THE MOTHER’S STORY.
‘When my gudeman died, I was left wi’ twa bairns, a boy an’ a girl.
We had six in family, but Willie and Mary were a’ the Lord was
pleased to leave wi’ us. It was by dint o’ hard wark that I could
keep them in meat an’ claes, an’ gi’e them schoolin’; but they were
guid bairns, an’ when Willie cam in frae his school, an’ sat down by
my wheel side, an’ asked me to let him read the bonny lesson for me
that he had learned out o’ that Bible, I cou’dna been happier if I
had been possessed o’ a’ Glasgow. They baith grew up fond o’ me, an’
fond o’ ane anither, an’ Willie improved sae much in his education
that I got him engaged in a warehouse as a clerk, where he gied great
satisfaction to his master; and when he cam hame at night, instead
of spending his time like idle, glaiket creatures o’ his ain age,
he wou’d sit an’ read for his sister an’ me, or else be busy at his
drawing, or sometimes he would play the flute, while Mary sang, and I
wad sit wi’ my heart at my mouth wi’ perfect joy. Oh! thae were happy
days—little did I then think that I wad now be sittin’ mournin’ the
loss o’ a’ that I thocht worth livin’ for. Yet I had a mistrust about
me, that I was owre happy for ’t to last lang; but oh I didna think I
was to drink the cup o’ affliction sae deep as I hae done.’
The old woman’s feelings here became uncontrollable, and the
tears trickled down her furrowed cheeks in quick succession; but,
recovering herself in a few minutes, she clasped her hands, and,
looking up to Heaven with pious resignation, she said, ‘“Thy will be
done,”—“The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name
of the Lord,”—I hope I’ll soon meet wi’ them, where we’ll ne’er part
again.’
She continued:—‘Willie had been about three years in the warehouse,
an’ his maister had such a respect for him, that he gied Mary an’ me
as much sewing as we cou’d do at hame.
‘It was about this time that we got neebors in the house but an’ ben
wi’ us,—kind an’ sober fo’k they were, an’ we were unco freendly wi’
ane anither. They had ae dochter that their hearts were bund up in,
owre muckle bund up for her gude. She was as bonny a lassie as ye
cou’d hae seen in a day’s walkin’, an’ free an’ light-hearted; but
she was sae much dawted by her faither an’ mother, an’ her beauty
sae roosed by ither fo’k, that stronger heads than her’s micht been
turn’d wi’t.
‘For company’s sake she used to come in an’ sit wi’ her wark beside
Mary, an’ they turn’d unco fond o’ ane anither, an’ at nicht when
Willie cam hame, they wad sing while he play’d the flute; an’ at
length we seemed just like ae family.
‘In a short time I cou’d see that Willie was mair ta’en up wi’
Jessie, an’ she wi’ him, than I cou’d hae wished; if she happened no
to be in when he cam hame, he was dowie an’ restless, an’ cou’dna
content himsel’ at his books or his drawin’ the way he used to do.
I was vexed to see this for twa or three reasons: in the first
place, they were owre young to think on marryin’; an’ in the next,
she wasna the kind o’ woman I wad hae wished Willie for a wife. She
was owre fond o’ dress, an’ folk admiring her, to suit his sober,
douce temper; an’ I saw that it wad be a sair struggle for his
heart. But as what was done cou’dna be mended, I resolved to lippen
to Providence, hoping that every thing wad turn out for the best.
They now began to meet out o’ the house, an’ the langer they were
acquainted, I could see that Willie’s heart was the deeper in love;
but Jessie didna seem to keep up wi’ him in that respect. She had
owre great a likin’ for hersel’ to spare much to him; her affection
for him raise an’ sank wi’ every turn o’ her flighty head,—ae day she
wad be dyin’ wi’ kindness about him because he had on some dress that
took her fancy, an’ she wad parade wi’ him round the town; anither
time she wad refuse to walk wi’ him, because his hat or his napkin
wasna in the fashion. I often wondered that Willie put up wi’ a’ her
fancies; for he wasna easy imposed on wi’ other folk, but wi’ her he
seemed as if he was bewitched.
THE COQUET.
‘About this time, Jessie, wha had been at a dancing-school, was to be
at a practisin’ ball, an’ gied Willie an’ Mary tickets. Puir things,
nane o’ them had ever learned to dance, for besides no being very
sure aboot the propriety o’ the thing, I thought that dancing wasna
very necessar’ in their station o’ life; but their curiosity had been
raised sae much wi’ Jessie’s description, that they were keen to
gang, and although I wad been better pleased that they had staid at
hame, they had aye been sae guid that I couldna think to deny them.
