And now, will pardon, comfort, kindness, draw
The youth from vice? will honour, duty, law?
Crabbe.
Jeanie arose from her seat, and made her quiet reverence, when the elder
Mr. Staunton entered the apartment. His astonishment was extreme at
finding his son in such company.
“I perceive, madam, I have made a mistake respecting you, and ought to
have left the task of interrogating you, and of righting your wrongs, to
this young man, with whom, doubtless, you have been formerly acquainted.”
“Itís unwitting on my part that I am here;” said Jeanie; “the servant
told me his master wished to speak with me.”
“There goes the purple coat over my ears,” murmured Tummas. “D--n her,
why must she needs speak the truth, when she could have as well said
anything else she had a mind?”
“George,” said Mr. Staunton, “if you are still, as you have ever
been,--lost to all self-respect, you might at least have spared your
father and your fatherís house, such a disgraceful scene as this.”
“Upon my life--upon my soul, sir!” said George, throwing his feet over
the side of the bed, and starting from his recumbent posture.
“Your life, sir?” interrupted his father, with melancholy
sternness,--“What sort of life has it been?--Your soul! alas! what
regard have you ever paid to it? Take care to reform both ere offering
either as pledges of your sincerity.”
“On my honour, sir, you do me wrong,” answered George Staunton; “I have
been all that you can call me thatís bad, but in the present instance you
do me injustice. By my honour you do!”
“Your honour!” said his father, and turned from him, with a look of the
most upbraiding contempt, to Jeanie. “From you, young woman, I neither
ask nor expect any explanation; but as a father alike and as a clergyman,
I request your departure from this house. If your romantic story has been
other than a pretext to find admission into it (which, from the society
in which you first appeared, I may be permitted to doubt), you will find
a justice of peace within two miles, with whom, more properly than with
me, you may lodge your complaint.”
“This shall not be,” said George Staunton, starting up to his feet.
“Sir, you are naturally kind and humane--you shall not become cruel
and inhospitable on my account. Turn out that eaves-dropping rascal,”
pointing to Thomas, “and get what hartshorn drops, or what better receipt
you have against fainting, and I will explain to you in two words the
connection betwixt this young woman and me. She shall not lose her fair
character through me. I have done too much mischief to her family
already, and I know too well what belongs to the loss of fame.”
“Leave the room, sir,” said the Rector to the servant; and when the man
had obeyed, he carefully shut the door behind him. Then, addressing his
son, he said sternly, “Now, sir, what new proof of your infamy have you
to impart to me?”
Young Staunton was about to speak, but it was one of those moments when
those, who, like Jeanie Deans, possess the advantage of a steady courage
and unruffled temper, can assume the superiority over more ardent but
less determined spirits.
“Sir,” she said to the elder Staunton, “ye have an undoubted right to ask
your ain son to render a reason of his conduct. But respecting me, I am
but a wayfaring traveller, no ways obligated or indebted to you, unless
it be for the meal of meat which, in my ain country, is willingly gien by
rich or poor, according to their ability, to those who need it; and for
which, forby that, I am willing to make payment, if I didna think it
would be an affront to offer siller in a house like this--only I dinna
ken the fashions of the country.”
“This is all very well, young woman,” said the Rector, a good deal
surprised, and unable to conjecture whether to impute Jeanieís language
to simplicity or impertinence; “this may be all very well--but let me
bring it to a point. Why do you stop this young manís mouth, and prevent
his communicating to his father and his best friend, an explanation
(since he says he has one) of circumstances which seem in themselves not
a little suspicious?”
“He may tell of his ain affairs what he likes,” answered Jeanie; “but my
family and friends have nae right to hae ony stories told anent them
without their express desire; and, as they canna be here to speak for
themselves, I entreat ye wadna ask Mr. George Rob--I mean Staunton, or
whatever his name is, ony questions anent me or my folk; for I maun be
free to tell you, that he will neither have the bearing of a Christian or
a gentleman, if he answers you against my express desire.”
