looking fellow--frank and boisterous in his manner, kind and
generous in his disposition, but the slave of passion and impulse. In
a week after his return, he became dull and reserved, and every one
remarked the extraordinary change that had come over him. My father and
I both thought that our quiet and monotonous life wearied and disgusted
him, and that he longed for the more bustling scenes to which he had
been accustomed. "Come, Harry!" said I to him one day, "cheer up, my
boy! we shall be merry enough soon: you must lay in a fresh stock of
spirits; Julia will quarrel with you if you show such a melancholy phiz
at our wedding." He turned from me with impatience, and, rushing out
into the garden, I saw no more of him that day. I was hurt and surprised
by his manner, and hastened to express my annoyance to Julia. She
received me with less than her usual warmth, blushed when I talked of my
brother, and soon left me on some trifling pretext. My father had gone
to visit a neighbouring clergyman, at whose house he was taken suddenly
and alarmingly ill. I hastened to his bedside, and found him in such a
precarious state, that I determined upon remaining near him. I therefore
despatched a messenger to Julia, informing her of my intention, and
intimating that it would be necessary to postpone our marriage, which
was to have taken place in the course of a week, until my father's
recovery. In answer to my letter, I received a short and hurried reply,
merely acquiescing in the propriety of my movements, and without any
expression of regret at my lengthened absence. Surprised at the
infrequency and too apparent indifference of Julia's answers to the long
and impassioned letters which I almost daily wrote to her, alarmed at
the long interval which had elapsed since I last heard from her, and
fearing that illness might have occasioned her silence, I left my
father, who was rapidly recovering, and hastened home. When I arrived at
the parsonage, I walked into the drawing-room; but as neither Julia nor
my brother was there, I concluded they were out walking, and, taking a
book, I sat down, impatiently waiting their return. Some time having
elapsed, however, without their making their appearance, I rang the
bell; and our aged servant, on entering, started at seeing me there.

"La, sir!" said she, "I did'nt expect to see _you_!"

"Where are Miss Julia and my brother?"

"Why, la, sir! I was just agoing to ask _you_. Miss Julia had a letter
from you about a week ago, and she and Mr. Henry went off in a poshay
together next day. They said they would be back to-day."

I said not a word in reply, but buried my face in my folded arms on the
table, while the cold perspiration flowed over my brow, and my heart
sickened within me, as the fatal truth by degrees broke upon me.

"Fool, fond fool, that I was, to have been so long blind!" muttered I;
"but it cannot be!--Julia!--_my_ Julia!--no, no!" And I almost cursed
myself for the unworthy suspicion. But why dwell longer upon these
moments of agony? My first surmise was a correct one. In a week's time
all was known. My brother, my brother Harry, for whom I would have
sacrificed fortune, life itself, had betrayed my dearest trust, and had
become the husband of her I had fondly thought my own. The blow was too
sudden and overpowering; I sunk beneath it. My reason became unsettled,
and for several months I was unconscious of my own misery. I awoke to
sense, an altered man. My heart was crushed, my very blood seemed to be
turned into gall; I hated my kind, and resolved to seclude myself for
ever from a world of falsehood and ingratitude. The only tie which could
have reconciled me to life had been wrenched away from me during my
unconsciousness: my brother's misconduct had broken my father's heart,
and I was left alone in the world. I paid one sad visit to my father's
grave, shed over it bitter tears of sorrow and disappointment, and from
that hour to this I have never seen the home in which I passed so many
happy days. Some months afterwards, I received a letter from a friend
residing in Wales, of a very extraordinary nature, requiring me
instantly to visit him, and stating that he had something of importance
to communicate to me. I knew the writer, and confided in him; he had
known my misfortune, and wept with me over the loss of my Julia and of
my father. I hastened to him on the wings of expectation, and, when I
arrived, was taken by him into an inner apartment of his house, with an
air of secrecy and mystery.

"Have you yet recovered from the effects of your misfortunes?" said he.
"I have often reflected on your extraordinary fate, and pitied you from
the innermost recesses of my soul. Would you believe it? I have in store
for you an antidote against the grief of your ruined affections; but I
will not say a medicine for your pain, or a balm for your sorrow."

"For a broken heart," said I, "there is no cure in this world."

He looked at me, and wept.

"Dress yourself in this suit of my mournings," he said, "and accompany
me whither I will lead you."

I gazed at him in amazement; but he left me to put on the weeds, and to
torture myself with vain thoughts.

He returned and called me out. I followed him. We went some little
distance, and joined a funeral that was slowly proceeding to the
burying-ground. My confusion prevented me from looking at the time to
see who was chief mourner. I proceeded with the mourners, and soon stood
on the brink of the grave. When the pall was taken off, and the coffin
lowered down into the earth, my eye caught the inscription on the plate;
it was--"J. M., aged 20." "So young!" muttered I; and at the same moment
I glanced at the chief mourner. He had withdrawn his handkerchief from
his face. Our eyes met--he turned deadly pale, and made a motion as if
to leave the ground; but I sprang forward, almost _shrieking_ "Henry!"
and detained him. I looked in his face. Oh, what a change was there! His
eye quailed beneath the cold, steady, withering glance of mine. I felt
that he read the meaning of that glance, for he absolutely writhed
beneath it.

"Do not revile me, brother," murmured he; "the hand of Heaven has been
heavy upon me; my crime has already met with its punishment. Oh, my
poor, poor Julia!"

"Where, where is she?" wildly exclaimed I. He pointed to the new-made
grave?

Oh, the bitterness of that hour! We wept--the betrayer and the betrayed
wept together over the grave of their buried hopes. I arose calm and
collected. "Brother," said I, giving him my hand, "my animosity shall be
buried with her; may your own heart forgive you as freely as I do the
injury you have done me! But we must never meet more." And, with slow
steps and aching heart, I turned and left the spot.

I received a letter from Henry some time afterwards, from one of the
outports, telling me that he was just on the point of leaving England
for ever, and imploring my forgiveness in the most touching terms, "for
the sake of our early days, the happy years of our boyhood." Those early
days--those happy days!--my heart softened towards him as I thought of
them. Sorely as he had wronged me, he was my brother still, and I felt
that I could, if permitted, clasp him to my heart once more.

Weary of life, and tired of the world, I dragged on a miserable
existence for some time, in a secluded situation on the shores of
Cornwall; but, by degrees, the monotony of my sedentary and recluse life
wearied me. I began to associate with the poor fishermen around me, and,
in a short time, became enthusiastically fond of their perilous and
exciting mode of life. The sea became to me quite a 'passion'--my mind
had found a new channel for its energies; and when, a short time
afterwards, I lost my little fortune through the mismanagement or
villany of my agent, I took staff in hand, and, hastening to Liverpool,
boldly launched into life again as a common seaman, on board a merchant
vessel bound to the West Indies.

I had toiled on for several years as a common seaman, during which time
I attracted the notice of my captain, by my indefatigable attention to
the duties of my station, and by the reckless indifference with which I
lavished my strength, and often risked my life, in the performance of
them.

"Douglas" (for that was the name which I had assumed), "Douglas," said
the captain to me one day, after I had been particularly active during a
heavy gale we encountered, "I must try if I cannot do something for you;
your activity and energy entitle you to promotion. I will speak to the
owners when we return, and endeavour to procure you a mate's berth." I
thanked him, and went forward again to my duty. A few days afterwards,
we were going along with a strong beaming wind; there was a high sea
running, every now and then throwing a thick spray over the weather
bulwarks; the hands were at dinner, and I was just coming up to relieve
the man at the wheel; there was no one on deck but the mate of the
watch, and the captain, who was standing on the weather bulwark, shaking
the backstays, to feel if they bore an equal strain: all at once the
ship gave a heavy weather lurch, the captain lost his footing, and was
overboard in a moment. I instantly sprang aft, cut away the life-buoy,
and knowing that he was but an indifferent swimmer, jumped overboard
after him. As I said before, the sea was running high, and a few minutes
elapsed before I caught sight of him, rising on the crest of a wave, at
some distance from me. I saw he could not hold out long; for he was
over-exerting himself, shouting and raising his hand for assistance, and
his face was pale as death. I struck out desperately towards him, and
shouted, when I got near him, "Keep up your heart, sir; be cool; don't
attempt to lay hold of me, and, please God, I will save you yet." My
advice had the desired effect, and restored his self-possession; he
became more cool and collected, and with occasional support from me,
contrived to reach the life-buoy. In the meantime, all was confusion on
board the ship; the second mate of the watch, a young hand, in the hurry
of the moment, threw the ship too suddenly up to the wind, a squall
struck her at the moment, and the foretopmast and topgallantmast went
over the side, dragging the maintopgallantmast with them. The cry of
"A man overboard!" had hurried the crew on deck, and the crash of the
falling spars, and the contradictory orders from the quarter-deck, at
first puzzled and confused them; but the _chief_ mate was a cool, active
seaman, and the moment he made his appearance order and silence were
restored; the quarter-boat was instantly lowered, numbers of the men
springing forward to volunteer to man her, for the captain was
deservedly beloved by his crew; and the rest of the hands were
immediately set to work to clear away the wreck. In a few minutes the
boat reached us, and we were safely seated in the stern sheets.

"Douglas, my gallant fellow," said the captain, shaking me cordially by
the hand, "I may thank _you_ that I am not food for the fishes by this
time. I had just resigned myself to my fate, when your voice came over
the water to me, like a messenger of hope and safety. How can I ever
repay you?"

"I am sufficiently repaid, Captain Rose, by seeing you beside me; the
only way in which you can serve me, is by giving me a lift in the way of
promotion, when we return home."

"I will, you may depend upon it," replied he; "and as long as I live,
you may apply to me as a firm and faithful friend."

I was highly gratified by this promise; for the great object of my
ambition for some time past had been to raise myself again from
obscurity into something like my former station in life. Next voyage,
through the captain's interest with the owners, I was appointed chief
mate of the Albion, Captain Rose's ship, for which I was found duly
qualified, having employed all my spare hours at sea in acquiring a
knowledge of the theory of navigation. Captain Rose was like a brother
to me, introducing me to his family and friends as the saver of his
life, and making quite a _lion_ of me in Liverpool. We sailed in company
with a large fleet, under convoy of three frigates and two sloops of
war, and had been some time at sea when a heavy gale of wind came on one
afternoon, which completely dispersed the convoy. When it commenced
there were nearly two hundred sail in sight; at the end of two days, we
were alone. The Albion was a beautiful vessel of her class, about four
hundred tons burden; an excellent sea-boat. We had a smart active crew,
besides a number of passengers, and were well furnished for defence, if
required; but we were now so near our port that we dreaded little
danger. However, it was necessary to be constantly on the alert, for
there were many piratical vessels in those seas, which, in spite of the
vigilance and activity of H.M. cruisers, were constantly on the watch to
pounce upon any stray merchantmen. Capt. Rose was, on the whole, rather
pleased at his separation from the convoy, as there were only one or two
other vessels, besides himself, bound to the Havannah, and he would have
been obliged to accompany the body of the fleet to Barbadoes. After we
had parted from the convoy, we made the best of our way towards Cuba.
One night, it was almost calm, but with every appearance of a coming
breeze; the moon was nearly at her full, but dark, heavy clouds were
drifting quickly over her, which almost entirely hid her from our view,
except when, at intervals, she threw from between them a broad flash
over the waters, as bright and almost as momentary as lightning gleams.
We were crawling slowly along, with all our small canvas set; the breeze
was blowing off the shore, the dark shadow of which lay like a shroud
upon the water; it was nearly eight bells in the first watch; the
captain and several of the passengers were still on deck, enjoying the
cool, delightful breeze; but their suspicious and anxious glances into
the dark shadow to windward, seemed to intimate that their conversation
over their grog that evening, which had been of the pirates that
infested those islands, and Cuba in particular, had awakened their
fears and aroused their watchfulness.

