Isab.--Alas! what poor abilityís in me
To do him good?
Lucio.--Assay the power you have.
Measure for Measure.
When Mrs. Saddletree entered the apartment in which her guests had
shrouded their misery, she found the window darkened. The feebleness
which followed his long swoon had rendered it necessary to lay the old
man in bed. The curtains were drawn around him, and Jeanie sate
motionless by the side of the bed. Mrs. Saddletree was a woman of
kindness, nay, of feeling, but not of delicacy. She opened the half-shut
window, drew aside the curtain, and, taking her kinsman by the hand,
exhorted him to sit up, and bear his sorrow like a good man, and a
Christian man, as he was. But when she quitted his hand, it fell
powerless by his side, nor did he attempt the least reply.
“Is all over?” asked Jeanie, with lips and cheeks as pale as ashes,--“and
is there nae hope for her?”
“Nane, or next to nane,” said Mrs. Saddletree; “I heard the Judge-carle
say it with my ain ears--It was a burning shame to see sae mony oí them
set up yonder in their red gowns and black gowns, and to take the life oí
a bit senseless lassie. I had never muckle broo oí my gudemanís gossips,
and now I like them waur than ever. The only wiselike thing I heard
onybody say, was decent Mr. John Kirk of Kirk-knowe, and he wussed them
just to get the kingís mercy, and nae mair about it. But he spake to
unreasonable folk--he might just hae keepit his breath to hae blawn on
his porridge.”
“But _can_ the king gie her mercy?” said Jeanie, earnestly. “Some folk
tell me he canna gie mercy in cases of mur in cases like hers.”
“_Can_ he gie mercy, hinny?--I weel I wot he can, when he likes. There
was young Singlesword, that stickit the Laird of Ballencleuch, and
Captain Hackum, the Englishman, that killed Lady Colgrainís gudeman, and
the Master of Saint Clair, that shot the twa Shaws,* and mony mair in my
time--to be sure they were gentle blood, and had their kin to speak for
them--And there was Jock Porteous the other day--Iíse warrant thereís
mercy, an folk could win at it.”
* [In 1828, the Author presented to the Roxburgh Club a curious volume
containing the “Proceedings in the Court-Martial held upon John, Master
of Sinclair, for the murder of Ensign Schaw, and Captain Schaw, 17th
October 1708.”]
“Porteous?” said Jeanie; “very true--I forget aí that I suld maist mind.--
Fare ye weel, Mrs. Saddletree; and may ye never want a friend in the
hour of distress!”
“Will ye no stay wií your father, Jeanie, bairn?--Ye had better,” said
Mrs. Saddletree.
“I will be wanted ower yonder,” indicating the Tolbooth with her hand,
“and I maun leave him now, or I will never be able to leave him. I fearna
for his life--I ken how strong-hearted he is--I ken it,” she said, laying
her hand on her bosom, “by my ain heart at this minute.”
“Weel, hinny, if ye think itís for the best, better he stay here and rest
him, than gang back to St. Leonardís.”
“Muckle better--muckle better--God bless you!--God bless you!--At no rate
let him gang till ye hear frae me,” said Jeanie.
“But yeíll be back belive?” said Mrs. Saddletree, detaining her; “they
winna let ye stay yonder, hinny.”
“But I maun gang to St. Leonardís--thereís muckle to be dune, and little
time to do it in--And I have friends to speak to--God bless you--take
care of my father.”
She had reached the door of the apartment, when, suddenly turning, she
came back, and knelt down by the bedside.--“O father, gie me your
blessing--I dare not go till ye bless me. Say but ëGod bless ye, and
prosper ye, Jeanieí--try but to say that!”
Instinctively, rather than by an exertion of intellect, the old man
murmured a prayer, that “purchased and promised blessings might be
multiplied upon her.”
“He has blessed mine errand,” said his daughter, rising from her knees,
“and it is borne in upon my mind that I shall prosper.”
So saying, she left the room.