“This is the most extraordinary thing I ever met with,” said the Rector,
as, after fixing his eyes keenly on the placid, yet modest countenance of
Jeanie, he turned them suddenly upon his son. “What have you to say,
sir?”
“That I feel I have been too hasty in my promise, sir,” answered George
Staunton; “I have no title to make any communications respecting the
affairs of this young personís family without her assent.”
The elder Mr. Staunton turned his eyes from one to the other with marks
of surprise.
“This is more, and worse, I fear,” he said, addressing his son, “than one
of your frequent and disgraceful connections--I insist upon knowing the
mystery.”
“I have already said, sir,” replied his son, rather sullenly, “that I
have no title to mention the affairs of this young womanís family without
her consent.”
“And I hae nae mysteries to explain, sir,” said Jeanie, “but only to pray
you, as a preacher of the gospel and a gentleman, to permit me to go safe
to the next public-house on the Lunnon road.”
“I shall take care of your safety,” said young Staunton “you need ask
that favour from no one.”
“Do you say so before my face?” said the justly-incensed father.
“Perhaps, sir, you intend to fill up the cup of disobedience and
profligacy by forming a low and disgraceful marriage? But let me bid you
beware.”
“If you were feared for sic a thing happening wií me, sir,” said Jeanie,
“I can only say, that not for all the land that lies between the twa ends
of the rainbow wad I be the woman that should wed your son.”
“There is something very singular in all this,” said the elder Staunton;
“follow me into the next room, young woman.”
“Hear me speak first,” said the young man. “I have but one word to say. I
confide entirely in your prudence; tell my father as much or as little of
these matters as you will, he shall know neither more nor less from me.”
His father darted at him a glance of indignation, which softened into
sorrow as he saw him sink down on the couch, exhausted with the scene he
had undergone. He left the apartment, and Jeanie followed him, George
Staunton raising himself as she passed the door-way, and pronouncing the
word, “Remember!” in a tone as monitory as it was uttered by Charles I.
upon the scaffold. The elder Staunton led the way into a small parlour,
and shut the door.
“Young woman,” said he, “there is something in your face and appearance
that marks both sense and simplicity, and, if I am not deceived,
innocence also--Should it be otherwise, I can only say, you are the most
accomplished hypocrite I have ever seen.--I ask to know no secret that
you have unwillingness to divulge, least of all those which concern my
son. His conduct has given me too much unhappiness to permit me to hope
comfort or satisfaction from him. If you are such as I suppose you,
believe me, that whatever unhappy circumstances may have connected you
with George Staunton, the sooner you break them through the better.”
“I think I understand your meaning, sir,” replied Jeanie; “and as ye are
sae frank as to speak oí the young gentleman in sic a way, I must needs
say that it is but the second time of my speaking wií him in our lives,
and what I hae heard frae him on these twa occasions has been such that I
never wish to hear the like again.”
“Then it is your real intention to leave this part of the country, and
proceed to London?” said the Rector.
“Certainly, sir; for I may say, in one sense, that the avenger of blood
is behind me; and if I were but assured against mischief by the way”
“I have made inquiry,” said the clergyman, “after the suspicious
characters you described. They have left their place of rendezvous; but
as they may be lurking in the neighbourhood, and as you say you have
special reason to apprehend violence from them, I will put you under the
charge of a steady person, who will protect you as far as Stamford, and
see you into a light coach, which goes from thence to London.”
“A coach is not for the like of me, sir,” said Jeanie, to whom the idea
of a stage-coach was unknown, as, indeed, they were then only used in the
neighbourhood of London.