‘Jessie cam in for them that night, busked up like ony lady, wi’
her white gown an’ flounces an’ spangles, her neck and arms bare,
and her head dressed out wi’ artificial flowers, and her white
satin shoon tied up in her pocket napkin, to put on when she gaed
into the ball-room. I could scarcely believe my ain een—I glanced
at her, and syne at Willie—he looked as if he could have fa’en down
and worshipped her—and for a moment I was proud to think that my son
should hae sic a sweetheart: but when I thocht on what micht be the
upshot o’ a’ this, I couldna help sighin’ an’ sayin’ to mysel’, “I
wish this mayna end in breakin’ my puir laddie’s heart.”
‘Weel, they gaed to the ball, but it was a waesome ball to Willie:
he was obliged to sit lookin’ on, while she was skimmin’ through
the dance wi’ ither lads. This he bore wi’ some patience, but when
she rose up to dance some new-fashioned dance, (a waltz, I think
she ca’d it,) and he saw a strange lad’s arms twined aboot her in a
manner that he would have thocht it sacrilege to attempt, he couldna
bear longer—his head grew confused, and the measure o’ his vexation
was filled up by a lad coming owre an’ asking Mary to stand up to
dance wi’ him; poor Mary was obliged to tell the truth. “Canna
dance!” said the lad in surprise. Willie didna wait for ony mair, but
takin’ Mary’s han’, “Come awa,” said he, “we canna stay here to be
affronted.” I was surprised to see them come hame sae soon, and asked
him the reason: he made some trifling excuse; but when he gaed to his
bed, Mary told me the hale story.
‘Next day he was dowie an’ thochtfu’, his pride was hurt, an’ he was
jealous o’ Jessie, but he didna speak. When he cam hame at night she
was in, an’ before he had time to speak, she cried out, “O Willie,
what gart ye gang awa an’ leave me; I waited lookin’ for you through
the room when I wanted to gang hame, but I couldna find ye. Ye wad
be vext seein’ a’ the rest dancin’, an’ you no able: what a pity you
canna dance, Willie; if ye could, I’m sure naebody should be my
partner but yoursel’, for I couldna see onybody there that I liked
sae weel.” This was plenty, Willie’s een brightened, an’ he took
her hand—“Will you be sure to keep your promise, Jessie, if I learn
before the next ball?” “As sure as I have life,” said she. He looked
at me. I kent what he meant. O ay, Willie, you have my consent to
gang to the school, an’ tak Mary wi’ ye—it’s no against the dancin’
itsel’ that I have sae much objection, as what it leads to. My mind
tell’d me I was doin’ wrang, but I couldna help bein’ pleased to
think it was makin’ him sae happy. Weel, to the dancin’-school they
gaed, an’ books, an’ drawin’ an’ every thing was laid aside. He was
clever at ony thing, but his mind was so much set on this, that he
couldna but learn fast, and by the next ball he was able to dance
wi’ Jessie himsel’. But, poor fellow, a’ his endeavours seemed vain,
for Jessie was asked that night to dance wi’ a lad who was the brag
o’ the country side. He was a fine-lookin’ chiel, I believe, but
puffed up wi’ vanity. The twa gaed through some new-fangled dance by
themsel’s—every body roosed them to the skies, and they turned the
prouder the mair they heard themsel’s praised. Instead o’ comin’ owre
beside Willie when it was finished, Jessie sat down beside her new
partner. Willie, you may be sure, was unhappy enough before, but his
heart was like to burst within him when he saw her hearkening wi’
delight to some nonsense the chiel was sayin’ to her. He could thole
nae langer, and he gaed owre to her and asked if she would stand up
wi’ him the next dance; but she answered (in a way as if she was
ashamed of being seen speaking to him) that she was engaged. Willie
said nae mair before the lad, but he sat patiently until the ball was
ended, thinking he might have an opportunity of speaking to her on
the road hame; but her new lad saw her into her father’s door. That
night Willie didna close an eye, and my heart was like to break for
him, the way he sighed the hale nicht lang. Like maist folk, when
they do wrang, they think they have the best right to be offended,
so Jessie didna look near our house the next day, until Mary gaed in
for her. “What ailed you at Willie last night?” said Mary, willing
to bring about some explanation; “I fear you vext him unco sair by
leavin’ him to dance wi’ yon ideot.” “’Deed then,” replied Jessie,
“he needna fash to be vex’d about it, for I wadna tie mysel’ down
to please him or ony ither body; does he really think, because I
consented to be his partner at the ball, that I obliged mysel’ no
to dance wi’ ony body but him?” “It was na because you danced wi’
ony ither body,” said Mary, “although he had your ain promise for
that, but because you left his company a’thegether, that he wad fin’
vex’d.” “Tuts, I canna be fash’d wi’ him aye rinnin’ after me frae
place to place, and aye sittin’ beside me.” “You didna aye think
sae,” said Mary, looking her in the face; “but although ye couldna
be fashed wi’ him, there was ither folk there, far inferior to him,
that you could sit beside till the last minute.” “Wha is’t you ca’
inferior to him? I am sure the lad I was wi’ is a far bonnier lad,
and a far better dancer, than ever he’ll be in his life.” This
observation o’ hers brought the tears in my een, for I saw my poor
laddie’s heart was gien to ane that wad tread it under her feet, and
laugh while she did it.