"Hark! Captain Rose," said I, "what noise is that?"

Every face was instantly turned over the weather gunwale, and in
breathless silence they all listened in the direction to which I
pointed. A low, murmuring, rippling sound was heard, and a kind of dull,
smothered, creaking noise repeated at short intervals; nothing was to be
seen, however, for all was in deep shadow in that quarter.

"Talk of the devil, and he'll show his horns, Douglas!" said the
captain. "I have not been so long at sea without being able to
distinguish the whispering of the smooth water when a sharp keel is
slipping through it, or the sound of muffled sweeps. There may be
mischief there, or there may not; but we'll be prepared for the worst.
Get the men quietly to their quarters, put an extra dose of grape into
the guns, and have all our tools ready."

Just at this moment the moonlight broke brightly through the clouds, and
showed us a small, black-looking schooner, slowly crawling out from the
shadow of the land. Her decks were apparently crowded with people, and
she had a boat towing astern. The men were soon at their quarters--and a
fine, active, spirited set of fellows they were--each armed with a
cutlass and a brace of pistols, while tomahawks and boarding pikes lay
at hand for use if required. The passengers were all likewise provided
with muskets, pistols, and cutlasses, and the servants were ready to
load spare fire-arms. We mustered about fifty in all; but there was not
a flincher among us.

"Now, my lads;" said Captain Rose to his crew, "we must have a brush
for it. I have no doubt those fellows are pirates; and if once they get
footing on this deck, I would not give a farthing for any man's life on
board. Be cool and quiet. Don't throw away a shot; remember that you are
fighting for your lives; I do not doubt your courage, but be cool and
steady!"

In the meantime, the dark hull of the schooner was gradually nearing us.

"Schooner ahoy!" shouted Captain Rose. No answer; but the sweeps dipped
faster into the water, which rippled up beneath her bow. "Schooner,
ahoy!--answer, or I'll fire!" Still no reply; but, almost immediately, a
bright sudden flash burst from her bow, and a shot came whizzing through
the mizen-rigging.

"I thought so," calmly said the captain; "be cool, my lads; we must not
throw away a shot; he's hardly within our range yet." The moon broke out
for a moment. "Now, my lads, take time, and a steady aim. Give it him!"
And flash, flash--bang, bang, went all our six carronades. The captain's
advice had not been thrown away; the aim had been cool and deliberate;
we heard the loud crashing of the sweeps as the grape-shot rattled among
them, and fell pattering into the water; and at the same time a yell
arose from the schooner, as if all the devils in hell were broke loose.
The next glimpse of moonlight showed us her foretopmast hanging over the
side.

"Well done, my fine fellows!" shouted Captain Rose, "bear a hand, and
give them another dose. We must keep them at arms' length as long as we
can." The schooner had by this time, braced up on the larboard tack, and
was standing the same way as ourselves, so as to bring her broadside to
bear upon us; and seemed to be trying to edge out of the range of our
guns.

"Oh, oh," said our gallant captain, "is that your play, old boy? You
want to pepper us at a distance: that'll never do. Starboard, my
boy!--So! steady! Now, my lads, fire way!"--And again our little bark
shook with the explosion. The schooner was not slow in returning the
compliment. One of her shot lodged in our hull and another sent the
splinters flying out of the boat on the booms. Immediately after she
fired, she stood away before the wind, and, rounding our stern at a
respectful distance, she crawled up on the other side of us, as fast
almost as if we had been at anchor, with a wish apparently to cut off
our escape in that direction. But he was playing a deeper game. A long,
dark, unbroken cloud was passing over the moon, which threw its black
shadow over the water, and partially concealed the movements of the
pirate. When it cleared away again, he was braced sharp up on the
larboard tack, standing across our bows, with the intention of raking
us.

"Starboard the helm!--Brace sharp up!--Bear a hand, my fine
fellows!"--And, before she had time to take advantage of her position,
the Albion again presented her broadside. The flash from the pirate's
guns was quickly followed by the report of ours, and we heard
immediately the loud clattering of blocks on board of her, as if some
sail had come down by the run. At this moment, I thought I heard some
strange noise astern, and, running aft, I plainly distinguished the
sound of muffled oars, and, immediately after, saw a small dark line
upon the water.

"Aft, here, small-arm men!" shouted I.

"Boat, ahoy!--Boat, ahoy!"--A loud and wild cheer rose from the boat;
and the men in her, finding that caution would no longer avail them,
evidently redoubled their efforts at their oars.

"Fire!" shouted the captain, while a blue light he had just ignited
threw a pale unearthly glare over the ship's tafferel, and showed us
our new and unexpected enemy It was the pirate's boat, which she had
dropped during the partial obscurity I spoke of, intending to board
us a-head herself, while the boat's crew attacked us astern. It was
fortunate that we happened to hear them--three minutes more and nothing
could have saved us. There was a set of the most ferocious-looking
desperadoes I had ever seen, armed to the teeth; and the boat (a large
one) was crowded with them. Deadly was the effect of our fire. Four or
five of the men at the oars were tumbled over on their faces; but their
places were instantly supplied by others, who, with loud yells for
revenge, bent desperately to their oars. In a few minutes the boat shot
up under the mizen-chains, while the bullets that were raining down upon
them from above only rendered them more desperate. The living trampled
upon the dying and the dead, in their eagerness to board; and, in a
thick swarm, the blood-thirsty scoundrels came yelling over the
bulwarks. A sharp and well-directed fire staggered them for a moment,
and sent several of them to their last account. We now threw aside the
muskets, for cutlasses and tomahawks. Hand to hand, foot to foot,
desperate and deadly was the struggle.

"Down with them, my lads!" shouted Rose. "Hew the blood-thirsty villains
to pieces. No quarter! no quarter!--show them such mercy as they would
show you!"

Short and bloody was the conflict; several of the pirates had been
killed, the deck was slippery with blood, and the rest were keeping
their ground with difficulty. I had a long and severe hand-to-hand fight
with one of them. We had each received desperate wounds, when his foot
slipped on the bloody deck. I gave him a severe stroke on the head with
a tomahawk, and, after a deadly struggle on the gangway, tumbled him
backwards overboard. The moon shone bright out at the moment, and fell
full upon his face. Merciful heaven!--my brain reeled, I staggered
against a gun, and became insensible--that face, Mr. Stewart, haunts my
dreams to this hour with its ghastly, despairing expression. It was the
long-lost Henry's--I was my brother's murderer! (Here the poor fellow
hid his face in his hands, and groaned with agony. I pitied him from my
heart; but I knew that sorrow such as his "will not be comforted" in the
moment of its strength; so I sat in silence beside him, till his first
burst of grief was over, and then I endeavoured calmly and coolly to
reason with him on the subject, and to persuade him, by all the
arguments I could think of, that he had no cause to reproach himself
with what had happened).

"It is kindly meant of you, Mr. Stewart (said he, mournfully shaking
his head), kindly meant, but in vain! I know that I was only acting
in self-defence--that it was life against life--that I was perfectly
justified, in the eyes of men, in taking the life of him who would have
taken mine--but I cannot drive that last despairing look from my memory.
I feel as if my brother's blood were crying out against my soul. O my
poor Harry! would that the blow had fallen on my head instead of
thine!--would that I had had time to tell thee how fondly I loved thee,
how freely I forgave thee!

But I beg pardon, Mr. Stewart;--I must go on with my tale. Ten of the
pirates were lying dead on the deck, and five of our poor fellows; the
bodies of the former were immediately thrown overboard, and the others
were laid side by side amidships, till we could find time to give them
Christian burial. Our last lucky shot had prevented the pirate from
carrying the other part of his scheme into effect: the moon was now
shining out full and clear, and by her light we saw that her throat
halyards had been shot away, and her main-sail was flapping over the
quarter; there were hands aloft, reaving new halyards, and busily
employed about the mast-head, as if it were crippled. "We have had
fighting enough for one bout," said Captain Rose; "we must run for it
now." Our main-top-gallant mast was hanging over the side, and our sails
were riddled with the schooner's shot; she had evidently been firing
high, to disable us, that she might carry us by boarding. We clapped on
all the sail we could, served out grog to the men, and lay down at our
quarters. We were not suffered to remain at peace long: the moment the
schooner perceived our intention, she edged away after us, and having
repaired her damage, set her main-sail again; and, as the wind was still
light, with the assistance of her remaining sweeps, came crawling up
again in-shore of us. "Scoundrels!" muttered the captain, "they will
stick to us like leeches as long as there is a drop of blood left on
board."

Again we saw the flash of her gun, and the smoke curling white in the
moonbeam. The shot told with fatal effect; our main-top-sail-yard
creaked, bent, and snapped in the slings, falling forward in two pieces.

The loud cheers of the pirate crew came faintly over the water; but our
brave fellows, nothing daunted, responded to them heartily.

"They have winged us, my lads!" said our gallant captain; "but we will
die game at all events." The men answered him with another cheer, and
swore they would go to the bottom rather than yield. We blazed away at
the schooner, but in vain; she had been severely taught to respect us;
our shot fell far short, while she, with her long metal, kept dropping
shot after shot into us with deadly precision. We tried to close with
her; but she saw her advantage, and kept it; all that we could do was to
stand steadily on, the men lying down under the shelter of the bulwarks.
A faint dull sound now fell upon our ears, like the report of a distant
gun. "Thank heaven!" said I, "our guns have spoken to some purpose; some
of the cruisers have taken the alarm." We immediately burnt a blue
light, and threw up a couple of rockets. In a few minutes a shout of
joy burst from the crew, a small glimmering star appeared in the
distance, which flickered for a moment, and then increased to a strong,
steady, glaring, light; at the same time, we heard a second report, much
nearer and clearer than before. Alarmed at the near approach of the
stranger, which was now distinctly visible, standing towards us under a
press of sail, the pirate, determined to have another brush with us,
bore up, and closed with us. But we were prepared for him; he was
evidently staggered by our warm reception; and, giving us a parting
broadside, hove round, stood in under the dark shadow of the land, and
we soon lost sight of him.