Mr. Staunton briefly explained that she would find that mode of
conveyance more commodious, cheaper, and more safe, than travelling on
horseback. She expressed her gratitude with so much singleness of heart,
that he was induced to ask her whether she wanted the pecuniary means of
prosecuting her journey. She thanked him, but said she had enough for her
purpose; and, indeed, she had husbanded her stock with great care. This
reply served also to remove some doubts, which naturally enough still
floated in Mr. Stauntonís mind, respecting her character and real
purpose, and satisfied him, at least, that money did not enter into her
scheme of deception, if an impostor she should prove. He next requested
to know what part of the city she wished to go to.
“To a very decent merchant, a cousin oí my ain, a Mrs. Glass, sir, that
sells snuff and tobacco, at the sign oí the Thistle, somegate in the
town.”
Jeanie communicated this intelligence with a feeling that a connection so
respectable ought to give her consequence in the eyes of Mr. Staunton;
and she was a good deal surprised when he answered--
“And is this woman your only acquaintance in London, my poor girl? and
have you really no better knowledge where she is to be found?”
“I was gaun to see the Duke of Argyle, forby Mrs. Glass,” said Jeanie;
“and if your honour thinks it would be best to go there first, and get
some of his Graceís folk to show me my cousinís shop”
“Are you acquainted with any of the Duke of Argyleís people?” said the
Rector.
“No, sir.”
“Her brain must be something touched after all, or it would be impossible
for her to rely on such introductions.--Well,” said he aloud, “I must not
inquire into the cause of your journey, and so I cannot be fit to give
you advice how to manage it. But the landlady of the house where the
coach stops is a very decent person; and as I use her house sometimes, I
will give you a recommendation to her.”
Jeanie thanked him for his kindness with her best courtesy, and said,
“That with his honourís line, and ane from worthy Mrs. Bickerton, that
keeps the Seven Stars at York, she did not doubt to be well taken out in
Lunnon.”
“And now,” said he, “I presume you will be desirous to set out
immediately.”
“If I had been in an inn, sir, or any suitable resting-place,” answered
Jeanie, “I wad not have presumed to use the Lordís day for travelling but
as I am on a journey of mercy, I trust my doing so will not be imputed.”
“You may, if you choose, remain with Mrs. Dalton for the evening; but I
desire you will have no farther correspondence with my son, who is not a
proper counsellor for a person of your age, whatever your difficulties
may be.”
“Your honour speaks ower truly in that,” said Jeanie; “it was not with my
will that I spoke wií him just now, and--not to wish the gentleman
onything but gude--I never wish to see him between the een again.”
“If you please,” added the Rector, “as you seem to be a seriously
disposed young woman, you may attend family worship in the hall this
evening.”
“I thank your honour,” said Jeanie; “but I am doubtful if my attendance
would be to edification.”
“How!” said the Rector; “so young, and already unfortunate enough to have
doubts upon the duties of religion!”
“God forbid, sir,” replied Jeanie; “it is not for that; but I have been
bred in the faith of the suffering remnant of the Presbyterian doctrine
in Scotland, and I am doubtful if I can lawfully attend upon your fashion
of worship, seeing it has been testified against by many precious souls
of our kirk, and specially by my worthy father.”
“Well, my good girl,” said the Rector, with a good-humoured smile, “far
be it from me to put any force upon your conscience; and yet you ought to
recollect that the same divine grace dispenses its streams to other
kingdoms as well as to Scotland. As it is as essential to our spiritual,
as water to our earthly wants, its springs, various in character, yet
alike efficacious in virtue, are to be found in abundance throughout the
Christian world.”
“Ah, but,” said Jeanie, “though the waters may be alike, yet, with your
worshipís leave, the blessing upon them may not be equal. It would have
been in vain for Naaman the Syrian leper to have bathed in Pharpar and
Abana, rivers of Damascus, when it was only the waters of Jordon that
were sanctified for the cure.”
“Well,” said the Rector, “we will not enter upon the great debate betwixt
our national churches at present. We must endeavour to satisfy you, that,
at least, amongst our errors, we preserve Christian charity, and a desire
to assist our brethren.”