‘For twa or three days after this, he gaed about like a ghaist;
he couldna tak’ his meat through the day, nor his sleep at night,
and I was fear’d that he wad bring some trouble on himsel’. He had
tried twa or three times, I understood, to get a word o’ Jessie by
hersel’, but she refused to see him. Mary had seen her ance or twice
walkin’ wi’ her new sweetheart. Willie had heard this, and ae night
he watch’d her until she parted wi’ him, and met her comin’ through
her ain entry. I happen’d to be gaun out, but seein’ a glimpse o’
twa folk in the passage, I stopped short and o’erheard Willie say,
“Jessie, I wish to speak to you.” “I have nae time to speak to you,”
said she, pressing to get past him. “I’ll no keep you lang, and as
it is likely it may be the last time I’ll request it, I hope you’ll
hear me.” “Weel, what hae ye to say.” “I find by your manner of
speakin’ that it’ll no be necessary to say much. I only wish to know
whether, considering what has passed between us, you have any excuse
to make for your conduct to me of late?” “No; what business have I
to make any excuse to you? Let me go.” “O Jessie, your words would
signify little, if I didna ken that your conduct was like them. Like
a fool, I ance thought your heart was a’ my ain. You have deceived
me, Jessie, broken my heart; but I canna wish you ill. May you never
have your conduct to me returned on your own head. Although you have
deserted me, you will never find one to love you as I have done;
but I don’t say this to make you feel for me, or to bring back your
lost affections. You never could be to me what you have been, and I
wouldna lay my heart, broken as it is, again at your mercy, for any
consideration. Farewell, Jessie, I wish you every happiness.” She
appeared to be affected, for I could hear her sabbin’; but she didna
mak’ ony reply.
‘Although he pretended that he was heart-hale again, I cou’d see that
the battle my poor laddie was fightin’ in his ain breast was owre
hard for him. Two or three days after he was beyond his usual hour
o’ comin’ in to his dinner, and I fand mysel’ unco uneasy about him,
for he was aye particular to the hour. It was sax o’clock before
he cam hame. “What keepit ye, my laddie?” says I, “ye’re far ayont
your time.” “I was busy,” says he, careless like,—and I didna think
ony mair about it. Next day he cam hame in the middle o’ the day,
“What’s wrang now, Willie?” says I, “are ye no weel, that you are
hame at this hour?” He sat for a long while without saying a word,
and then burst into tears,—“O no, mother! I’m no weel, nor have na
been weel this mony a day; but there will soon be an end o’t, for I’m
gaun to leave the town.” “My goodness! laddie, whare are ye gaun?
what do ye mean?” “I canna hide it ony langer, mother; 1 am listed
for a soldier, and I have to march this night to join my regiment.”
“Listed!” said I, and the word stuck in my throat, “O! no, Willie,
that canna be sae;” but I could see by his face that it was owre
true—he wasna guilty o’ telling lees. “O! then, for Godsake, for my
sake, if ye dinna wish to send your auld mither to her grave, gang
and gie them back their siller. I’ll sell every thing I hae to get
ye free. O haste ye, William, and pay them the smart.” Willie shook
his head,—“It’s owre late for that.” “Then ye’re lost, my bairn—my a’
that I have for your father—my only dependence! O! and where is your
regiment?” “In Portugal.” I didna hear ony mair, my head grew dizzy,
the cauld sweat broke on my face; I thought I was dyin’, and I was
happy at it.
‘I minded naething mair until I wakened as it were frae a sleep, and
looking up saw Mary and Willie hanging owre me greetin’. My mind
during the rest o’ that day was a’ confusion; I mind something about
soldiers comin’ for Willie, and me takin’ fareweel o’ him, and gieing
him this Bible, and seein’ his sister clasped in his arms; but there
was something cauld at my heart, I had lost my natural feelin’. I
fand as if I had swallowed laudanum. In the middle o’ the night I
wakened frae a fearfu’ dream—I had seen my Willie torn frae me, and
stretchin’ out his hands to me for help; but he was dragged frae
my sight—again he appeared to me, pale and bluidy, and his claiths
dreepin’ wat. I sprang forward to catch him in my arms; but before I
could reach him he fell on the floor; the scream that I gied wakened
me, and I fand mysel’ standin’ at my bedside, for I had jumped out in
the distress o’ my mind. I had nae clear notion o’ ony thing; but I
had a confused thought that there was something wrang wi’ my Willie,
and I staggered into the wee room where he sleepit—I hearken’d to
hear his breath, but a’ was hush’d—I grew fearfu’ anxious, and to
satisfy mysel’ I stretched my hand on the bed, to feel if he was
there; but there was naebody in’t—the claes were na ruffled, and the
cauld feel o’ the quilt affected my heart, as if it had been squeezed
between twa pieces o’ ice. I sunk on the bed—What can a’ this mean?
