I would accompany him in a short walk. Notwithstanding his erect and
easy carriage, there was a feebleness in his gait, which he strove in
vain to contend against; and it was but too evident that a broken
spirit, added to a shattered constitution, would speedily bring him to
his grave.
Leading the way into the churchyard, to my surprise he stopped at the
resting-place of the ill-starred lady, the story of whose untimely end I
had so patiently listened to the last time I visited Altonby.
"I am exceedingly fortunate," said the captain, "in having met with one
so kind as you, to cheer the last moments of my earthly pilgrimage. You
smile--nay, I can assure you that I feel I am not long for this world.
The object of my visit to this spot, to-night, is to ask you to do me
the favour, when I am dead, of seeing my remains laid here--here, beside
this grave, o'er which the grass grows longer than on those around;" and
he pointed to the grave of Clara Douglas. After a moment, he
continued:--"Unlike other men, you have never annoyed me by seeking to
inquire of me, who or what I am; and, believe me, I feel grateful for
it. I would not wish that you should ever know the history of the being
who stands before you. When the earth closes over my coffin, think of
him no more."
Although the captain had done me the honour of calling me unlike other
men--a distinction most folks are so exceedingly desirous of
obtaining--I must own that I had hitherto felt no common degree of
curiosity concerning him; and now that there was no prospect of it being
gratified, its desire increased tenfold, and I would now have given
worlds, if I had had them, to have learned something of the birth,
parentage, and education of the captain.
"And now," he added, "I beseech you, leave me for a short time--I would
be alone."
In silence I complied, sauntering outside the ruins, and seeking to
find, in my old avocation of perusing the tombstones, the wherewithal to
kill the time during which the captain held communion with the dead; for
I could not help thinking that it was for such a cause he had desired to
be left to himself.
Ten--twenty minutes passed, and the captain did not appear. I retraced
my steps, and again entered the ruins, by the farther end. The gloom
which prevailed around--the monuments which intervened--and, above all,
the distance at which I then was from the grave of Clara
Douglas--prevented me from descrying the captain. I had advanced a few
paces when I heard voices in high altercation. I stopped; and, as I did
so, one of the speakers, in whose clear intonation I could recognise the
captain, said--"On my word, I returned here the instant my wounds were
healed--I returned to marry her--and my grief could not be equalled by
your's when I heard of her melancholy fate."
"Liar!" exclaimed the other; "you ne'er intended such. My sister's
wrongs call out aloud for vengeance; and here--here, between her grave
and that of our sainted mother--your blood shall be offered up in
atonement."
This was instantly followed by the report of a pistol. I rushed forward,
and beheld, O horror! the captain stretched upon the ground, and the
blood streaming from a wound in his breast. I caught a glimpse of his
assassin, as he fled from the church; it was the stranger whom I had
seen, on a former visit, at the grave of Clara Douglas, and beside the
fir-tree where her remains had been found. I made a motion to follow
him, but the captain waved me back--"Let him go," said he; "I forgive
him. I have no wish that he should die upon the scaffold." So saying, he
fell back exhausted; and, in my haste to procure assistance for him, I
quite forgot the assassin, until it was too late.
The captain was conveyed to the Black Swan, where, with Mary to attend
his every want, he was, no doubt, as comfortable as if he had had a home
to go to, and a beloved wife to smooth his dying pillow. Mary bestowed
more than ordinary care and attention upon him, which, although she had
declared to me that she could never love the captain so well as to marry
him, should he ever condescend to make the offer, brought back
occasionally a pang of jealousy to my heart. I could not exactly
understand the extent of her regard for him.
Having business to transact at a neighbouring town, I left Altonby the
next day, with a determination to return, ere the lapse of a week, to
see the captain, I feared for the last time. I had been but two days
gone, when I received a note from Mary, informing me that he was daily
becoming worse, and that it was the fear of his medical attendant that
he could not live four-and-twenty hours. With the utmost speed, I
therefore hastened back to the Black Swan, where, indeed, I saw that the
surgeon had had quite sufficient reason for his prediction--the captain
was greatly altered since I last saw him. Wan and emaciated, he lay in
resignation upon his couch, calmly waiting the approach of death. He
seemed quite composed.