He then ordered Mrs. Dalton into his presence, and consigned Jeanie to
her particular charge, with directions to be kind to her, and with
assurances, that, early in the morning, a trusty guide and a good horse
should be ready to conduct her to Stamford. He then took a serious and
dignified, yet kind leave of her, wishing her full success in the objects
of her journey, which he said he doubted not were laudable, from the
soundness of thinking which she had displayed in conversation.
Jeanie was again conducted by the housekeeper to her own apartment. But
the evening was not destined to pass over without farther torment from
young Staunton. A paper was slipped into her hand by the faithful Tummas,
which intimated his young masterís desire, or rather demand, to see her
instantly, and assured her he had provided against interruption.
“Tell your young master,” said Jeanie, openly, and regardless of all the
winks and signs by which Tummas strove to make her comprehend that Mrs.
Dalton was not to be admitted into the secret of the correspondence,
“that I promised faithfully to his worthy father that I would not see him
again.”
“Tummas,” said Mrs. Dalton, “I think you might be much more creditably
employed, considering the coat you wear, and the house you live in, than
to be carrying messages between your young master and girls that chance
to be in this house.”
“Why, Mrs. Dalton, as to that, I was hired to carry messages, and not to
ask any questions about them; and itís not for the like of me to refuse
the young gentlemanís bidding, if he were a little wildish or so. If
there was harm meant, thereís no harm done, you see.”
“However,” said Mrs. Dalton, “I gie you fair warning, Tummas Ditton, that
an I catch thee at this work again, his Reverence shall make a clear
house of you.”
Thomas retired, abashed and in dismay. The rest of the evening passed
away without anything worthy of notice.
Jeanie enjoyed the comforts of a good bed and a sound sleep with grateful
satisfaction, after the perils and hardships of the preceding day; and
such was her fatigue, that she slept soundly until six oíclock, when she
was awakened by Mrs. Dalton, who acquainted her that her guide and horse
were ready, and in attendance. She hastily rose, and, after her morning
devotions, was soon ready to resume her travels. The motherly care of the
housekeeper had provided an early breakfast, and, after she had partaken
of this refreshment, she found herself safe seated on a pillion behind a
stout Lincolnshire peasant, who was, besides, armed with pistols, to
protect her against any violence which might be offered.
They trudged along in silence for a mile or two along a country road,
which conducted them, by hedge and gate-way, into the principal highway,
a little beyond Grantham. At length her master of the horse asked her
whether her name was not Jean, or Jane, Deans. She answered in the
affirmative, with some surprise. “Then hereís a bit of a note as concerns
you,” said the man, handing it over his left shoulder. “Itís from young
master, as I judge, and every man about Willingham is fain to pleasure
him either for love or fear; for heíll come to be landlord at last, let
them say what they like.”
Jeanie broke the seal of the note, which was addressed to her, and read
as follows:--
“You refuse to see me. I suppose you are shocked at my character: but, in
painting myself such as I am, you should give me credit for my sincerity.
I am, at least, no hypocrite. You refuse, however, to see me, and your
conduct may be natural--but is it wise? I have expressed my anxiety to
repair your sisterís misfortunes at the expense of my honour,--my
familyís honour--my own life, and you think me too debased to be admitted
even to sacrifice what I have remaining of honour, fame, and life, in her
cause. Well, if the offerer be despised, the victim is still equally at
hand; and perhaps there may be justice in the decree of Heaven, that I
shall not have the melancholy credit of appearing to make this sacrifice
out of my own free good-will. You, as you have declined my concurrence,
must take the whole upon yourself. Go, then, to the Duke of Argyle, and,
when other arguments fail you, tell him you have it in your power to
bring to condign punishment the most active conspirator in the Porteous
mob. He will hear you on this topic, should he be deaf to every other.
