sleep during the night, so that there was little danger of her being
late in rising; and, according to a promise made on the previous
evening, she was at her mother's cottage some hours before daylight. In
a few minutes the fire was lighted up, and she was proceeding to cook a
slight repast for the stranger, when he himself made his appearance in
that apartment which might be called the kitchen. She saluted him by
inquiring "how he had rested?" and he answered her with an attempt at
civility; but his eye did not meet hers as it had done on the previous
evening; and altogether there was an alteration in his manner which
struck her forcibly. She next begged him to be seated; but, instead of
complying with her request, he looked at his watch, and then represented
to her the necessity of his being gone immediately. She seemed anxious
that he should stop till she could set before him the victuals which she
had been preparing, simply, as she said, "that he might not go abroad so
early with an empty stomach;" but her entreaties were thrown away; and,
when nothing could persuade him to delay his journey only for a few
minutes, she accompanied him out in a state of perplexed feeling not
easily described. She had walked by his side to some distance without
anything having passed between them, except some trite observations
concerning the weather, which was now fair--the fall of snow having
only lasted for a short time--when, unable longer to endure this state
of suspense, she asked, in a hesitating tone, if "anything had occurred
during the night to disturb him?"
"I have been a fool!" was his tart reply; "but I am at least wise enough
to repent of my folly in time. I was loth to believe the evidence of my
own senses when they testified against you, and I even tried to argue
myself into a belief of your innocence, but your question puts the
matter beyond a doubt; and now, farewell for ever!"
Mary would have remonstrated with him as to the rashness of his
conduct--she would have told him what she knew. The warmth of a lately
awakened affection, a woman's pride, a woman's delicacy, and a feeling
of indignation at being thus suspected, were all at strife in her bosom;
and it can scarcely be matter of surprise, if for some seconds they
deprived her of the use of speech. As he was turning to depart, however,
she mustered as much resolution as to repeat the word "farewell" firmly,
which was all she could say.
When left alone, Mary felt so much agitated, that it was some time
before she could endure the thought of being seen. Darkness and solitude
seemed to accord best with the state of her feelings, and to afford her
the only consolation which she was capable of receiving. In this state
of mind, it was some time before she could think of returning home; and,
when she did return, a new scene of mystery and confusion awaited her.
At the door she met her mother, who, with a countenance uncommonly
solemn, was just coming out. Margaret, who, from having slept more
soundly than was her usual, had only heard the concluding part of the
nocturnal noises, was again in a great distress. She believed them
nothing less than a _third warning_; which, according to vulgar
superstition, is an infallible proof; and on the present, as on former
occasions, she was hastening to communicate this fresh confirmation of
her fears to Nanny Ferly. But she was immediately recalled by her
husband, who, on returning from the yard, whither he had been to
reconnoitre the morning sky, for the purpose of ascertaining what sort
of weather they were likely to have for the day, declared, "that their
back-window had been taken out, and that Mary's room had certainly been
robbed." On being made acquainted with this circumstance, great was the
good dame's consternation; and yet it were difficult to say whether she
would not have preferred the loss of her daughter's property, or any
other property which might be in the house, to those distressing fears
which she had hitherto entertained for the loss of that daughter
herself.
"God be thankit!" she exclaimed, after a short pause--"there was but
little to rob."
A strict examination was now instituted, to ascertain if property had
not been abstracted from other parts of the house; but in this
examination Mary took little share.
"What's the lassie doin dreamin there, as if she were bewildered?" cried
her mother at last, with some impatience. "Ye're a bonny ane indeed, to
stand as unconcerned as if ye were the steeple, when the hale house is
turned heels owre head to see how muckle that scoundrel has carried aff
wi' him."
This seemed to awaken her from her reverie.
"Mother," said she, firmly, "you may spare your bad names; for whatever
he _may do_, he will neither rob nor steal; and, so far as I can see,
the scoundrel of whom _you_ complain has carried off but little."
Mary's assertion was strictly and literally true; for, after the closest
search, it was found that the whole of the mortar which secured the
little window on the outside had been carefully displaced by means of a
large nail, or some other iron instrument, and the window itself set
down upon the ground without any of the glass being broken; but nothing
was missing, and not a single article seemed to have been so much as
moved from its place. Great was the wonder which now rose as to who the
depredator could be, and what motive he could possibly have had for
acting so strange a part. Mary was strictly questioned as to the time
and manner of her guest's departure; but her evidence tended in no way
to clear up the mystery. After much conjecture had been wasted to no
purpose, as daylight grew broad, a hat was discovered under a
low-growing apple-tree, which appeared to have been brushed by the
branches from the head of the depredator while he was making his escape.