The stranger proved to be H.M. sloop Porcupine. She hove to when she
neared us, and sent a boat on board. She had heard the report of our
guns, and hastened to the scene of action, just in the very nick of time
to save us. The lieutenant complimented the captain and crew on their
gallant defence, and hastened on board the sloop again, to make his
report. The boat soon returned, with a gang of hands to assist in
repairing our damages; and on the evening of the next day, we were
safely at anchor. When the excitement of the action was over, the pain
of my wounds and the agitation of my mind brought on a violent attack of
fever. During my delirium, the vision of my dying brother was ever
before me; and in my madness I twice made an attempt upon my own life.
At length the goodness of my constitution triumphed over the violence of
my disorder; but my peace of mind was gone for ever. My worthy friend,
the captain, to whom I confided my story, did everything in his power to
rouse me from my sorrow, and to reconcile me to myself; but in vain. The
sight of my brother had recalled the vivid recollection of by-gone
scenes, which I had been for years steeling my heart to forget; my
spirit was broken, I became listless and indifferent, and no longer felt
any interest in my profession. I did my duty, to be sure; but it was
mechanically--from the force of habit. Captain Rose was ceaseless in his
kindness. When, on our return home, I expressed my determination not to
go to sea again, he represented my conduct during the action, and on
other occasions, in such glowing terms, to the owners, that they settled
a small annuity upon me, in consideration of the wounds I had received
in their service. It was with the deepest regret I took leave of my
worthy friend and captain.

"I can never forget," said he, "that, but for you, my children would
have been fatherless, my wife a widow; whenever you need the assistance
of a friend, Douglas, apply to me with as much confidence as to a
brother."

He then offered to evince his regard in a more substantial manner, which
I firmly but gratefully declined. I wrote to him afterwards, telling him
that I had settled in this neighbourhood, and requesting him to make
arrangements that my annuity might be made payable to a certain firm in
Glasgow. In reply, he wrote me a long and affectionate letter. It was
the first and last I ever had from him; he died soon afterwards. It is
now five years since I took up my abode here, and I feel the weakness
and infirmities of age creeping fast upon me. Oh! how happily will I lay
down the weary load of life!

"Douglas," said I, when he had finished his story, "you certainly have
had grievous sorrows and trials; but you have borne them nobly, except
in wilfully attaching the odium of crime to the unfortunate
circumstances of your brother's death."

"Would that I could think as you do!" said he.

We parted: and four years elapsed before we met again. I had, in
the meantime, commenced practice as a surgeon in Glasgow, and my
professional avocations kept me too constantly employed to allow of my
leaving the town. At last, after a severe attack of illness, I was
recommended to go to the sea-side for a few months; and my thoughts
immediately recurred to my old friend. I took a lodging in Rothesay, and
next morning went down to the beach, where I saw the old man just
preparing to put off.

"Here I am again, Douglas," said I.

"Sir!" replied he, looking at me at first doubtingly, for illness had
greatly reduced me. "Ah! Mr. Stewart, is that you? I thought you had
forgotten me."

"Then you did me injustice, Douglas; I have often and often regretted
that the pressure of business prevented my visiting you again. By the
by, I was reminded of you in rather an extraordinary way lately."

"How was that, sir?"

"On my way down here, a few days since, the steamer touched at Greenock.
I was standing on the quay when a poor fellow, a passenger in a vessel
just arrived, fell from the gangway, and was taken up insensible. I
immediately bled him; and, seeing that he appeared to be seriously
injured, I determined, as I had no other particular call upon my time,
to remain beside him till he recovered. I had him carried to a small
lodging in the neighbourhood, where he soon partially recovered; and,
having prescribed for him, I left him, desiring that I might be sent for
if any change took place. During the night he had a violent attack of
fever. I was sent for; when I arrived, I found him delirious; he was
raving about Cuba, and ships, and pirates, and fifty other things that
immediately recalled you to my remembrance. When he came to his senses
again--

"'Doctor! tell me the truth,' said he: 'am I not dying?'

"'No,' replied I; 'your present symptoms are favourable; everything
depends upon your keeping your mind and body quiet.'

"'Quiet mind!' muttered he, with a bitter smile on his countenance. 'It
is not that I fear death, doctor; I think I could willingly depart in
peace, if I had but been allowed time to find the person whom I came to
Scotland in search of.'

"'And who is that?'

"'A fisherman at Rothesay.'

"He mentioned the name; but at this moment I forget it. Let me see--it
was--ay, it was Ponsonby--Charles Ponsonby."

Douglas started, and turned pale.

"Ponsonby!" exclaimed he; "that was _my_ name, my father's name! Who can
he be? Perhaps some old shipmate of poor Harry's. I will go directly and
see him." And he turned as if to depart.

"Gently, gently, my friend," said I, detaining him; "I must go with
you. When I left the poor fellow under the charge of a medical man at
Greenock, he was greatly better; but he had received some severe
internal injury, and he cannot live long. A sudden surprise might hasten
his death. I must go with you to prevent accidents."

We went on board the next steamer that started, and in two hours we
landed at Greenock. I led the way to the small lodging in which I had
left my patient; and leaving Douglas at the door, went in to inquire
into the state of the sufferer's health, and to prepare him for
his visitor. I found him asleep; but his was not the slumber that
refreshes--the restless and unquiet spirit within was disturbing the
rest of the fevered and fatigued body. His flushed cheek lay upon one
arm, while his other was every now and then convulsively raised above
his head, and his lips moved with indistinct mutterings.

"He is asleep," said I to Douglas; "we must wait till he awakens."

"Oh, let me look at him," said he; "it can do no harm. He must be an old
shipmate of poor Harry's; perhaps he has some memento of him for me."

"Very well," said I; "you may come in; but make as little noise as
possible."

We walked up gently to the bed; Douglas looked earnestly at the sleeper,
and, suddenly raising his clasped hands, he exclaimed--

"Merciful heaven! it is Henry himself!"

The poor patient started with a wild and fevered look.

"Who called me? I thought I heard Charles' voice! Where am I? Give way
in the boat!--oh, spare me, spare me, Charles!--Fire!--Down with them!
Hurra!"--And, waving his hands above his head, he sunk down again on has
bed, exhausted.

He soon fell into a deep slumber, which lasted for some hours. I was
sitting by his bedside when he awoke.

"How do you feel now?" said I.

"O doctor! I am dying. I have been dreaming: I thought I heard the voice
of one I have deeply injured--nay, I dreamt I _saw_ him; but changed,
how changed!--and I--I have been the cause of it."

Here he was interrupted by the smothered sobs of poor Douglas, or
Charles, as I now must call him.

"Who is that? there is somebody else in the room," said he; and,
drawing the curtain aside, he saw his brother. "Then it was no dream! O
Charles!" and, turning round, he buried his face in the pillow. Douglas
sprang forward, and, throwing himself on the bed, gave way to a violent
burst of emotion.

"Henry! dear Henry! look at me--it _is_ your brother, Henry!"

The dying man groaned. "I cannot look you in the face, Charles," said
he, "till you say you have forgiven me."

"Forgiven you!" replied the other; "bless you! bless you, Henry! if you
did but know the load of remorse that the sight of you has relieved me
from! Thank heaven I was _not_ your murderer!"

"And can you forget the past, Charles?" said Henry. "Do not my ears
deceive me? Do you really forgive me?"

"Freely, fully, from my heart!" was the reply; "the joy of meeting you
again, even thus, repays me for all I have suffered."

"O Charles!" again ejaculated Henry, "you were always generous and
forgiving; but this is more than I expected from you."

I was now going to leave the room; but my patient, noticing my
intention, begged me to remain.

"Stay, doctor, and listen to my confession; concealment is no longer
necessary, for I feel that the hand of death is upon me, and that, in a
few short hours, my career of sin, and shame, and sorrow, will be at an
end."

"My poor fellow," said I, "I have heard the first part of your story
from your brother; you had better defer the remainder till you have
recovered from your present agitation; I will come again to-morrow."

"To-morrow, sir!" said he; "where may I be before to-morrow? Oh, let me
speak now, while time and strength are allowed. It will do me good, sir;
it will relieve my mind, and be a comfort to my troubled spirit."

Feeling that he was right, I seated myself, while he thus commenced his
tale:--

"You remember, Charles, our last sad parting--when we stood"----

"Mention it not, Harry!" groaned his brother--"there is agony in the
recollection. Poor Julia!"

"When I left you, I was maddened with sorrow and remorse; all night long
I wandered about in a state of distraction, and, when morning dawned, I
fell down by the roadside, overcome with fatigue and misery. How long I
lay I know not; when I awoke, the sun was high in the heaven; and,
during one brief moment of forgetfulness, I rejoiced in his brightness.
Alas! it was but for a moment; my guilty love, my treachery, my loss,
all flashed upon my mind at once, and I started to my feet, and hurried
madly onwards, as if I hoped, by the rapidity of my movements, to escape
from my own thoughts. Hunger at last compelled me to enter a small
public-house, where I fell in with a poor sailor, who was on his way to
Liverpool in search of a ship. The sight of this man turned my thoughts
into another channel. 'Double-dyed traitor that I am,' muttered I,
'England is no longer a home for me. She for whose love I broke a
father's heart and betrayed a brother's confidence, has been torn from
me; and what more have I to live for here?' My mind was made up.

"'My lad,' said I to the sailor, 'if you have no objection, we will
travel together; I am bound to Liverpool myself.'

"'With all my heart,' said he; 'I like to sail in company.'

"I engaged to work my passage out before the mast, in a ship bound
to Jamaica, intending to turn my education to some account there if
possible, or, at all events, to remain there as long as my money lasted.
When I saw the shores of my native land sink in the distance, I felt
that I was a forlorn and miserable outcast--that the last link was
severed that bound me to existence. A dark change came over me; a spirit
of desperation and reckless indifference; a longing wish to end my
miseries at once. I strove against the evil spirit; and for a while
succeeded. On our arrival at Kingston, I endeavoured in vain to obtain
employment; my stock of money was fast decreasing; and when that was
gone, where was I to turn for more? Poverty and wretchedness threatened
me from without; remorse was busy within. 'Why should I bear this weary
load of life?' said I, as I madly paced the shore, 'when one bold plunge
would bury it for ever?'

"I threw myself headlong into the water; and, though an excellent
swimmer, I resolutely kept my face beneath the surface; yes, with
desperate determination, I strove to _force_ myself into the presence of
that dread Being whom I had so grievously offended. When I came to my
senses again, I was lying on a part of the beach I was unacquainted
with; a tall, handsome, dark-featured young man, was bending over me,
and, within a few yards of where I lay, a small light boat was drawn up
on the shore.

"'So you have opened your eyes at last, my friend,' said the man; 'you
have had a narrow squeak for it. When I dragged you out of the water,
like a drowned rat, I thought all was over with you. Have you as many
lives as a cat that you can afford to throw away _one_ in such a foolish
manner?'

"'Life! I am sick of it,' answered I.