Make your own terms, for they will be at your own making. You know where
I am to be found; and you may be assured I will not give you the dark
side of the hill, as at Muschatís Cairn; I have no thoughts of stirring
from the house I was born in; like the hare, I shall be worried in the
seat I started from. I repeat it--make your own terms. I need not remind
you to ask your sisterís life, for that you will do of course; but make
terms of advantage for yourself--ask wealth and reward--office and income
for Butler--ask anything--you will get anything--and all for delivering
to the hands of the executioner a man most deserving of his office;--one
who, though young in years, is old in wickedness, and whose most earnest
desire is, after the storms of an unquiet life, to sleep and be at rest.”
This extraordinary letter was subscribed with the initials G. S.
Jeanie read it over once or twice with great attention, which the slow
pace of the horse, as he stalked through a deep lane, enabled her to do
with facility.
When she had perused this billet, her first employment was to tear it
into as small pieces as possible, and disperse these pieces in the air by
a few at a time, so that a document containing so perilous a secret might
not fall into any other personís hand.
The question how far, in point of extremity, she was entitled to save her
sisterís life by sacrificing that of a person who, though guilty towards
the state, had done her no injury, formed the next earnest and most
painful subject of consideration. In one sense, indeed, it seemed as if
denouncing the guilt of Staunton, the cause of her sisterís errors and
misfortunes, would have been an act of just, and even providential
retribution. But Jeanie, in the strict and severe tone of morality in
which she was educated, had to consider not only the general aspect of a
proposed action, but its justness and fitness in relation to the actor,
before she could be, according to her own phrase, free to enter upon it.
What right had she to make a barter between the lives of Staunton and of
Effie, and to sacrifice the one for the safety of the other? His
guilt--that guilt for which he was amenable to the laws--was a crime
against the public indeed, but it was not against her.
Neither did it seem to her that his share in the death of Porteous,
though her mind revolted at the idea of using violence to any one, was in
the relation of a common murder, against the perpetrator of which every
one is called to aid the public magistrate. That violent action was
blended with many circumstances, which, in the eyes of those in Jeanieís
rank of life, if they did not altogether deprive it of the character of
guilt, softened, at least, its most atrocious features. The anxiety of
the government to obtain conviction of some of the offenders, had but
served to increase the public feeling which connected the action, though
violent and irregular, with the idea of ancient national independence.
The rigorous measures adopted or proposed against the city of Edinburgh,
the ancient metropolis of Scotland--the extremely unpopular and
injudicious measure of compelling the Scottish clergy, contrary to their
principles and sense of duty, to promulgate from the pulpit the reward
offered for the discovery of the perpetrators of this slaughter, had
produced on the public mind the opposite consequences from what were
intended; and Jeanie felt conscious, that whoever should lodge
information concerning that event, and for whatsoever purpose it might be
done, it would be considered as an act of treason against the
independence of Scotland. With the fanaticism of the Scottish
Presbyterians, there was always mingled a glow of national feeling, and
Jeanie, trembled at the idea of her name being handed down to posterity
with that of the “fause Monteath,” and one or two others, who, having
deserted and betrayed the cause of their country, are damned to perpetual
remembrance and execration among its peasantry. Yet, to part with Effieís
life once more, when a word spoken might save it, pressed severely on the
mind of her affectionate sister.
“The Lord support and direct me!” said Jeanie, “for it seems to be His
will to try me with difficulties far beyond my ain strength.”
While this thought passed through Jeanieís mind, her guard, tired of
silence, began to show some inclination to be communicative. He seemed a
sensible, steady peasant, but not having more delicacy or prudence than
is common to those in his situation, he, of course, chose the Willingham
family as the subject of his conversation. From this man Jeanie learned
some particulars of which she had hitherto been ignorant, and which we
will briefly recapitulate for the information of the reader.
The father of George Staunton had been bred a soldier, and during service
in the West Indies, had married the heiress of a wealthy planter. By this
lady he had an only child, George Staunton, the unhappy young, man who
has been so often mentioned in this narrative. He passed the first part
of his early youth under the charge of a doting mother, and in the
society of negro slaves, whose study it was to gratify his every caprice.