It was carefully examined; but it bore no distinctive mark except the
letters "A. A.," and "R. D.," in the crown, neither of which could be
deciphered. Mary was again questioned as to its owner; but she only
said, "It might belong to anybody, for anything she knew;" and, in the
true spirit of discovery, it was carried by her mother to the house of
the new-married pair. No sooner had Jenny Jackson--now Mrs Angus--seen
it, than she exclaimed, "Whaur is Mary? whaur is Mary?" Mary was sent
for.
"Whether is Ritchie or Jamie gaun to get ye noo, Mary?" she inquired, in
an ecstasy of triumphant feeling. "I doubt it's Ritchie, after a', for
this is his hat--the very hat he bought from Andrew before he gaed to
the bleachfield; and Andrew said it was naething but you that took him
there. See, there is baith their names--A. for Andrew, A. for Angus, R.
for Ritchie, D. for Drycraig."
The whole was now out. Ritchie, from having lain down and fallen asleep
without his hat, was thrown into a fever, which, after having brought
him very near the grave, cured him effectually of his drunken habits and
his maudlin affection at the same time. Though James Duff had departed
in wrath, he soon returned in softened feeling; and, in less than a
year, he was married to Mary Mackenzie. Nanny Ferly was an incurable;
but the ridicule to which she was subjected upon this occasion made her
more cautious in the selection of her subjects And thus ends our story
of The Warning.
GRIZEL COCHRANE.
A TALE OF TWEEDMOUTH MUIR.
When the tyranny and bigotry of the last James drove his subjects to
take up arms against him, one of the most formidable enemies to his
dangerous usurpations was Sir John Cochrane, ancestor of the present
Earl of Dundonald. He was one of the most prominent actors in Argyle's
rebellion, and for ages a destructive doom seemed to have hung over the
house of Campbell, enveloping in a common ruin all who united their
fortunes to the cause of its chieftains. The same doom encompassed Sir
John Cochrane. He was surrounded by the king's troops--long, deadly, and
desperate was his resistance; but at length, overpowered by numbers, he
was taken prisoner, tried, and condemned to die upon the scaffold. He
had but a few days to live, and his jailer waited but the arrival of his
death-warrant to lead him forth to execution. His family and his friends
had visited him in prison, and exchanged with him the last, the long,
the heart-yearning farewell. But there was one who came not with the
rest to receive his blessing--one who was the pride of his eyes, and of
his house--even Grizel, the daughter of his love. Twilight was casting a
deeper gloom over the gratings of his prison-house, he was mourning for
a last look of his favourite child, and his head was pressed against the
cold damp walls of his cell, to cool the feverish pulsations that shot
through it like stings of fire, when the door of his apartment turned
slowly on its unwilling hinges, and his keeper entered, followed by a
young and beautiful lady. Her person was tall and commanding, her eyes
dark, bright, and tearless; but their very brightness spoke of
sorrow--of sorrow too deep to be wept away; and her raven tresses were
parted over an open brow, clear and pure as the polished marble. The
unhappy captive raised his head as they entered--
"My child! my own Grizel!" he exclaimed, and she fell upon his bosom.
"My father! my dear father!" sobbed the miserable maiden, and she dashed
away the tear that accompanied the words.
"Your interview must be short--very short,", said the jailer, as he
turned and left them for a few minutes together.
"God help and comfort thee, my daughter!" added the unhappy father, as
he held her to his breast, and printed a kiss upon her brow. "I had
feared that I should die without bestowing my blessing on the head of my
own child, and that stung me more than death. But thou art come, my
love--thou art come! and the last blessing of thy wretched father----"
"Nay! forbear! forbear!" she exclaimed; "not thy last blessing!--not thy
last! My father shall not die!"
"Be calm! be calm, my child!" returned he; "would to Heaven that I could
comfort thee!--my own! my own! But there is no hope--within three days,
and thou and all my little ones will be----"
Fatherless--he would have said, but the words died on his tongue.