"'Well,' said he, 'if that is the case, why not throw it away like a
man, among men? Come with me, and I will furnish you with active
employment to drive the devil out of your mind. But here, before we
start, take some of the cordial to cheer you.'

"I was chilled and exhausted, and took a hearty draught. I felt its
warmth steal through my frame--it mounted to my brain--I laughed aloud;
I felt that I was equal to any act of desperation. Alas! I little knew
the snare I was falling into. We launched the boat and sprang into it;
and my companion, seizing the oars, pulled rapidly along the beach.
After rowing some distance, we saw a light glimmering amid the bushes;
it was now nearly dusk; my companion lay on his oars, and gave a long,
low, peculiar whistle, which was immediately answered. He then ran the
boat ashore; two men sprang in, who relieved him at the oars; and we
again held on our way. There was a great deal of conversation carried on
in a low tone; and from what I heard of it, half tipsy as I was, I
inferred that my companion, whom the other men addressed with great
respect, was a naval officer on some secret duty. Just as we were
crossing the mouth of a narrow creek, a light four-oared gig dashed out
after us, a voice hailed us in English to lie on our oars, and, when we
still held on our course, a musket ball whizzed over us, to enforce
obedience.

"'The piratical rascals!' exclaimed the young man; 'if they lay hold of
us, we are all dead men.' 'Here!' continued he, seizing a musket, which
lay in the stern sheets, and giving me another, 'fire for your life!'

"I was half mad with fever, and the effects of my late draught; and,
under the persuasion that our lives were in danger, I fired. The bowman
of the gig fell, and we rapidly left her. We came at last to a narrow
lagune, close to the low shore of which lay a small schooner at anchor,
with sails bent, and every preparation for a start.

"'Welcome on board the little Spitfire, my man!' said the young
stranger; 'we want hands--will you ship?'

"'What colours do you sail under,' replied I.

"'Oh, not particular to a shade,' said he; 'any that happens to suit us
for the time being: black is rather a favourite.'

"'Black!' exclaimed I; 'I thought you were king's men. I won't go with
you.'

"'It is too late, my lad--go you must! Besides, there is no safety for
you on shore now; you shot one of the crew of the cruiser's gig, and
they will have life for life, depend upon it.'

"The whole horror of my situation now burst upon me. I was in a fearful
strait; but I made up my mind at once, to deceive the pirates, by
appearing to be contented with my situation, and to take advantage of
the first opportunity that presented itself to escape.

"'Well,' said I, 'if that's the case, I had better die fighting bravely
like a man, than hang like a dog from the yard-arm of a man-of-war.'

"'Bravely said, my hearty!' replied the young leader; 'but we must be
moving--the blue jackets will be after us; that shot of yours will bring
the whole hornet's nest about our ears.'

"We got under way; and, after rounding the east end of Jamaica, we stood
away for the Cuba shore. The very first time we came to an anchor, I
made an attempt to escape; I had saved part of my provisions for some
days before, and concealed it, in readiness to take with me. We were
lying close to the shore, and the darkness of the night would, I
thought, conceal my movements; I was just slipping over the schooner's
side, to swim ashore, when I felt a touch upon my shoulder, and, turning
round, a dark lantern flashed in my face, and I saw the young pirate
standing beside me. He held a cocked pistol to my head. 'One touch of
this trigger,' said he, 'and you would require no more looking after. My
eye has been upon you all along; you cannot escape me; do not attempt it
again--the consequences may be fatal.'

"From that hour I was aware that I was constantly and narrowly watched.
Except in the one instance of the gig's man, whom I had fired at under
a delusion, it was my good fortune as yet to have escaped imbruing my
hands in blood. During the action with the Albion, I was sent in the
boat, under the particular charge of the mate. 'Keep your eye on this
fellow,' said the captain; 'If he flinches for a moment, blow his brains
out instantly; we must _glue him_ to us with blood. I will keep her in
play till you creep alongside; and, once on board, cut every one down
before you--give no quarter.'

"My blood ran cold at this horrible order, and I determined upon doing
all in my power to counteract its execution. I was delighted when you
discovered our approach and the blue light flashed from your stern; for
I dreaded the scene of massacre that must have ensued, if we had
boarded you unawares. I sprang on deck with the rest, in hopes that I
might be able to prevent some bloodshed; but, when I was violently
attacked, my passions were aroused, and I fought desperately for my
life. Just as you tumbled me over the gangway, the gleam of moonshine
showed me your face. I recognised you immediately; and, when I rose to
the surface of the water again after my plunge, I blessed heaven that I
had been spared the guilt of murder. I reached the boat which was still
hanging under your quarter, cut the painter, and in the confusion,
escaped unnoticed. I immediately made for the shore; and after many
hair-breadth escapes from my old associates, I volunteered on board one
of the cruisers on the Jamaica station. At length she returned home, the
crew were paid off, and I determined to seek you out. On inquiring at
the office of the owners of the Albion, in Liverpool, they told me that
the late chief mate had settled, some years before, in the neighbourhood
of Rothesay, in the Isle of Bute, and was still alive. Thank heaven! I
have found you at last! I should like to live, Charles, to prove to you
my sorrow and repentance for the past; but, as heaven has willed it
otherwise, the blessed assurance of your forgiveness will lighten death
of half its terrors."

The poor fellow breathed his last a few days afterwards. Douglas mourned
long and deeply for his brother's death; but after time had soothed his
grief, he became quite an altered man. His mind and spirits recovered
their elasticity, after the load which had so long weighed them down
was removed. He did not resume his own name; but lived many years
afterwards, contented and happy, in the humble station of a fisherman;
and it was not till after his death that his old companions discovered
how justly the name of "Gentleman Douglas" had been applied to him. His
tombstone bore the simple inscription, "Charles Douglas Ponsonby,
eldest son of the late Reverend T. Ponsonby."

I often wander, in the calm summer evenings, to the quiet churchyard,
and return a sadder, but, I hope, a better man, after meditating upon
the troublous and adventurous life, and peaceful and Christian death of
the ROTHESAY FISHERMAN.




LEAVES
FROM
THE DIARY OF AN AGED SPINSTER.


The poet of THE ELEGY _par excellence_, hath written two lines, which
run thus--

    "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
     And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

Now, I never can think of these lines but they remind me of the tender,
delicate, living, breathing, and neglected flowers that bud, blossom,
shed their leaves, and die, in cold unsunned obscurity--flowers that
were formed to shed their fragrance around a man's heart, and to charm
his eye--but which, though wandering melancholy and alone in the
wilderness where they grow, he passeth by with neglect, making a
companion of his loneliness. But, to drop all metaphor--where will you
find a flower more interesting than a spinster of threescore and ten, of
sixty, of fifty, or of forty? They have, indeed, "wasted their sweetness
on the desert air." Some call them "old maids;" but it is a malicious
appellation, unless it can be proved that they have refused to be wives.
I would always take the part of a spinster; they are a peculiar people,
far more "sinned against than sinning." Every blockhead thinks himself
at liberty to crack a joke upon them; and when he says something, that
he conceives to be wondrous smart, about Miss Such-an-One and her cat or
poodle dog, he conceives himself a marvellous clever fellow; yea, even
those of her own sex who are below what is called a "certain age" (what
that age is, I cannot tell), think themselves privileged to giggle at
the expense of their elder sister. Now, though there may be a degree of
peevishness (and it is not to be wondered at) amongst the sisterhood,
yet with them you will find the most sensitive tenderness of heart,
a delicacy that quivers, like the aspen leaf, at a breath, and a
kindliness of soul that a mother might envy--or rather, for envy, shall
I not write _imitate_? But ah! if their history were told, what a
chronicle would it exhibit of blighted affections, withered hearts,
secret tears, and midnight sighs!

The first spinster of whom I have a particular remembrance, as belonging
to her caste, was Diana Darling. It is now six and twenty years since
Diana paid the debt of nature, up to which period, and for a few years
before, she rented a room in Chirnside. It was only a year or two before
her death that I became acquainted with her; and I was then very young.
But I never shall forget her kindness towards me. She treated me as
though I had been her own child, or rather her grandchild, for she was
then very little under seventy years of age. She had always an air of
gentility about her; people called her "a betterish sort o' body." And,
although _Miss_ and _Mistress_ are becoming general appellations now,
twenty or thirty years ago, upon the Borders, those titles were only
applied to particular persons or on particular occasions; and whether
their more frequent use now is to be attributed to the schoolmaster
being abroad or the dancing-master being abroad, I cannot tell, but
Diana Darling, although acknowledged to be a "betterish sort o' body,"
never was spoken of by any other term but "auld Diana," or "auld Die."
Well do I remember her flowing chintz gown, with short sleeves, her
snow-white apron, her whiter cap, and old kid gloves, reaching to her
elbows; and as well do I remember how she took one of the common _blue
cakes_ which washer-women use, and tying it up in a piece of woollen
cloth, dipped it in water, and daubed it round and round the walls of
her room, to give them the appearance of being papered. I have often
heard of and seen _stenciling_ since; but, rude as the attempt was, I am
almost persuaded that Diana was the first who put it in practice. To
keep up gentility putteth people to strange shifts, and often to
ridiculous ones--and to both of these extremities she was driven. But I
have hinted that she was a kind-hearted creature; and, above all, do I
remember her for the fine old ballads which she sang to me. But there
was one that was an especial favourite with her, and a verse of which,
if I remember correctly, ran thus--

    "Fie, Lizzy Lindsay!
       Sae lang in the mornins ye lie,
     Mair fit ye was helping yer minny
       To milk a' the ewes and the kye."

Diana, however, was a woman of some education; and to a relative she
left a sort of history of her life, from which the following is an
extract:--

"My father died before I was eighteen (so began Diana's narrative), and
he left five of us--that is, my mother, two sisters, a brother, and
myself--five hundred pounds a-piece. My sisters were both younger than
me; but, within six years after our father's death, they both got
married; and my brother, who was only a year older than myself, left the
house also, and took a wife, so that there was nobody but me and my
mother left. Everybody thought there was something very singular in
this; for it was not natural that the youngest should be taken and the
auldest left; and, besides, it was acknowledged that I was the best
faured,[C] and the best tempered in the family; and there could be no
dispute but that my siller was as good as theirs.

  [C] Best-looking, or most beautiful.

I must confess, however, that, when I was but a lassie o' sixteen, I had
drawn up wi' one James Laidlaw--but I should score out the word _one_,
and just say that I had drawn up wi' _James Laidlaw_. He was a year, or
maybe three, aulder than me, and I kenned him when he was just a laddie,
at Mr. Wh----'s school in Dunse; but I took no notice o' him then in
particular, and, indeed, I never did, until one day that I was an errand
down by Kimmerghame, and I met James just coming out frae the gardens.
It was the summer season, and he had a posie in his hand, and a very
bonny posie it was. 'Here's a fine day, Diana,' says he. 'Yes, it is,'
says I.