His father was a man of worth and sense; but as he alone retained
tolerable health among the officers of the regiment he belonged to, he
was much engaged with his duty. Besides, Mrs. Staunton was beautiful and
wilful, and enjoyed but delicate health; so that it was difficult for a
man of affection, humanity, and a quiet disposition, to struggle with her
on the point of her over-indulgence to an only child. Indeed, what Mr.
Staunton did do towards counteracting the baneful effects of his wifeís
system, only tended to render it more pernicious; for every restraint
imposed on the boy in his fatherís presence, was compensated by treble
license during his absence. So that George Staunton acquired, even in
childhood, the habit of regarding his father as a rigid censor, from
whose severity he was desirous of emancipating himself as soon and
absolutely as possible.
When he was about ten years old, and when his mind had received all the
seeds of those evil weeds which afterwards grew apace, his mother died,
and his father, half heart-broken, returned to England. To sum up her
imprudence and unjustifiable indulgence, she had contrived to place a
considerable part of her fortune at her sonís exclusive control or
disposal, in consequence of which management, George Staunton had not
been long in England till he learned his independence, and how to abuse
it. His father had endeavoured to rectify the defects of his education by
placing him in a well-regulated seminary. But although he showed some
capacity for learning, his riotous conduct soon became intolerable to his
teachers. He found means (too easily afforded to all youths who have
certain expectations) of procuring such a command of money as enabled him
to anticipate in boyhood the frolics and follies of a more mature age,
and, with these accomplishments, he was returned on his fatherís hands as
a profligate boy, whose example might ruin a hundred.
The elder Mr. Staunton, whose mind, since his wifeís death, had been
tinged with a melancholy, which certainly his sonís conduct did not tend
to dispel, had taken orders, and was inducted by his brother Sir William
Staunton into the family living of Willingham. The revenue was a matter
of consequence to him, for he derived little advantage from the estate of
his late wife; and his own fortune was that of a younger brother.
He took his son to reside with him at the rectory, but he soon found that
his disorders rendered him an intolerable inmate. And as the young men of
his own rank would not endure the purse-proud insolence of the Creole, he
fell into that taste for low society, which is worse than “pressing to
death, whipping, or hanging.” His father sent him abroad, but he only
returned wilder and more desperate than before. It is true, this unhappy
youth was not without his good qualities. He had lively wit, good temper,
reckless generosity, and manners, which, while he was under restraint,
might pass well in society. But all these availed him nothing. He was so
well acquainted with the turf, the gaming-table, the cock-pit, and every
worse rendezvous of folly and dissipation, that his motherís fortune was
spent before he was twenty-one, and he was soon in debt and in distress.
His early history may be concluded in the words of our British Juvenal,
when describing a similar character:--
Headstrong, determined in his own career,
He thought reproof unjust, and truth severe.
The soulís disease was to its crisis come,
He first abused, and then abjured, his home;
And when he chose a vagabond to be,
He made his shame his glory, “Iíll be free!”*
[Crabbeís _Borough,_ Letter xii.]
“And yet ëtis pity on Measter George, too,” continued the honest boor,
“for he has an open hand, and winna let a poor body want an he has it.”
The virtue of profuse generosity, by which, indeed, they themselves are
most directly advantaged, is readily admitted by the vulgar as a cloak
for many sins.
At Stamford our heroine was deposited in safety by her communicative
guide. She obtained a place in the coach, which, although termed a light
one, and accommodated with no fewer than six horses, only reached London
on the afternoon of the second day. The recommendation of the elder Mr.
Staunton procured Jeanie a civil reception at the inn where the carriage
stopped, and, by the aid of Mrs. Bickertonís correspondent, she found out
her friend and relative Mrs. Glass, by whom she was kindly received and
hospitably entertained.