Mrs. Saddletree looked after her, and shook her head. “I wish she binna
roving, poor thing--Thereís something queer about aí thae Deanses. I
dinna like folk to be sae muckle better than other folk--seldom comes
gude oít. But if sheís gaun to look after the kye at St. Leonardís,
thatís another story; to be sure they maun be sorted.--Grizzie, come up
here, and tak tent to the honest auld man, and see he wants naething.--Ye
silly tawpie” (addressing the maid-servant as she entered), “what garríd
ye busk up your cockemony that gate?--I think thereís been enough the day
to gie an awfaí warning about your cockups and your fallal duds--see what
they aí come to,” etc. etc. etc.
Leaving the good lady to her lecture upon worldly vanities, we must
transport our reader to the cell in which the unfortunate Effie Deans was
now immured, being restricted of several liberties which she had enjoyed
before the sentence was pronounced.
When she had remained about an hour in the state of stupified horror so
natural in her situation, she was disturbed by the opening of the jarring
bolts of her place of confinement, and Ratcliffe showed himself. “Itís
your sister,” he said, “wants to speak tíye, Effie.”
“I canna see naebody,” said Effie, with the hasty irritability which
misery had rendered more acute--“I canna see naebody, and least of aí
her--Bid her take care oí the auld man--I am naething to ony oí them now,
nor them to me.”
“She says she maun see ye, though,” said Ratcliffe; and Jeanie, rushing
into the apartment, threw her arms round her sisterís neck, who writhed
to extricate herself from her embrace.
“What signifies coming to greet ower me,” said poor Effie, “when you have
killed me?--killed me, when a word of your mouth would have saved
me--killed me, when I am an innocent creature--innocent of that guilt at
least--and me that wad hae wared body and soul to save your finger from
being hurt?”
“You shall not die,” said Jeanie, with enthusiastic firmness; “say what
you like oí me--think what you like oí me--only promise--for I doubt your
proud heart--that ye wunna harm yourself, and you shall not die this
shameful death.”
“A _shameful_ death I will not die, Jeanie, lass. I have that in my
heart--though it has been ower kind a ane--that wunna bide shame. Gae
hame to our father, and think nae mair on me--I have eat my last earthly
meal.”
“Oh, this was what I feared!” said Jeanie.
“Hout, tout, hinny,” said Ratcliffe; “itís but little ye ken oí thae
things. Ane aye thinks at the first dinnle oí the sentence, they hae
heart eneugh to die rather than bide out the sax weeks; but they aye bide
the sax weeks out for aí that. I ken the gate oít weel; I hae fronted the
doomster three times, and here I stand, Jim Ratcliffe, for aí that. Had I
tied my napkin strait the first time, as I had a great mind tillít--and
it was aí about a bit grey cowt, wasna worth ten punds sterling--where
would I have been now?”
“And how _did_ you escape?” said Jeanie, the fates of this man, at first
so odious to her, having acquired a sudden interest in her eyes from
their correspondence with those of her sister.
“_How_ did I escape?” said Ratcliffe, with a knowing wink,--“I tell ye I
ëscapit in a way that naebody will escape from this Tolbooth while I keep
the keys.”
“My sister shall come out in the face of the sun,” said Jeanie; “I will
go to London, and beg her pardon from the king and queen. If they
pardoned Porteous, they may pardon her; if a sister asks a sisterís life
on her bended knees, they will pardon her--they _shall_ pardon her--and
they will win a thousand hearts by it.”
Effie listened in bewildered astonishment, and so earnest was her
sisterís enthusiastic assurance, that she almost involuntarily caught a
gleam of hope; but it instantly faded away.
“Ah, Jeanie! the king and queen live in London, a thousand miles from
this--far ayont the saut sea; Iíll be gane before ye win there.”
“You are mistaen,” said Jeanie; “it is no sae far, and they go to it by
land; I learned something about thae things from Reuben Butler.”
“Ah, Jeanie! ye never learned onything but what was gude frae the folk ye
keepit company wií; but!--but!”--she wrung her hands and wept bitterly.