So we said nae mair for some time; but he keepit walking by my side, and
at last he said--'What do ye think o' this posie?' 'It is very bonny,
James,' said I. 'I think sae,' quoth he; 'and if ye will accept it,
there should naebody be mair welcome to it.' 'Ou, I thank ye,' said I,
and I blushed in a way--'why should ye gie me it?' 'Never mind,' says
he, 'tak it for auld acquaintance sake--we were at the school together.'

So I took the flowers, and James keepit by my side, and cracked to me a'
the way to my mother's door, and I cracked to him--and I really wondered
that the road between Kimmerghame and Dunse had turned sae short. It
wasna half the length that it used to be, or what I thought it ought to
be.

But I often saw James Laidlaw after this; and somehow or other I aye met
him just as I was coming out o' the kirk, and weel do I recollect that,
one Sabbath in particular, he said to me--'Diana, will ye no come out
and tak a walk after ye get your dinner?' 'I dinna ken, James,' says
I; 'I doubt I daurna, for our folk are very particular, and baith my
faither and my mother are terribly against onything like gaun about
stravaigin on the Sundays.' 'Oh, they need never ken where ye're gaun,'
says he. 'Weel, I'll try,' says I, for by this time I had a sort o'
liking for James. 'Then,' said he, 'I'll be at the Penny Stane at four
o'clock.' 'Very weel,' quoth I.

And, although baith my faither and mother said to me, as I was gaun
out--'Where are ye gaun, lassie?'--'Oh, no very far,' said I; and, at
four o'clock, I met James at the Penny Stane. I shall never forget the
grip that he gied my hand when he took it in his, and said--

'Ye hae been as good as your word, Diana.'

We wandered awa doun by Wedderburn dyke, till we came to the Blackadder,
and then we sauntered down by the river side, till we were opposite
Kelloe--and, oh, it was a pleasant afternoon. Everything round about us,
aboon us, and among our feet, seemed to ken it was Sunday--everything
but James and me. The laverock was singing in the blue lift--the
blackbirds were whistling in the hedges--the mavis chaunted its loud
sang frae the bushes on the braes--the lennerts[D] were singing and
chirming among the whins--and the shelfa[E] absolutely seemed to follow
ye wi' its three notes over again, in order that ye might learn them.

  [D] Linnets

  [E] Chaffinch

It was the happiest afternoon I ever spent. James grat, and I grat. I
got a scolding frae my faither and my mother when I gaed hame, and they
demanded to ken where I had been; but the words that James had spoken to
me bore me up against their reproaches.

Weel, it was very shortly (I daresay not six months after my faither's
death), that James called at my mother's, and as he said, to bid us
_farewell!_ He took my mother's hand--I mind I saw him raise it to his
lips, while the tears were on his cheeks; and he was also greatly put
about to part wi' my sisters; but to me he said--

'Ye'll set me down a bit, Diana.'

He was to take the coach for Liverpool--or at least, a coach to take him
on the road to that town, the next day; and from there he was to proceed
to the West Indies, to meet an uncle who was to make him his heir.

I went out wi' him, and we wandered away down by our auld walks; but,
oh, he said little, and he sighed often, and his heart was sad. But mine
was as sad as his, and I could say as little as him. I winna, I canna
write a' the words and the vows that passed. He took the chain frae his
watch, and it was o' the best gold, and he also took a pair o' Bibles
frae his pocket, and he put the watch chain and the Bibles into my hand,
and--'Diana,' said he, 'take these, dear--keep them for the sake o' your
poor James, and, as often as ye see them, think on him.' I took them,
and wi' the tears running down my cheeks--'O James,' cried I, 'this is
hard!--hard!'

Twice, ay thrice, we bade each other '_farewell_,' and thrice, after he
had parted frae me, he cam running back again, and, throwing his arms
round my neck, cried--

'Diana! I canna leave ye!--promise me that ye will never marry onybody
else!'

And thrice I promised him that I wouldna.

But he gaed awa, and my only consolation was looking at the Bibles, on
one o' the white leaves o' the first volume o' which I found written, by
his own hand, '_James Laidlaw and Diana Darling vowed, that, if they
were spared, they would become man and wife; and that neither time,
distance, nor circumstances, should dissolve their plighted troth.
Dated, May 25th, 17--_.'

These were cheering words to me; and I lived on them for years, even
after my younger sisters were married, and I had ceased to hear from
him. And, during that time, for his sake, I had declined offers which my
friends said I was waur than foolish to reject. At least half a dozen
good matches I let slip through my hands, and a' for the love o' James
Laidlaw who was far awa, and the vows he had plighted to me by the side
o' the Blackadder. And, although he hadna written to me for some years,
I couldna think that ony man could be so wicked as to write words o'
falsehood and bind them up in the volume o' everlasting truth.

But, about ten years after he had gane awa, James Laidlaw came back to
our neighbourhood; but he wasna the same lad he left--for he was now a
dark-complexioned man, and he had wi' him a mulatto woman, and three
bairns that called him _faither!_ He was no longer my James!

My mother was by this time dead, and I expected naething but that the
knowledge o' his faithlessness would kill me too--for I had clung to
hope till the last straw was broken.

I met him once during his stay in the country, and, strange to tell, it
was within a hundred yards o' the very spot where I first foregathered
wi' him, when he offered me the posie.

'Ha! Die!' said he, 'my old girl, are you still alive? I'm glad to see
you. Is the old woman, your mother, living yet?' I was ready to faint,
my heart throbbed as though it would have burst. A' the trials I had
ever had were naething to this; and he continued--'Why, if I remember
right, there was once something like an old flame between you and me.'
'O James! James!' said I, 'do you remember the words ye wrote in the
Bible, and the vows that ye made me by the side of the Blackadder?'
'Ha! ha!' said he, and he laughed, 'you are there, are you? I do mind
something of it. But, Die, I did not think that a girl like you would
have been such a fool as to remember what a boy said to her.'

I would have spoken to him again; but I remembered he was the husband
of another woman--though she was a mulatto--an' I hurried away as fast
as my fainting heart would permit. I had but one consolation, and that
was, that, though he had married another, naebody could compare her face
wi' mine.

But it was lang before I got the better o' this sair slight--ay, I may
say it was ten years and mair; and I had to try to pingle and find a
living upon the interest o' my five hundred pounds, wi' ony other thing
that I could turn my hand to in a genteel sort o' way.

I was now getting on the wrang side o' eight and thirty; and that is an
age when it isna prudent in a spinister to be throwing the pouty side o'
her lip to any decent lad that hauds out his hand, and says--'Jenny,
will ye tak me?' Often and often, baith by day and by night, did I think
o' the good bargains I had lost, for the sake o' my fause James Laidlaw;
and often, when I saw some o' them that had come praying to me, pass me
on a Sunday, having their wives wi' their hands half round their waist
on the horse behint them--'O James! fause James!' I have said, 'but for
trusting to you, and it would hae been me that would this day been
riding behint Mr. ----.'

But I had still five hundred pounds, and sic fend as I could make, to
help what they brought to me. And, about this time, there was one that
had the character of being a very respectable sort o' a lad, one Walter
Sanderson; he was a farmer, very near about my own age, and altogether a
most prepossessing and intelligent young man. I first met wi' him at my
youngest sister's goodman's kirn,[F] and I must say, a better or a more
gracefu' dancer I never saw upon a floor. He had neither the jumping o'
a mountebank, nor the sliding o' a play-actor, but there was an ease in
his carriage which I never saw equalled. I was particularly struck wi'
him, and especially his dancing; and it so happened that he was no less
struck wi' me. I thought he looked even better than James Laidlaw used
to do--but at times I had doubts about it. However, he had stopped all
the night at my brother-in-law's as weel as mysel; and when I got up to
gang hame the next day, he said he would bear me company. I thanked him,
and said I was obliged to him, never thinking that he would attempt such
a thing. But, just as the pony was brought out for me to ride on (and
the callant was to come up to Dunse for it at night), Mr. Walter
Sanderson mounted his horse, and says he--

'Now, wi' your permission, Miss Darling, I will see you hame.'

  [F] Harvest Home.

It would hae been very rude o' me to hae said--'No, I thank you, sir,'
and especially at my time o' life, wi' twa younger sisters married that
had families; so I blushed, as it were, and giein my powny a twitch, he
sprang on to his saddle, and came trotting along by my side. He was very
agreeable company; and, when he said, 'I shall be most happy to pay you
a visit, Miss Darling,' I didna think o' what I had said, until after
that I had answered him, 'I shall be very happy to see ye, sir.' And
when I thought o' it my very cheek bones burned wi' shame.

But, howsoever, Mr. Sanderson was not long in calling again--and often
he did call, and my sisters and their guid-men began to jeer me about
him. Weel, he called and called, for I daresay as good as three quarters
of a year; and he was sae backward and modest a' the time that I thought
him a very remarkable man; indeed, I began to think him every way
superior to James Laidlaw.

But at last he made proposals--I consented--the wedding-day was set, and
we had been cried in the kirk. It was the fair day, just two days before
we were to be married, and he came into the house, and, after he had
been seated a while, and cracked in his usual kind way--

'Oh,' says he, 'what a bargain I hae missed the day! There are four lots
o' cattle in the market, and I might hae cleared four hundred pounds,
cent. per cent., by them.'

'Losh me! Walter, then,' says I, 'why didna ye do it? How did ye let sic
a bargain slip through your fingers?'

'Woman,' said he, 'I dinna ken; but a man that is to be married within
eight and forty hours is excusable. I came to the Fair without any
thought o' either buying or selling--but just to see you, Diana--and I
kenned there wasna meikle siller necessary for that.'

'Losh, Walter, man,' said I, 'but that is a pity--and ye say ye could
mak cent. per cent. by the beasts?'

''Deed could I,' quoth he--'I am sure o' that.'

'Then, Walter,' says I, 'what is mine the day is to be yours the morn, I
may say; and it would be a pity to lose sic a bargain.'

Therefore I put into his hands an order on a branch bank, that had been
established in Dunse, for every farthing that I was worth in the world,
and Walter kissed me, and went out to get the money frae the bank and
buy the cattle.

But he hadna been out an hour, when ane o' my brothers-in-law called,
and I thought he looked unco dowie. So I began to tell him about the
excellent bargain that Walter had made, and what I had done. But the man
started frae his seat as if he were crazed, and, without asking me ony
questions, he only cried--'Gracious! Diana! hae ye been sic an idiot?'
and, rushing out o' the house, ran to the bank.

He left me in a state that I canna describe; I neither kenned what to do
nor what to think. But within half an hour he returned, and he cried out
as he entered--'Diana, ye are ruined! He has taken in you and everybody
else. The villain broke yesterday. He is off! Ye may bid fare weel to
your siller!' 'Wha is off?' cried I, and I was in sic a state I was
hardly able to speak. 'Walter Sanderson!' answered my brother-in-law.

I believe I went into hysterics; for the first thing I mind o' after his
saying so, was a dozen people standing round about me--some slapping at
the palms o' my hands, and others laving water on my breast and temples,
until they had me as wet as if they had douked me in Pollock's Well.