Taking my hand in his, he reminded me of his wish regarding his
burial-place. I assured him that it should strictly be complied with. A
smile lighted up his pale countenance for an instant, as I pledged
myself to this. He then drew from under his pillow a parcel of letters,
tied together with a faded ribbon, and desired me to consign them, one
by one to the flames. With an eager eye, and a countenance full of
excitement, did he watch them as they consumed away. I did not dare to
examine minutely the address on the letters, but, from the glance I had
of them, I could see they were all written in an elegant female hand.
When all were gone--"And this," said he, "is like to human life--a blaze
but for an instant, and then all is ashes." He paused, and then
continued, as he held a small packet in his hand, more in soliloquy than
if he were addressing me--"Here is the last sad relic I possess--shall
I?--Yes! yes! it shall go as the others have gone. How soon may I follow
it?" He stretched forth his hand towards me. I took the packet.
Instantly, as if the last tie which bound him to the earth had been
hastily snapped asunder, the captain fell backwards upon his couch. I
thrust the packet into my bosom, and ran to afford him assistance. He
was beyond human help--he was dead!
The grief of Mary knew no bounds when the dismal tidings were conveyed
to her; she was like one distracted. Mine was more chastened and
subdued.
The remains of the captain were duly consigned to that spot of earth he
had pointed out to me. After his death, there was found a conveyance of
all his property, which was pretty considerable, to Mary, accompanied
with a wish that I would marry her. To this arrangement Mary was quite
agreeable; and accordingly, our nuptials were solemnized in about six
months after the death of the captain. It was then that Mary confided to
me that she was the sister of Clara Douglas; but when I made inquiry at
her concerning the nature of her attachment to the captain, she always
avoided answering, and seemed not to wish that his name should be
mentioned in her hearing.
Several years passed, and I had forgotten all about the packet which the
captain on his death-bed had placed in my hand, till one day, in looking
for something else, which, of course, I could not find--(no one ever
finds what he wants)--I accidentally stumbled upon the packet. Curiosity
induced me to open it. A lock of black hair, tied with a piece of
light-blue ribbon, and a letter, were its contents. Part of the letter
ran thus:--"Enclosed is some of my hair--I don't expect you to keep it,
for I have heard you say you did not like to have any such thing in your
possession. I will not _ask_ you, lest I might be refused; but if you
give me some, I'll get it put into one of my rings, and shall never,
never part with it." This letter bore the signature of Clara Douglas!
Here, then, was a solution of all the mystery. The captain was the lover
of Clara, and this had been the cause of Mary's intimacy with him.
Of the fate of the brother I afterwards heard. He was killed in a street
brawl one night in Paris, and Mary never knew that he was the assassin
of the captain.
THE FAIR.
You may smile, reader, at the idea of a story entitled--THE FAIR; but
read on, and you may find it an appropriate title to a touching, though
simple tale. This may seem like the writer's praising his own
production--but that is neither here nor there amongst authors--it is
done every day; and not amongst authors only, but amongst all trades,
crafts, and professions. If a man does not speak well of his own wares,
whom does he expect to do it for him, when every person is busy selling
wares of his own? You know the saying--"He's a silly gardener that
lichtlies his ain leeks." But to go on with THE FAIR. On a Fair day,
nature always turns out hundreds of her best human specimens of
unsophisticated workmanship. Did you ever examine the countenances of a
rustic group around a stall covered with oranges and sweetmeats--a bevy
of rustic beauties, besieging the heart and the pockets of a rural
bachelor of two-and-twenty? The colour of one countenance is deep and
various as the rainbow--a second emulates the rose--a third the
carnation--while the face of a fourth, who is deemed the old maid of her
companions, is sallow as a daffodil after a north wind. There blue eyes
woo, and dark eyes glance affection, and ruby lips open with the jocund
laugh; and there, too, you may trace the workings of jealousy, rivalry,
and envy, and other passions less gentle than love, according as the
oranges and gingerbread happen to be divided amongst the fair
recipients. You, too, have heard the drum beat for glory, and the shrill
note of the fife ring through the streets, while a portly sergeant, with
a sword bright as a sunbeam, and unsheathed in his hand, flaunted his
smart cockade, or belike shook a well lined purse as he marched along,
or, halting at intervals, shook it again, while he harangued the gaping
crowd--"Now, my lads--now is the time for fortune and glory! There, by
Jupiter! there is the look--the shoulders--the limbs--the gait of a
captain at least! Join us, my noble fellow, and your fortune is
made--your promotion is certain! God save the King! Down with the
French!"--"Down wi' them!" cries a young countryman, flushed with "the
barley bree," and, borrowing the sword of the sergeant, waves it
uncouthly round his head--feels himself a hero--a Sampson--a Caesar--all
the glories of Napoleon seem extinguished beneath his sword arm. "Down
wi' them!" he cries again more vehemently, and again--"Hurra for the
life of a sodger!"--and the next moment the ribbon streams from his
Sunday hat. On such incidents turns our present story.