“Dinna think on that now,” said Jeanie; “there will be time for that if
the present space be redeemed. Fare ye weel. Unless I die by the road, I
will see the kingís face that gies grace--O, sir” (to Ratcliffe), “be
kind to her--She neíer keníd what it was to need a strangerís kindness
till now.--Fareweel--fareweel, Effie!--Dinna speak to me--I maunna greet
now--my headís ower dizzy already!”
She tore herself from her sisterís arms, and left the cell. Ratcliffe
followed her, and beckoned her into a small room. She obeyed his signal,
but not without trembling.
“Whatís the fule thing shaking for?” said he; “I mean nothing but
civility to you. D--n me, I respect you, and I canít help it. You have so
much spunk, that d--n me, but I think thereís some chance of your
carrying the day. But you must not go to the king till you have made some
friend; try the duke--try MacCallummore; heís Scotlandís friend--I ken
that the great folks dinna muckle like him--but they fear him, and that
will serve your purpose as weel. Díye ken naebody wad gie ye a letter to
him?”
“Duke of Argyle!” said Jeanie, recollecting herself suddenly, “what was
he to that Argyle that suffered in my fatherís time--in the persecution?”
“His son or grandson, Iím thinking,” said Ratcliffe, “but what oí that?”
“Thank God!” said Jeanie, devoutly clasping her hands.
“You whigs are aye thanking God for something,” said the ruffian. “But
hark ye, hinny, Iíll tell ye a secret. Ye may meet wií rough customers on
the Border, or in the Midland, afore ye get to Lunnon. Now, deil ane oí
them will touch an acquaintance oí Daddie Rattonís; for though I am
retired frae public practice, yet they ken I can do a gude or an ill turn
yet--and deil a gude fellow that has been but a twelvemonth on the lay,
be he ruffler or padder, but he knows my gybe* as well as the jark** of
eíer a queer cuffin*** in England--and thereís rogueís Latin for you.”
* Pass.
** Seal.
*** Justice of Peace.
It was indeed totally unintelligible to Jeanie Deans, who was only
impatient to escape from him. He hastily scrawled a line or two on a
dirty piece of paper, and said to her, as she drew back when he offered
it, “Hey!--what the deil--it wunna bite you, my lass--if it does nae
gude, it can do nae ill. But I wish you to show it, if you have ony
fasherie wií ony oí St. Nicholasís clerks.”
“Alas!” said she, “I do not understand what you mean.”
“I mean, if ye fall among thieves, my precious,--that is a Scripture
phrase, if ye will hae ane--the bauldest of them will ken a scart oí my
guse feather. And now awa wií ye--and stick to Argyle; if onybody can do
the job, it maun be him.”
After casting an anxious look at the grated windows and blackened walls
of the old Tolbooth, and another scarce less anxious at the hospitable
lodging of Mrs. Saddletree, Jeanie turned her back on that quarter, and
soon after on the city itself. She reached St. Leonardís Crags without
meeting any one whom she knew, which, in the state of her mind, she
considered as a great blessing. “I must do naething,” she thought, as she
went along, “that can soften or weaken my heart--itís ower weak already
for what I hae to do. I will think and act as firmly as I can, and speak
as little.”
There was an ancient servant, or rather cottar, of her fatherís, who had
lived under him for many years, and whose fidelity was worthy of full
confidence. She sent for this woman, and explaining to her that the
circumstances of her family required that she should undertake a journey,
which would detain her for some weeks from home, she gave her full
instructions concerning the management of the domestic concerns in her
absence. With a precision, which, upon reflection, she herself could not
help wondering at, she described and detailed the most minute steps which
were to be taken, and especially such as were necessary for her fatherís
comfort. “It was probable,” she said, “that he would return to St.
Leonardís to-morrow! certain that he would return very soon--all must be
in order for him. He had eneugh to distress him, without being fashed
about warldly matters.”
In the meanwhile she toiled busily, along with May Hettly, to leave
nothing unarranged.