"Three days!" repeated she, raising her head from his breast, but
eagerly pressing his hand--"three days! Then there _is_ hope--my father
_shall_ live! Is not my grandfather the friend of Father Petre, the
confessor and the master of the king? From him he shall beg the life of
his son, and my father shall not die."
"Nay! nay, my Grizel," returned he; "be not deceived--there is no
hope--already my doom is sealed--already the king has signed the order
for my execution, and the messenger of death is now on the way."
"Yet my father SHALL not!--SHALL not die!" she repeated, emphatically,
and, clasping her hands together. "Heaven speed a daughter's purpose!"
she exclaimed; and, turning to her father, said, calmly--"We part now,
but we shall meet again."
"What would my child?" inquired he eagerly, gazing anxiously on her
face.
"Ask not now," she replied, "my father--ask not now; but pray for me and
bless me--but not with thy _last_ blessing."
He again pressed her to his heart, and wept upon her neck. In a few
moments the jailer entered, and they were torn from the arms of each
other.
On the evening of the second day after the interview we have mentioned,
a wayfaring man crossed the drawbridge at Berwick, from the north, and
proceeding down Marygate, sat down to rest upon a bench by the door of
an hostelry on the south side of the street, nearly fronting where what
was called the "Main-guard" then stood. He did not enter the inn; for it
was above his apparent condition, being that which Oliver Cromwell had
made his head-quarters a few years before, and where, at a somewhat
earlier period, James the Sixth had taken up his residence when on his
way to enter on the sovereignty of England. The traveller wore a coarse
jerkin fastened round his body by a leathern girdle, and over it a short
cloak, composed of equally plain materials. He was evidently a young
man; but his beaver was drawn down, so as almost to conceal his
features. In the one hand he carried a small bundle, and in the other a
pilgrim's staff. Having called for a glass of wine, he took a crust of
bread from his bundle, and, after resting for a few minutes, rose to
depart. The shades of night were setting in, and it threatened to be a
night of storms. The heavens were gathering black, the clouds rushing
from the sea, sudden gusts of wind were moaning along the streets,
accompanied by heavy drops of rain, and the face of the Tweed was
troubled.
"Heaven help thee, if thou intendest to travel far in such a night as
this!" said the sentinel at the English gate, as the traveller passed
him and proceeded to cross the bridge.
In a few minutes, he was upon the borders of the wide, desolate, and
dreary muir of Tweedmouth, which, for miles, presented a desert of
whins, fern, and stunted heath, with here and there a dingle covered
with thick brushwood. He slowly toiled over the steep hill, braving the
storm, which now raged in wildest fury. The rain fell in torrents, and
the wind howled as a legion of famished wolves, hurling its doleful and
angry echoes over the heath. Still the stranger pushed onward, until he
had proceeded about two or three miles from Berwick, when, as if unable
longer to brave the storm, he sought shelter amidst some crab and
bramble bushes by the wayside. Nearly an hour had passed since he sought
this imperfect refuge, and the darkness of the night and the storm had
increased together, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard,
hurriedly plashing along the road. The rider bent his head to the blast.
Suddenly his horse was grasped by the bridle, the rider raised his head,
and the traveller stood before him, holding a pistol to his breast.
"Dismount!" cried the stranger, sternly.
The horseman, benumbed, and stricken with fear, made an effort to reach
his arms; but, in a moment, the hand of the robber, quitting the bridle,
grasped the breast of the rider, and dragged him to the ground. He fell
heavily on his face, and for several minutes remained senseless. The
stranger seized the leathern bag which contained the mail for the north,
and flinging it on his shoulder, rushed across the heath.
Early on the following morning, the inhabitants of Berwick were seen
hurrying in groups to the spot where the robbery had been committed, and
were scattered in every direction around the muir; but no trace of the
robber could be obtained.
Three days had passed, and Sir John Cochrane yet lived. The mail which
contained his death-warrant had been robbed; and, before another order
for his execution could be given, the intercession of his father, the
Earl of Dundonald, with the king's confessor, might be successful.
Grizel now became almost his constant companion in prison, and spoke to
him words of comfort. Nearly fourteen days had passed since the robbery
of the mail had been committed, and protracted hope in the bosom of the
prisoner became more bitter than his first despair. But even that hope,
bitter as it was, perished. The intercession of his father had been
unsuccessful--and a second time the bigoted and would-be despotic
monarch had signed the warrant for his death, and within little more
than another day that warrant would reach his prison.