Willie Forbes was a hind in Berwickshire. He was also the only child and
the sole support of a widowed mother, and she loved him as the soul
loveth the hope of immortality; for Willie was a dutiful son and a kind
one, and, withal, one of whom many mothers in Scotland might have been
proud; for his person was goodly as his heart was affectionate; and
often as his mother surveyed his stately figure, she thought to
herself--as a mother will--that "there wasna a marrow to her Willie in
a' braid Scotland." Now, it chanced that, before Willie had completed
his twenty-third year, they were "in need of a bit lassie," as his
mother said, "to keep up the bondage." Willie, therefore, went to Dunse
hiring, to engage a servant; but, as fate would have it, he seemed to
fix upon the most unlikely maiden for field-work in the market. At a
corner of the market-place, as if afraid to enter the crowd, stood a
lovely girl of about eighteen. Her name was Menie Morrison. "Are ye for
hiring the day, hinny?" said Willie, kindly. "Yes," was the low and
faltering reply. "And what place was ye at last?" "I never was in
service," said she; and as she said this, she faltered more. "An' where
does your father live--what is he?" continued Willie. "He is dead,"
answered Menie, with a sigh. Willie paused for a few moments, and
added--"And your mother?" "Dead, too!" replied the maiden; and tears
gushed into her eyes. "Puir thing! puir thing!" said Willie; "weel, I'm
sure I dinna ken what to say till't." "You may look at this," said she;
and she put into his hands a slip of paper. It was her character from
the minister of the parish where she had been brought up. "That's very
excellent," said Willie, returning the paper; "very satisfactory--very,
indeed. But--can ye--can ye hoe?" added he, hesitatingly. "Not well,"
answered she. "I like that, that's honest," added he; "hoein's easy
learned. Can ye milk a cow?" "No," she replied. "That's a pity,"
returned Willie. But he looked again in her face; he saw the tear still
there. It was like the sun gilding a summer cloud after a shower--it
rendered her face more beautiful. "Weel, it's nae great matter," added
he; "my mother can learn ye." And Willie Forbes hired Menie Morrison
through his heart. In a short time, Menie became an excellent servant.
Willie and his mother called her--"_our_ Menie." She loved her as a
daughter, he as a man loveth the wife of his bosom; and Menie loved both
in return. She had been two years in their service, and the wedding-day
of Menie and Willie was to be in three months. For a few weeks, Willie,
from his character and abilities, had been appointed farm-steward. He
looked forward to the day when he should be able to take a farm of his
own, and Menie would be the mistress of it.
But Berwick Fair came--Willie had a cow to sell, and Menie was to
accompany him to the fair. Now, the cow was sold, and Willie was
"gallanting" Menie and three or four of her companions about the
streets. He could not do less than bestow a fairing upon each; and he
led them to a booth where the usual luxuries of a fair were spread out.