I canna tell how I stood up against this clap o' misery. It was near
getting the better o' me. For a time I really hated the very name and
the sight o' man, and I said, as the song says, that

    'Men are a' deceivers.'

But this was not the worst o' it--I had lost my all, and I was now
forced into the acquaintanceship of poverty and dependence. I first went
to live under the roof o' my youngest sister, who had always been my
favourite; but, before six months went round, I found that she began to
treat me just as though I had been a servant, ordering me to do this
and do the other; and sometimes my dinner was sent ben to me into the
kitchen; and the servant lassies, seeing how their mistress treated me,
considered that they should be justified in doing the same--and they did
the same. Many a weary time have I lain down upon my bed and wished
never to rise again, for my spirit was weary o' this world. But I put up
wi' insult after insult, until flesh and blood could endure it no
longer. Then did I go to my other sister, and she hardly opened her
mouth to me as I entered her house. I saw that I might gang where I
liked--I wasna welcome there. Before I had been a week under her roof, I
found that the herd's dog led a lady's life to mine. I was forced to
leave her too.

And, as a sort o' last alternative, just to keep me in existence, I
began a bit shop in a neighbouring town, and took in sewing and washing;
and, after I had tried them awhile, and found that they would hardly
do, I commenced a bit school, at the advice of the minister's wife, and
learned bairns their letters and the catechism, and knitting and sewing.
I also taught them (for they were a' girls) how to work their samplers,
and to write, and to cast accounts. But what vexed and humbled me more
than all I had suffered, was, that one night, just after I had let my
scholars away, an auld hedger and ditcher body, almost sixty years o'
age, came into the house, and 'How's a' wi' ye the nicht?' says he,
though I had never spoken to the man before. But he took off his bonnet,
and, pulling in a chair, drew a seat to the fire. I was thunderstruck!
But I was yet mair astonished and ashamed, when the auld body, sleeking
down his hair and his chin, had the assurance to make love to me!

'There is the door, sir!' cried I. And when he didna seem willing to
understand me, I gripped him by the shouthers, and showed him what I
meant.

Yet quite composedly he turned round to me and said, 'I dinna see what
is the use o' the like o' this--it is true I am aulder than you, but you
are at a time o' life now that ye canna expect ony young man to look at
ye. Therefore, ye had better think twice before ye turn me to the door.
Ye will find it just as easy a life being the wife o' a hedger as
keeping a school--rather mair sae I apprehend, and mair profitable too.'
I had nae patience wi' the man. I thought my sisters had insulted me;
but this offer o' the hedger's wounded me mair than a' that they had
done.

'O James Laidlaw!' cried I, when I was left to mysel, 'what hae ye
brought me to! My sisters dinna look after me. My parting wi' them has
gien them an excuse to forget that I exist. My brother is far frae me,
and he is ruled by a wife; and I hae been robbed by another o' the
little that I had. I am like a withered tree in a wilderness, standing
its lane--I will fa' and naebody will miss me. I am sick, and there are
none to haud my head. My throat is parched and my lips dry, and there
are none to bring me a cup o' water. There is nae _living thing_ that I
can ca' mine. And some day I shall be found a stiffened corpse in my
bed, with no one near me to close my eyes in death or perform the last
office of humanity! For I am alone--I am by myself--I am forgotten in
the world; and my latter years, if I have a long life, will be a burden
to strangers.'"

But Diana Darling did not so die. Her gentleness, her kindness, caused
her to be beloved by many who knew not her history; and, when the last
stern messenger came to call her hence, many watched with tears around
her bed of death, and many more in sorrow followed her to the grave. So
ran the few leaves in the diary of a spinster--and the reader will
forgive our interpolations.




GEORDIE WILLISON,
AND THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE GOWER.


Antiquaries know very well that one of the oldest of the Nova Scotia
knights, belonging to Scotland, was Sir Marmaduke Maitland of Castle
Gower, situated in one of the southern counties of the kingdom; but they
may not know so well that Sir Marmaduke held his property under a strict
entail to heirs male, whom failing, to heirs female, under the condition
of bearing the arms and name of the Castle Gower family; or that he was
married to Catherine Maxwell, a near relative of the family of Herries,
in the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright--a person of no very great beauty,
but sprightly, and of good manners. This woman had been brought up in
France, and was deeply tinged with French feelings. She had French cooks
and French milliners about her in abundance; and a French lackey was
considered by her as indispensable as meat and drink. Then she was
represented as being a proud, imperious woman, with a bad temper; which
was rendered worse by her continued fretting, in consequence of not
having any children to her husband; whereby the property would go away
to a son of her husband's brother. Sir Marmaduke and his lady had a
town-house in Edinburgh, in which they lived for the greater part of the
year, situated so as to look to the North Back of the Canongate, and
with an entry to it from that street, but the principal gate was from
the north side. A garden was attached to the house; and the stables
and coach-houses were situated at the foot of the garden. All these
premises are now removed; but Sir Marmaduke Maitland's house--or, as it
was styled, the Duke's house--at the period of this story, was a very
showy house, and very well known to the inhabitants of Edinburgh.

Now, at the foot of Leith Wynd, there lived, about the same time, a
poor widow woman, called Widow Willison, who had a son and a daughter.
She was the widow of a William Willison, who earned a livelihood by
the humble means of serving the inhabitants of Edinburgh with water,
which he conveyed to their doors by the means of an ass; and was, in
consequence, called Water Willie--a good, simple, honest creature; much
liked by his customers, from whom he never wanted a good diet; and had
no fault, but that of disliking the element in which he dealt. He liked
he said very well to drive water to the great folks, and he wished them
"meikle guid o't; but, for his ain pairt, he preferred whisky, which, he
thocht, was o' a warmer and mair congenial nature, and better suited to
the inside o' a rational animal, like man."

Strange enough, it was to William Willison's dislike to water that
people attributed his death. It would have been more logical--but
scandal is a bad logician--to have debited that event to the water; for,
though it will not conceal that Willie was drunk when he died, it was as
notorious that it was not because he was drunk that he died--but that he
died because his water-cart went over him when he was drunk. However
that may be, and there is no use in wasting much reasoning on the point,
William left, at his death, a widow and two children, with nothing to
support them.

Widow Willison was a good, religious woman, of the old school, believing
in the transcendent influence of mere faith, as carrying along with it
all the minor points of justification by works, election, and others,
in the same way that a river takes with it the drops of rain that
fall from the heavens, and carries all down to the ocean. She was an
excellent example of the influence of a pure religion--kind and generous
in her sentiments; and, though left with two children, and no food to
satisfy their hunger, patient and hopeful--placing implicit trust and
confidence in the Author of all good, and viewing murmuring as a sin
against His providence.

Let us introduce, now, George Willison, her son, an extraordinary
individual, apparently destined to be more notorious than his father,
in so much as his character was composed of that mixture of simplicity,
bordering on silliness, and shrewd sagacity in the ordinary affairs of
life, which is often observed in people of Scotland. Though common, the
character is nearly inexplicable to the analyst; for the individual
seems conscious of the weaker part of his character, but he appears to
love it, and often makes it subservient to the stronger elements of his
mind, by using it at once as a cloak and a foil to them. George, like
the other individuals of his peculiar species, followed no trade.
Sometimes he acted as a cadie, a letter-carrier, a messenger, a porter,
a water-carrier--in any capacity, in short, in which he could, with no
continuous labour, earn a little money. To work at any given thing for
longer time than a day, was a task which he generally condemned, as
being wearisome and monotonous, and more suited to the inferior animals
than to man. His clothes, like his avocations, were many-coloured, and
suited the silly half of his character, without altogether depriving him
of the rights of a citizen, or making him the property and sport of
school-boys. Like his employments, his earnings were chancy and various,
ranging between a shilling to five shillings a-week, including
gratuities, which his conceit prompted him to call "helps," with a view
to avoid the imputation of living upon alms--a name, in the Scotch
language "awmous," which did not sound agreeably in the ears of Geordie
Willison.

The very reverse of George was his sister--a black-eyed beauty, of great
intelligence, who earned a little money, to support the family, by means
of her needle. She was a great comfort to her mother, seldom going out,
and felt much annoyed by the strange character of her brother, whom she
often endeavoured to improve, with a view to his following some trade.
He was twenty years of age, and if he did not "tak' himself up" now, she
said, "he would be a vagrant a' his days." Geordie, on the other hand,
quietly heard his sister, but he never saw--at least, he pretended not
to see, which was the same thing--the force of her argument. The weak
half of his constitution was always presented to any attack of logic;
and the adroitness with which he met his opponent by this soft
buckler--which, like a feather-bed presented to a canon bullet,
swallowed the force and the noise at the same time--was worthy of
Aristotle, or Thomas Scotus, or any other logical warrior. Take an
example:--

"Whar hae ye been the day, Geordie?" said his mother to him one day.

"I hae been convoying Sir Marmaduke Maitland a wee bit on his way to
France," said Geordie. "He asked me to bear him company and carry his
luggage to Leith, and I couldna refuse sic a favour to the braw knight."

"An' what got ye frae him?" said his mother; "for I hae naething i' the
house for supper."

"Twa or three placks," said Geordie, throwing down some coppers on the
table.

"This is the 21st day o' April--your birthday, Geordie," said the
mother; "an' as it has aye been our practice to hae something by common
on that occasion, I'll gang down to Widow Johnston's an' get a pint o'
the best, to drink yer health wi'." And Widow Willison did as she said.

"Is Lady Maitland no awa wi' Sir Marmaduke, Geordie?" resumed his
mother, when they were taking their meagre supper.

"Na! na!" said Geordie; "they dinna like ane anither sae weel; an' I
dinna wonder at Sir Marmaduke no likin' her, for I dinna like her
mysel."

"For what reason, Geordie?" asked his mother.

"Because she doesna like me," answered the casuist.

Now it happened that on the 19th day of February, after the conversation
here detailed, that George Willison was wandering over the grounds of
Warriston, on the north side of Edinburgh. He had been with a letter to
the Laird of Warriston, and, in coming back, as was not uncommon with
him, was musing, in a half dreaming, listless kind of state, as he
sauntered through the planted grounds in the neighbourhood. His
attention was in an instant arrested by the sounds of voices, and he
stood, or rather sat down, behind a hedge and listened. The speakers
were very near to him; for it was so very dark that they could not
observe him.

"I will stand at a little distance, Louise," said a voice, "and thou
canst do the thing thyself. I could despatch thine, but I cannot do that
good work to myself; for the mother rises in me, and unnerves me quite.
Besides, thou didst promise to do me this service for the ten gold
pieces I gave thee, and the many more I will yet give thee."

"_Oui! oui!_ my lady; but de infant is so _fort_, so trong, dat it will
be difficult for me to trottle her. Death, _la mort_, does not come ever
when required; but I vill do my endeavour to trangle de leetle jade, vit
as much activity as I can. Ha! ha! de leetle baggage tinks she is
already _perdir_--she tombles so--be quiet, you _petite_ leetle deevil.
It vill be de best vay, I tink, to do it on de ground. Hark! is dere not
some person near?--my heart goes _en palpitant_."