"The will of Heaven be done!" groaned the captive.
"Amen!" returned Grizel, with wild vehemence; "but my father _shall_ not
die!"
Again the rider with the mail had reached the muir of Tweedmouth, and a
second time he bore with him the doom of Cochrane. He spurred his horse
to its utmost speed, he looked cautiously before, behind, and around
him; and in his right hand he carried a pistol ready to defend himself.
The moon shed a ghostly light across the heath, rendering desolation
visible, and giving a spiritual embodiment to every shrub. He was
turning the angle of a straggling copse, when his horse reared at the
report of a pistol, the fire of which seemed to dash into its very eyes.
At the same moment, his own pistol flashed, and the horse rearing more
violently, he was driven from the saddle. In a moment, the foot of the
robber was upon his breast, who, bending over him, and brandishing a
short dagger in his hand, said--
"Give me thine arms, or die!"
The heart of the king's servant failed within him, and, without
venturing to reply, he did as he was commanded.
"Now, go thy way," said the robber, sternly, "but leave with me the
horse, and leave with me the mail--lest a worse thing come upon thee."
The man therefore arose, and proceeded towards Berwick, trembling; and
the robber, mounting the horse which he had left, rode rapidly across
the heath.
Preparations were making for the execution of Sir John Cochrane, and the
officers of the law waited only for the arrival of the mail with his
second death-warrant, to lead him forth to the scaffold, when the
tidings arrived that the mail had again been robbed. For yet fourteen
days, and the life of the prisoner would be again prolonged. He again
fell on the neck of his daughter, and wept, and said--
"It is good--the hand of Heaven is in this!"
"Said I not," replied the maiden--and for the first time she wept
aloud--"that my father should not die."
The fourteen days were not yet past, when the prison-doors flew open,
and the old Earl of Dundonald rushed to the arms of his son. His
intercession with the confessor had been at length successful; and,
after twice signing the warrant for the execution of Sir John, which had
as often failed in reaching its destination, the king had sealed his
pardon. He had hurried with his father from the prison to his own
house--his family were clinging around him shedding tears of joy--and
they were marvelling with gratitude at the mysterious providence that
had twice intercepted the mail, and saved his life, when a stranger
craved an audience. Sir John desired him to be admitted--and the robber
entered. He was habited, as we have before described, with the coarse
cloak and coarser jerkin; but his bearing was above his condition. On
entering, he slightly touched his beaver, but remained Covered.
"When you have perused these," said he, taking two papers from his
bosom, "cast them into the fire!"
Sir John glanced on them, started, and became pale--they were his
death-warrants.
"My deliverer," exclaimed he, "how shall I thank thee--how repay the
saviour of my life! My father--my children--thank him for me!"
The old earl grasped the hand of the stranger; the children embraced his
knees; and he burst into tears.
"By what name," eagerly inquired Sir John, "shall I thank my deliverer?"
The stranger wept aloud; and raising his beaver, the raven tresses of
Grizel Cochrane fell upon the coarse cloak.
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the astonished and enraptured father--"my
own child!--my saviour!--my own Grizel!"
It is unnecessary to add more--the imagination of the reader can supply
the rest; and, we may only add, that Grizel Cochrane, whose heroism and
noble affection we have here hurriedly and imperfectly sketched, was,
tradition says, the grandmother of the late Sir John Stuart of
Allanbank, and great-great-grandmother of Mr Coutts, the celebrated
banker.[2]
[Footnote 2: Since the author of the "Tales of the Borders" first
published the tale of "Grizel Cochrane," a slightly different version of
it appeared in "Chambers' Journal." There is no reason to doubt the fact
of her heroism; but we believe it is incorrect, as is generally
affirmed, to say that she was the grandmother of the late Sir John
Stuart of Allanbank. We may state that the author of these tales
received a letter from Sir Hugh Stuart, son of Sir John referred to,
stating that his family would be glad to have such a heroine as Grizel
connected with their genealogy, but that they were unable to prove such
connection.]
SQUIRE BEN.