At the booth, Willie found his master's daughter with some of her own
acquaintances. She was dressed more gaily than Menie Morrison, and her
face was also fair to look upon, but it wanted the soul, the charm that
glowed in the countenance of the humble orphan. It had long been
whispered about the farm-stead, and at the farm-steads around it, that
"Miss Jean was fond o' Willie Forbes;" and some even said that it was
through her partiality he obtained his stewardship. Menie had heard
this, and it troubled her; for more easily than a breath moves the down
on the thistle, will a word move the breast of a woman that loves. Miss
Jean accosted the young steward for her fairing. "Ye shall hae that,"
said Willie, "but there's naething guid enough here for the like o'
_you_--come awa to ane o' the shops." So saying, he disengaged his arm
from Menie Morrison's, and without thinking of what he did, offered it
to his master's daughter, and left Menie and her friends at the booth.
Poor Menie stood motionless, a mist seemed to gather before her eyes,
and the crowd passed before her as a dream. "Ye see how it is," observed
her companions; "_naething here guid enough for her_!--if ye speak to
him again, Menie, ye deserve to beg on the causie!" Her pride was
wounded--her heart was touched--a cloud fell upon her affections. Such
is human nature that it frequently happens revenge and love are at each
other's elbows.
Now, Menie was not without other admirers; and it so happened that one
of these, who had more pretensions to this world's goods than Willie
Forbes, came up at the moment, while her bosom was struggling with
bitter feelings. For the first time Menie turned not away at his
approach. He was more liberal in his fairings than Willie could have
been. As the custom then was, and in some instances still is, there were
the sounds of music and dancing. Willie's rival pressed Menie and her
companions to "step up and hae a reel." They complied, and she
accompanied them, scarce knowing what she did.
In a few minutes Willie returned to the booth, but Menie was not there.
His eyes wandered among the crowd--he walked up and down the streets,
but he found her not. Something told him he had done wrong--he had
slighted Menie. At length a "good-natured friend" informed him she was
dancing with young Laird Lister. The intelligence was wormwood to his
spirit. He hastened to the dancing-room, and there he beheld Menie, "the
observed of all observers," gliding among her rustic companions lightly
as you have seen a butterfly kiss a flower. For a moment and he was
proud to look upon her as the queen of the room; but he saw his rival
hand her to a seat and his blood boiled. He approached her. She returned
his salutation with a cold glance. Another reel had been danced--Willie
offered her his hand for her partner in the next. "I'm engaged," said
the hitherto gentle Menie; "but maybe Miss Jean will hae nae
objections--_if there's onything guid enough for her here_." At that
moment, Willie's rival put his arm through Menie's--she stood by his
side--the music struck up, and away they glided through the winding
dance! Willie uttered a short, desperate oath, which we dare not write,
and hurried from the room. But scarce had he left, till confusion and a
sickness of heart came upon Menie. She went wrong in the dance--she
stood still--her bosom heaved to bursting--she uttered a cry, and fell
upon the floor.
She, in her turn, felt that she had done wrong, and, on recovering, left
her companions, and returned home alone. She doubted not but Willie was
there before her. The road seemed longer than it had ever done before;
for her heart was heavy. She reached his mother's cottage. She listened
at the door--she heard not Willie's voice; and she trembled she knew not
why. She entered. The old woman rose to meet her. "Weel, hinny," said
she, "hae ye got back again? What sort o' a fair has there been? Where
is Willie?" Menie turned towards the bink, to lay aside her bonnet, and
was silent. "What's the matter wi' ye, bairn?" continued the old woman;
"is Willie no wi' ye; where is he?" "He is comin', I _fancy_," returned
Menie; and she sobbed as she spoke. "Bairn! bairn! there's something no
richt," cried the mother, "between ye. Some foolish quarrel, I warrant.
But tell me what he's done; and for sending my Menie hame greetin',
I'll gie him a hamecomin'!" "No, no, it wasna Willie's wyte," replied
Menie, "it was mine--it was a' mine. But dinna be angry." And here the
maiden unbosomed her grief, and the old woman took part with her,
saying--"Son as he's mine, ye just served him as he deserved, Menie."
Her heart grew lighter as her story was told, and they sat by the window
together watching one party after another return from the fair. But
Willie was not amongst them; and as it began to wax late, and
acquaintances passed, Menie ran to inquire of them if they had seen
anything of Willie; and they shook their heads and said, "No." And it
grew later and later, till the last party who left the fair had passed,
singing as they went along; but still there were no tidings of Willie.