said I to mysel’, and the truth gradually opened on my mind. O ay,
it’s owre true,—ye’re gane, Willie,—ye’ve left me; what for did ye no
tell me before ye took sic a rash step? O Willie, will I never see
you again?—What mischief that glaiket, heartless hizzie has done. May
she be made to suffer—but I stopped mysel’ in the rash wish—there was
nae need for’t—poor wretch, she was fast fillin’ the bitter cup for
hersel’.
‘I was sittin’ in this way, mournin’ for my bairn, until I had
forgotten where I was, when I was started by somebody sabbin’ by my
side. “In God’s name, wha’s that?” “It’s me, mother,” said Mary, “are
ye no comin’ to your bed?” “O ay, my bairn; I wish the Lord may keep
me in my natural senses, for I find my head no right ava.” Mary tried
to comfort me, but, poor thing, she needed comfort as much as mysel’.
I need scarcely gang farther wi’ my story, my heart never raise
aboon’t.
‘About a week after he left us, we had a letter frae him, wi’ an
order for ten pounds in’t. It was his bounty. He said he was weel
and happy, and begged that I would buy claes for mysel’ and Mary
wi’ the siller. Although I was proud of his affection and his
mindfu’ness, yet before I would have used a penny o’ that siller, I
wad have starved. I couldna consider’t in ony light but as the price
o’ his bluid. Mary saw what was passin’ in my mind when we read the
letter—her feelings were the same as mine.—“I’ll tell you what we
will do, mother,” said she, “we’ll put the siller in the bank, and
we’ll work hard, and put something till’t if we can, and by the
time that he comes hame again, he’ll hae forgotton a’ this business
between Jessie and him, and we’ll buy his discharge, and get him hame
beside us again.” I couldna help claspin’ my kind-hearted lassie to
my bosom. “Weel, Mary, my dear, we’ll just do that, and we’ll maybe
be a’ happy yet.”
‘The next letter we had frae Willie, he was in France wi’ the army?
he had joined his regiment the day before a battle, and escaped
without scaith. The neist we had frae him, he was in high spirits:
“The war,” he said, “couldna be lang o’ bein’ ended, and he would
see us again.” We were quite uplifted. We had added sae much to the
ten pound we had in the bank by our hard workin’, that it was now
nearhand twenty, and we were plannin’ how we would surprise him by
gettin’ his discharge, when he cam hame.
‘We had gi’en up our house, intendin’ to remove to anither quarter
o’ the town, to be awa frae Jessie and her friends; but that wasna
necessar’. Jessie had been courtin’ wi’ the lad that she had gi’en
up Willie for ever since he had gaen awa. It was reported for a lang
while that they were to be married; but when a’ thing was prepared,
and the day appointed, he set aff and wasna heard o’ for some weeks.
They were in an awfu’ way about it, but at length they got word frae
a near friend o’ his, that he had sailed for America wi’ his wife,
having married anither lass twa or three days before he sailed.
This was dreadfu’ news to poor Jessie, she couldna haud up her head
after’t, and her father and mother removed to a different part of the
country, takin’ her wi’ them—I hae ne’er heard what becam o’ them
since.
‘Weel, as I was sayin’, we had every thing planned out, and waitin’
anxiously for anither letter. We had heard by the papers that the
allied troops were marching for Paris; every day brought fresh news,
until at length we saw the mail-coach rattle past our door wi’ flags
fleein’. Peace, peace, was in ilka body’s mouth—every body that had
friends in the army were rinnin’ frae door to door congratulating ane
anither, and every body was overjoyed.
‘Orders were gi’en fer an illumination. “That I’ll do wi’ a’ my
heart,” says I, “for I hope my laddie’s on his passage hame.” “O
mother?” cried Mary, “here’s the postman wi’ a letter for you.” My
heart lap to my mouth—I ran into the room and tore’t open—“This will
be gude news frae Willie. O Mary, read it, for I’m sae flurried that
I canna read.” “Preserve us,” says she, “that’s no Willie’s writing.”
“Never mind,” says I; “read, read.” She read on hurriedly to
hersel’, but while she read, her face turn’d ghastly pale—the letter
drapped frae her hands—“O! mother, he’s kill’d,”—and she sank down
before me, without me havin’ power to help her.
‘Oh!’ said the old woman, passing her hand across her forehead. ‘I
canna think about that day, but my head turns, and I’m no mysel’.’