"It is nobody, thou fool," answered the lady; "it is only a rustling
produced by a breath of wind among the trees."

"Very vell, very vell, my Lady Maitland; dat is right. Now for de vork."

"Stop until I am at a little distance; and, when thou hearest me cry
'Now,' finish the thing cleverly."

The rustling of the lady's gown betokened that she had done as she said.
The rustling ceased; and the word "Now," came from the mouth of the
mother.

All was silent for a minute; a quick breath, indicating the application
of a strong effort, was now heard, mixed with the sound of a convulsed
suspiration, something like that of a child labouring under
hooping-cough, though weaker. The rustling of clothes indicated a
struggle of some violence; and several ejaculations escaped at
intervals:--"_Mon dieu!_ dis is de _triste_ vork; how trong de leetle
she velp is!--now, now--not yet--how trange!--_diable!_ she still
breats!"

"Hast thou finished, Louise?" asked the lady, impatiently.

"Not yet, my lady," said Louise; "give me your hair necklace; de leetle
she velp vont die vitout tronger force dan my veak hands can apply."

"I cannot go to thee," said the lady; "thou must come to me. Lay the
babe on the ground, and come for the necklace."

Louise did as she was desired.

The sounds of a struggle again commenced, mixed with Louise's
ejaculations:--"Now, now--dis vill do for you--_une fois_--vonce, twice,
trice round--dat vill do--quite sufficient to kill de giant, or Sir
Marmaduke himself. Now, my lady, I tink de ting is pretty vell done; I
vill trow her into de hedge--dere--now, let us go."

The two ladies went away, and Geordie rushed forward to the place where
they had thrown the child. It was still convulsed. He loosened the
necklace, which had been left by mistake, and blew strongly into the
child's mouth. He heard it sigh, and in a little time breathe; and,
carrying it with the greatest care, he took it home with him to his
mother's house.

"Whar hae ye been, man, and what is this ye hae in your airms?" said
Widow Willison to Geordie, when he went in.

"It's a wee bit birdie I fand in a nest amang the hedges o' Warriston,"
said Geordie. "Its mither didna seem to care aboot it, and I hae brought
it hame wi' me. Gie't a pickle crowdie, puir thing."

Astonished, and partly displeased, Widow Willison took the child out of
her son's arms, and seeing its face swoln and blue, and marks of
strangulation on its neck, her maternal sympathies arose, and she
applied all the articles of a mother's pharmacopoeia with a view to
restore it.

"But whar got ye the bairn, man?" she again inquired. "Gie us nane o'
yer nonsense about birds and hedges. Tell us the story sae as plain folk
can understand it."

"I hae already tauld ye," said Geordie, dryly and slowly; "and it's no
my intention at present to tell ye ony mair aboot it. Ye didna ask whar
_I_ came frae when ye got me first."

"An' wha's to bring up the bairn?" asked the mother, who knew it was in
vain to put the same question twice to Geordie.

"Ye didna ask that question at my faither when _I_ cam hame," replied
the stoic, with one of his peculiar looks; "but, if ye had, maybe ye
wadna hae got sae kind an answer as I'll gie ye: Geordie Willison will
pay for bringing up the bairn; and I'll no answer ony mair o' yer
questions."

Strictly did Geordie keep his word with his mother. He would tell
neither her nor his sister anything about the child. They knew his
temper and disposition, and gradually resigned an importunity which had
the effect of making him more obstinate. At night, when the child's
clothes were taken off, with a view to putting it to bed, Geordie got
hold of them and carried them off, unknown to his mother. He locked them
up in his chest, and, in the morning, when his mother asked him if he
had seen them, he said he knew nothing about them. Annoyed by this
conduct on the part of her son, his mother threatened to throw the child
upon the parish as a foundling; and yet, when she reflected on the
extreme sagacity which was mixed up with her son's peculiarities, and
read in his looks, which she well understood, a more than ordinary
confidence of power to do what he had said, as to bringing up the child,
she hesitated in her purpose, and at last resolved to go in with the
humour and inclinations of her son, and do the duty of a mother to the
babe.

We now change the scene.

"It's a braw day this, my Leddy Maitland," said Geordie, bowing to the
very ground, and holding in his hand a clean sheet of paper, which he
had folded up like a letter, as a passport to her ladyship's presence.

Lady Maitland, who was sitting at her work-table, stared at the person
thus saluting her, and seeing it was Geordie Willison, who had offended
her at the time of his carrying down Sir Marmaduke's luggage, by asking,
jocularly, if "ony o' the bairns were gaun wi' their father," she asked
him sternly what he wanted, and, thinking he had the letter in his hand
to deliver to her, snatched it in a petted manner and opened it. On
finding it a clean sheet of paper, with her address on the back of it,
she got into a great rage, and ran to the bell to call up a lackey to
kick Geordie down stairs.

"Canny, my braw leddy--canny," said Geordie, seizing her hand; "ye are
hasty--maybe no quite recovered yet--the wet dews o' Warriston are no
for the tender health o' the bonny Leddy Maitland; for even Geordie
Willison, wha can ban a' bield i' the cauldest nicht o' winter, felt
them chill and gruesome as he passed through them yestreen."

On hearing this speech, Lady Maitland changed, in an instant, from a
state of violent passion to the rigidity and appearance of a marble
statue.

Eyeing her with one of his peculiar looks, as much as to say, "I know
all," Geordie proceeded.

"I dinna want to put your leddyship to ony trouble by this veesit; but,
being in want o' some siller in thir hard times, I thocht I would tak
the liberty o' ca'in upon yer leddyship, as weel for the sake o' being
better acquainted wi' a leddy o' yer station and presence, as for the
sake o' gettin' the little I require on my first introduction to high
life."

"How much money dost thou require?" asked the lady, with a tremulous
voice.

"Twunty pund, my leddy, twenty pund at the present time," answered
Geordie, with the same simple look; "ye ken the folk haud me for a
natural, and ower fu' a cup is no easy carried, even by the wise. Sae, I
wadna like to trust mysel' wi' mair than twenty pund at a time."

Without saying a word, Lady Maitland went, with trembling steps, and a
hurried and confused manner, to her bureau: she took out her keys--tried
one, then another, and, with some difficulty, at last got it opened. She
counted out twenty pounds, and handed it over to Geordie, who counted it
again with all the precision of a modern banker.

"Thank ye, my leddy," said Geordie; "an' whan I need mair, I'll just tak
the liberty o' makin yer leddyship my banker. Guid day, my leddy." And,
with a low bow, reaching nearly to the ground, he departed.

The result of this interview satisfied Geordie that what he had
suspected was true. Sir Marmaduke had not yet returned, and his lady,
having been unfaithful to him, and given birth to a child, had resolved
upon putting it out of the way, in the manner already detailed. He had
no doubt that the lady thought the child was dead; and he did not wish,
in the meantime, to disturb that notion; for, although he knew that the
circumstance of the child being alive would give him greater power over
her, in the event of her becoming refractory, he was apprehensive that
she would not have allowed the child to remain in his keeping; and
might, in all likelihood, resort to some desperate scheme to destroy it.

On returning home, Geordie drew his seat to the fire, and sat silent.
His mother, who was sitting opposite to him, asked him if he had earned
any money that day, wherewith he could buy some clothes for the child he
had undertaken to bring up. With becoming gravity, and without appearing
to feel that any remarkable change had taken place upon his finances,
Geordie slowly put his hand into his pocket, drew out the twenty pounds,
and gave his mother one for interim expenditure. As he returned the
money into his pocket, he said, with an air of the most supreme
nonchalance, "If ye want ony mair, ye can let me ken."

The mother and daughter looked at each other with surprise and
astonishment, mixed with some pleasure, and, perhaps, some apprehension.
Neither of them put any question as to where the money had been got; for
Geordie's look had already informed them that any such question would
not be answered.

Meanwhile, no great change seemed to have been produced in Geordie
Willison's manner of living, in consequence of his having become
comparatively rich. He lounged about the streets, joking with his
acquaintances--went his messages--sometimes appeared with a crowd of
boys after him--dressed in the same style--and, altogether, was just the
same kind of person he used to be.

Time passed, and precisely on the same day next year he went to Lady
Maitland's. In the passage, he was met by the housekeeper, Louise
Grecourt, who asked him what he wanted. He looked at her intently, and
recognised in this person's voice the same tones which had arrested his
ears so forcibly on the night of the attempted murder of the child. To
make himself more certain of this, Geordie led her into conversation.

"I want my Leddy Maitland," answered Geordie--"are ye her leddyship?"

"No," answered the housekeeper, with a kick of her head, which Geordie
took as a sign that his bait had been swallowed; "I am not Lady
Maitland--I am in de charge of her ladyship's house. Vat you vant vit
her ladyship? Can Louise Grecourt not satisfy a fellow like you?"

"No exactly at present," answered Geordie; "tell her leddyship that
Geordie Willison wants to speak to her."

Louise started when he mentioned his name, certifying Geordie that she
was in the secret of his knowledge. Her manner changed. She became all
condescension; and, leading him up stairs, opened a door, and showed him
into a room where Lady Maitland was sitting.

"I houp yer leddyship," began Geordie, with a low bow, "has been quite
weel sin' I had the honour o' yer acquaintanceship, whilk is now a year,
come twa o'clock o' this day. Ye micht maybe be thinking we were gaun to
fa' out o' acquaintanceship; but I'm no ane o' yer conceited creatures
wha despise auld freends, and rin after new anes, merely because they
may think them brawer--sae ye may keep yer mind easy on that score; and
I wad farther tak the liberty to assure yer leddyship that, if ye hae
ony siller by ye at present, I winna hesitate to gie ye a proof o' the
continuance o' my freendship, by offerin' to tak frae ye as meikle as I
may need."

"How much is that?" asked Lady Maitland.

"Twunty pund, my leddy, twunty pund," answered Geordie.

The money was handed to him by the lady, without saying a word; and,
having again made a low bow, he departed.

Next year, Geordie Willison went and paid a visit to Lady Maitland, got
from her the same sum of money, and nothing passed to indicate what it
was paid for. The lady clearly remained under the impression that the
child was not in existence.

It happened that, some time after the last payment, Geordie was on the
pier of Leith, with a view to fall in with some chance message or
carriage to Edinburgh. A vessel had newly arrived from the Continent,
and one of the passengers was Sir Marmaduke Maitland. Geordie was
employed to assist in getting his luggage removed to Edinburgh. On
arriving at the house, Lady Maitland, with Louise behind her, was
standing on the landing-place to receive her husband. They saw Geordie
walking alongside of him, and talking to him in the familiar manner
which his alleged silliness in many cases entitled him to do; but
whatever they may have felt or expressed, by looks or otherwise, Geordie
seemed not to be any way out of his ordinary manner, and they soon
observed, from the conduct of Sir Marmaduke, that Geordie had said
nothing to him. Geordie bustled about, assisting to take out the
luggage, while Sir Marmaduke was standing in the lobby with his lady
alongside of him.