It was deep in the night when all these matters were settled; and when
they had partaken of some food, the first which Jeanie had tasted on that
eventful day, May Hettly, whose usual residence was a cottage at a little
distance from Deansís house, asked her young mistress, whether she would
not permit her to remain in the house all night? “Ye hae had an awfuí
day,” she said, “and sorrow and fear are but bad companions in the
watches of the night, as I hae heard the gudeman say himself.”
“They are ill companions indeed,” said Jeanie; “but I maun learn to abide
their presence, and better begin in the house than in the field.”
She dismissed her aged assistant accordingly,--for so slight was the
gradation in their rank of life, that we can hardly term May a
servant,--and proceeded to make a few preparations for her journey.
The simplicity of her education and country made these preparations very
brief and easy. Her tartan screen served all the purposes of a
riding-habit and of an umbrella; a small bundle contained such changes of
linen as were absolutely necessary. Barefooted, as Sancho says, she had
come into the world, and barefooted she proposed to perform her
pilgrimage; and her clean shoes and change of snow-white thread stockings
were to be reserved for special occasions of ceremony. She was not aware,
that the English habits of comfort attach an idea of abject misery to the
idea of a barefooted traveller; and if the objection of cleanliness had
been made to the practice, she would have been apt to vindicate herself
upon the very frequent ablutions to which, with Mahometan scrupulosity, a
Scottish damsel of some condition usually subjects herself. Thus far,
therefore, all was well.
From an oaken press, or cabinet, in which her father kept a few old
books, and two or three bundles of papers, besides his ordinary accounts
and receipts, she sought out and extracted from a parcel of notes of
sermons, calculations of interest, records of dying speeches of the
martyrs, and the like, one or two documents which she thought might be of
some use to her upon her mission. But the most important difficulty
remained behind, and it had not occurred to her until that very evening.
It was the want of money; without which it was impossible she could
undertake so distant a journey as she now meditated.
David Deans, as we have said, was easy, and even opulent in his
circumstances. But his wealth, like that of the patriarchs of old,
consisted in his kine and herds, and in two or three sums lent out at
interest to neighbours or relatives, who, far from being in circumstances
to pay anything to account of the principal sums, thought they did all
that was incumbent on them when, with considerable difficulty, they
discharged the “annual rent.” To these debtors it would be in vain,
therefore, to apply, even with her fatherís concurrence; nor could she
hope to obtain such concurrence, or assistance in any mode, without such
a series of explanations and debates as she felt might deprive her
totally of the power of taking the step, which, however daring and
hazardous, she felt was absolutely necessary for trying the last chance
in favour of her sister. Without departing from filial reverence, Jeanie
had an inward conviction that the feelings of her father, however just,
and upright, and honourable, were too little in unison with the spirit of
the time to admit of his being a good judge of the measures to be adopted
in this crisis. Herself more flexible in manner, though no less upright
in principle, she felt that to ask his consent to her pilgrimage would be
to encounter the risk of drawing down his positive prohibition, and under
that she believed her journey could not be blessed in its progress and
event. Accordingly, she had determined upon the means by which she might
communicate to him her undertaking and its purpose, shortly after her
actual departure. But it was impossible to apply to him for money without
altering this arrangement, and discussing fully the propriety of her
journey; pecuniary assistance from that quarter, therefore, was laid out
of the question.
It now occurred to Jeanie that she should have consulted with Mrs.
Saddletree on this subject. But, besides the time that must now
necessarily be lost in recurring to her assistance Jeanie internally
revolted from it. Her heart acknowledged the goodness of Mrs.
Saddletreeís general character, and the kind interest she took in their
family misfortunes; but still she felt that Mrs. Saddletree was a woman
of an ordinary and worldly way of thinking, incapable, from habit and
temperament, of taking a keen or enthusiastic view of such a resolution
as she had formed; and to debate the point with her, and to rely upon her
conviction of its propriety, for the means of carrying it into execution,
would have been gall and wormwood.
Butler, whose assistance she might have been assured of, was greatly
poorer than herself. In these circumstances, she formed a singular
resolution for the purpose of surmounting this difficulty, the execution
of which will form the subject of the next chapter.