Midnight came, and the morning came, but he came not. His mother became
miserable, and, in the bitterness of her heart, she upbraided Menie, and
Menie wept the more. They sat watching through the night and through the
morning, listening to every sound. They heard the lark begin his song,
the poultry leap from their roost, the cows low on the milk-maidens, and
the ploughman prepare for the field; yet Willie made not his appearance.
Time grew on till mid-day, and the misery of the mother and of Menie
increased. The latter was still dressed in the apparel she had worn on
the previous day, and the former throwing on her Sunday gown, they
proceeded to the town together to seek for him. They inquired as they
went along, and from one they received the information, "I thought I saw
him wi' the sodgers in the afternoon." The words were as if a lightning
had fallen on Menie's heart--his mother wrung her hands in agony, and
cried, "My ruined bairn!" And she cast a look on poor Menie that had
more meaning than kindness in it.
They reached the town, and as they reached it, a vessel was drawing
from the quay--she had recruits on board, who were to be landed at
Chatham, from whence they were to be shipped to India. Amongst those
recruits was Willie Forbes. When he rushed in madness from the
dancing-room, he met a recruiting party on the street--he accompanied
them to their quarters--he drank with them--out of madness and revenge
he drank--he enlisted--he drank again--his indignation kindled against
Menie and against his rival--he again swore at the remembrance of her
refusing him her hand--he drank deeper--his parent was forgotten--he
took the bounty--he was sworn in--and while the fumes of the liquor yet
raged in his brain, maddening him on and drowning reflection, he was
next day embarked for Chatham. The vessel had not sailed twenty yards
from the quay--Willie and his companions were waving their hats, and
giving three cheers as they pulled off--when two women rushed along the
quay. The elder stretched out her arms to the vessel; she cried wildly,
"Gie me back my bairn!--Willie! Willie Forbes!" He heard her screams
above the huzza of the recruits--he knew his mother's voice--he saw his
Menie's dishevelled hair; the poisonous drink died within him--his hat
dropped from his hand--he sprang upon the side of the vessel--he was
about to plunge into the river, when he was seized by the soldiers and
dragged below. A shriek rang from his mother and from Menie; those who
stood around them tried to comfort and pity them; and, by all but
themselves, in a few days the circumstance was forgotten.
"Who will provide for me now, when my Willie is gane?" mourned the
disconsolate widow, when the first days of her grief had passed. "I
will," answered Menie Morrison; "and your home shall be my home, and my
bread your bread, and the Husband o' the widow, and the Father o' the
orphan, will bring our Willie back again." The old woman pressed her to
her breast, and called her "her mair than daughter." They left the
farm-stead, and rented a very small cottage at some miles' distance, and
there, to provide for her adopted mother, Menie kept two cows; and, in
the neighbouring markets, her butter was first sold, and her poultry
brought the best price. But she toiled in the harvest-field--she sewed,
she knitted, she span--she was the laundress of the gentry in the
neighbourhood--she was beloved of all, and nothing came wrong to bonny
Menie Morrison. Four years had passed, and they had twice heard from
Willie, who had obtained the rank of sergeant. But the fifth year had
begun, and, from a family in the neighbourhood, Menie had received
several newspapers, that, as she said, she "might read to her mother
what was gaun on at the wars." She was reading an account of one of the
first victories of Wellington in the east, and she passed on to what was
entitled a GALLANT EXPLOIT. Her voice suddenly faltered--the paper shook
in her hands. "What is't--oh! what is't, Menie?" cried the old woman;
"is't onything aboot Willie?--My bairn's no dead?" Menie could not
reply; she pressed her hands before her eyes and wept aloud. "My son! my
son!" exclaimed the wretched widow--"oh! is my bairn dead?" The
paragraph which had filled Menie with anguish, stated that a daring
assault had been led on by Sergeant Forbes of the 21st, after his
superiors had fallen; but that _he also fell mortally wounded_ in the
moment of victory. I will not attempt to paint their sorrow. Menie put
on the garments of widowhood for Willie, and she mourned for him not
only many but every day. He had fallen in the arms of glory, yet she
accused herself as his murderer.