"Is there any news stirring in these parts, Geordie, worth telling to
one who has been from his own country so long as I have been."

"Naething worth mentioning, Sir Marmaduke," answered Geordie; "a'thing
quiet, decent, and orderly i' the toun and i' the country--no excepting
your ain house here, whar I hae missed mony a gude luck-penny sin' your
honour departed."

"Has Lady Maitland not been in the habit of employing you, then,
Geordie?" asked Sir Marmaduke.

"No exactly, Sir Marmaduke," answered Geordie; "the last time I ca'ed
on her leddyship, she asked me what I wanted. I didna think it quite
ceevil, and I haena gane back; but I canna deny that she paid me
handsomely for the last thing I carried for her. She's a fine leddy, Sir
Marmaduke, and meikle credit to ye."

At any subsequent period, when Geordie's yearly pension was due, he
generally contrived to call for Lady Maitland when Sir Marmaduke was out
of the way. He took always the same amount of money. The only departure
he made from this custom was in the year of his sister's marriage, when
he asked and got a sum of forty pounds, twenty of which he gave to her.
Her husband, George Dempster, had at one time been a butler in Lady
Maitland's family; but her ladyship did not know either that he was
acquainted with George Willison, or that he was now married to his
sister. We may explain that George Dempster was in the family at
the time when Geordie brought home the child; and, in some of his
conversations with his wife, he did not hesitate to say that he
suspected that Lady Maitland bore a child to a French lackey, who was
then about the house; but the child never made its appearance, and
strong grounds existed for believing that it was made away with. Geordie
himself sometimes heard these stories; but he affected to be altogether
indifferent to them, putting a silly question to Dempster, as if he had
just awakened from sleep, and had forgot the thread of the discourse,
and, when he got his answer, pretending to fall asleep again.

In the meantime the young foundling, who had been christened Jessie
Warriston, by Geordie's desire, grew up to womanhood. She became,
in every respect, the picture of her mother--tall and noble in her
appearance. Her hair was jet black, and her eye partook of the same
colour, with a lustre that dazzled the beholder. Her manners were
cheerful and kind; and she was grateful for the most ordinary attentions
paid to her by Widow Willison, or her daughter--the latter of whom often
took her out with her to the house of Ludovic Brodie, commonly called
Birkiehaugh, a nephew of Sir Marmaduke Maitland, with whom George
Dempster was serving as butler, in his temporary house, about a mile
south from Edinburgh.

This young laird had seen Jessie Warriston, and been struck with her
noble appearance. He asked Dempster who she was, and was told that she
was a young person who lived with one of his wife's friends. Brodie,
whose character was that of a most unprincipled rake, often endeavoured
to make up to Jessie, as she went backwards and forwards between his
house and Widow Willison's. In all endeavours he had been unsuccessful;
for Jessie--independently of being aware, from the admonitions of the
pious Widow Willison, that an acquaintanceship with a person above her
degree was improper and dangerous--had a lover of her own, a young man
of the name of William Forbes, a clerk to Mr. Carstairs, an advocate,
at that time in great practice at the Scotch bar. Forbes generally
accompanied Jessie when she went out at night, after she told him that
Brodie had insulted her; and she discontinued her visits to George
Dempster.

Foiled by the precautions which Jessie took to avoid him, Brodie only
became more determined to get his object gratified. He meditated various
schemes for this purpose. He turned off Dempster, who might have been a
spy upon his conduct; and it was remarked, by the people living near
to Widow Willison's, that a woman, rolled up in a cloak, had been seen
watching about the door. Geordie, though apparently not listening to any
of these transactions, was all alive to the interests of his foundling.
He kept a constant eye upon the neighbourhood, and did not fail to
observe, that a woman, of the description stated, came always, at a
certain hour, near his mother's door, about the time that Jessie
generally went out.

Now, Geordie was determined to know, by some means, who this woman was;
and, as the day was drawing in, he thought he might disguise himself in
such a way as to get into conversation with her.

Having equipped himself in the garb of a cadie, of more respectable
appearance than he himself exhibited, and put a black patch over his
eye, and a broad slouched hat over his head, Geordie took his station to
watch the woman in the cloak.

"Wha may ye be waitin' for?" said Geordie, in a feigned voice, to the
woman, whom he at last found.

"Are you von of de cadies?" asked the woman.

"Yes," answered Geordie.

"Do you live in de neighbourhood?" asked again the woman.

"I wadna live in ony ither place war ye to pay me for't," answered
Geordie.

"Very good--dat is a very good answer," said the woman; "dere is a
little money for you."

"I dinna tak siller for tellin' folk whar I live," said Geordie; "but,
if there's onything else I can, in my capacity o' cadie, do for ye,
maybe I may then condescend to tak yer siller."

"_Mon Dieu!_ vat a trange fellow!" ejaculated the woman. "Vell, can you
tell me if a young woman, carrying the name of Jessie Varriston, lives
up dat stair?" pointing with her hand.

"I ken the lassie as weel as I ken mysel," answered Geordie; "she lives
just whar ye hae said."

"Very goot--very goot--dat is just vat I vant--_un sage homme_
dis--excellent goot chap. Now, tell me if de girl lives vit an imbecile
that is von idiot, called George Villison, and how long she has lived
vit him, vere she comes from, and vat is her history."

"Ye hae asked four questions a' in ae breath," said Geordie, who wanted
a prologue, to give him time to consider how much he could say, so as to
serve the two purposes of safety and drawing out the woman at the same
time. "It's no quite fair, to an ignorant man like me, to put sae mony
questions at a time; but it's my wish to serve ye, an' I'll do my best
to answer them. Jessie Warriston lives wi' the idiot cratur Geordie
Willison's mither, and she has lived wi' her for seventeen years, that
is, since she was a bit bairn. I'm thinking she'll be a granddochter o'
Widow Willison's--dinna ye think sae yersel'?"

"De brute!" muttered the woman to herself--"de brute is begun, like all
de rest of his countrymen, to put de interrogation ven he should give de
respond. You do not know den de girl's history, do you not?"

"No, but maybe I may be able to get it for ye," answered Geordie,
unwilling to be dismissed _simpliciter_.

"Very vell, anoter time--I vish you, in de meantime, to carry dis letter
to Ludovic Brodie, Esq. of Birkiehaugh. Do you know vere he lives?"

"I will carry it wi' the greatest o' pleasure, madam," answered Geordie.

The woman handed him the letter, with some more money, and departed.

Geordie got the letter speedily read to him by a person in his
confidence. It was in these terms:--

"Mon cher Ludovic,--Jessie Varriston lives vit de idiot, Geordie
Villison, in Leit Vynd. De bearer of dis knows her very vell, and vill
assist you in de abduction. My Lady Maitland and I both tink we know her
too; bot we do not vish at present to let any von know dis, for certain
reasons, vich we cannot explain to you. Ven you arrange vit de bearer to
carry her off, let me know, and I vill do every ting in my power to
assist you, as my lady has a grand vish for de abduction of de vench
vithout procrastination. My lady does not know of my having given you
intelligence of her being up to de affair.--Yours till death.

"LOUISE GRECOURT."

From this letter, Geordie saw plainly that Lady Maitland and Louise had,
at last, got some information regarding Jessie, which had led them to
suspect that she was the child they had supposed to be dead. It was
clear, however, that Brodie knew nothing of their suspicions, and the
two parties were, undoubtedly, after the same game, with different
objects and for different reasons. Having folded the letter and sealed
it, so as to avoid suspicion, Geordie went out and delivered it into the
hands of Birkiehaugh.

Brodie, having read the letter, examined Geordie from head to
heel--"Canst thou be trusted, man, in an affair requiring secrecy and
ability to execute it?" asked he.

"Do you see ony thing aboot me to produce ony doubt o' my ability or my
secrecy?" answered Geordie. "Nae man will coup wi' Peter Finlayson in
ony expedition whar death, danger, or exposure are to be avoided, or
whar ability to plan, an' quickness to execute, and cunnin' to conceal,
are things o' consideration or importance."

"Well, Peter, I believe thou art the man. I wish to carry off the girl,
Jessie Warriston, to-morrow night--canst thou assist me in that
enterprise?"

"It's just in the like o' thae bits o' ploys that the genius o' Peter
Finlayson lies," answered Geordie. "I ken the lassie maist intimately,
and can bring her to ony appointed spot at ony hour ye please to name."

"To-morrow night, then," said Brodie, "at eight o'clock, at the
resting-stone at the top of the Leith Lone; knowest thou the place?"

"I do," answered Geordie; "and shall attend; but ye ken, I suppose, the
difference that lies atween the ordinary jobs o' us cadies, and the
like o' thae michty emprises, whar life and limb, and honour and
reputation, are concerned. In the first case, the pay comes after
the wark--in the ither, the wark comes after the pay; an' it's richt
natural, whan ye think o't; because I hae often seen the city guard kick
the wark and the warkmen to the deevil in an instant, and the puir cadie
gets only broken banes for his pains."

"There, then," said Brodie, "there is half of thy fee; the other shall
be given when thou bringest the girl."

"Vera weel," said Geordie, counting the gold pieces; "and thank ye. I
wunna fail in my duty, I warrant ye."

Next night, at the time and place appointed, Geordie attended with his
charge. He found Brodie in waiting with a carriage, in which was seated
Louise. Jessie was told to enter, and complied. Brodie jumped in, and
Geordie held out his hand for the other half of the fee, which he
received. He now slipped a piece of twine round the handle of the
carriage, so as to prevent it from being opened; and, in a moment
vaulted up beside the coachman, whose hat, as if by mere accident, he
knocked off.

"Gie me up my bannet, ye whelp," said the coachman, angrily.

"Cadies are no cadies to coachmen," answered Geordie, dryly; "your
brains maun be far spent, man, when they canna keep a house ower their
head."

The coachman jumped down for his hat, and Geordie, applying the whip to
the horses, was off in an instant. The coachman cried, "Stop the coach!"
Brodie, thinking it was a chase, cried to drive like the devil. Geordie
obeyed to the letter, and dashed on like lightning.

The coach stopped, and was instantly surrounded by a number of people,
who opened the door, and pulling the three inmates out, led them into
a large building, the door of which was double-bolted, and made a
tremendous noise as it revolved on its hinges. The party were taken up
stairs, and introduced (Geordie leading the way with his hat in his
hand) into a large room, where several people were present, apparently
waiting for them.

"I beg leave to introduce," said Geordie, bowing low, "to yer lordship,
the sheriff--wha has dune us the honour to receive us at this time in
sae safe a place as the jail, whar we are perfectly free frae a'
interruption--his honour, Ludovic Brodie, Esq. o' Birkiehaugh, and her
highness, Louise Grecourt, a French leddy o' repute. They are anxious to
receive ye

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