Before introducing my readers to the narrative of Squire Ben, it may be
proper to inform them who Squire Ben was. In the year 1816, when the
piping times of peace had begun, and our heroes, like Othello, "found
their occupation gone," a thickset, bluff, burly-headed little man,
whose every word and look reminded you of Incledon's "_Cease, rude
Boreas_," and bespoke him to be one of those who had "sailed with noble
Jervis," or,
"In gallant Duncan's fleet
Had sung out, yo heave ho!"--
purchased a small estate in Northumberland, a few miles from the banks
of the Coquet. He might be fifty years of age; but his weatherbeaten
countenance gave him the appearance of a man of sixty. Around the collar
of a Newfoundland dog, which followed him more faithfully than his
shadow, were engraved the words, "Captain Benjamin Cookson;" but, after
he had purchased the estate to which I have alluded, his poorer
neighbours called him Squire Ben. He was a strange mixture of
enthusiasm, shrewdness, courage, comicality, generosity, and humanity.
Ben, on becoming a country gentleman, became a keen fisher; and, as it
is said, "a fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind," I also, being fond
of the sport, became a mighty favourite with the bluff-faced squire. It
was on a fine bracing day in March, after a tolerable day's fishing, we
went to dine and spend the afternoon in the Angler's Inn, which stands
at the north end of the bridge over the Coquet, at the foot of the hill
leading up to Longframlington. Observing that Ben was in good sailing
trim, I dropped a hint that an account of his voyages and cruises on
the ocean of life would be interesting.
Ah, my boy (said Ben), you are there with your soundings, are you? Well,
you shall have a long story by the shortest tack. Somebody was my father
(continued he), but whom I know not. This much I know about my mother:
she was cook in a gentleman's family in this county, and being a fat,
portly body--something of the build of her son, I take it--no one
suspected that she was in a certain delicate situation, until within a
few days before I was born. Then, with very grief and shame, the poor
thing became delirious; and, as an old servant of the family has since
told me, you could see the very flesh melting off her bones. While she
continued in a state of delirium, your humble servant, poor Benjamin,
was born; and without recovering her senses, she died within an hour
after my birth, leaving me--a beautiful orphan, as you see me now--a
legacy to the workhouse and the world. Benjamin was my mother's family
name--from which I suppose they had something of the Jew in their blood;
though, Heaven knows, I have none in my composition. So they who had the
christening of me gave me my mother's name of Benjamin, as my Christian
name: and from her occupation as _cook_, they surnamed me Cookson--that
is, "Benjamin the Cook's son," simply Benjamin Cookson, more simply,
Squire Ben. Well, you see, my boy, I was born beneath the roof of an
English squire, and before I was three hours old was handed over to the
workhouse. This was the beginning of my life. The first thing I remember
was hating the workhouse--the second was loving the sea. Yes, sir,
before I was seven years old, I used to steal away in the noble company
of my own good self, and sit down upon a rock on the solitary beach,
watching the ships, the waves, and the sea-birds--wishing to be a wave,
a ship, or a bird--ay, sir, wishing to be anything but poor orphan Ben.
The sea was to me what my parents should have been--a thing I delighted
to look upon. I loved the very music of its maddest storms; though,
quietly, I have since had enough of them. I began my career before I was
ten years of age, as cabin-boy in a collier. My skipper was a
dare-devil, tear-away sort of fellow, who cared no more for running down
one of your coasting craft than for turning a quid in his mouth. But he
was a good, honest, kindhearted sort of a chap, for all that--barring
that the rope's-end was too often in his hand.
"Ben," says he to me one misty day, when we were taking coals across the
herring pond to the Dutchmen, and the man at the helm could not see
half-way to the mast-head--"Ben, my little fellow, can you cipher?"
"Yes, sir," says I.
"The deuce you can!" says he; "then you're just the lad for me. And do
you understand logarithms?"
"No, sir," says I; "what sort of wood be they?"
"Wood be hanged! you blockhead!" said he, raising his foot in a passion,
but a smile on the corners of his mouth shoved it to the deck again
before it reached me. "But come, Ben, you can cipher, you say; well, I
know all about the radius and tangents, and them sort of things, and
stating the question; but blow me if I have a multiplication-table on
board--my fingers are of no use at a long number, and I am always
getting out of it counting by chalks;--so come below, Ben, and look over
the question, and let us find where we are. I know I have made a mistake
some way; and mark ye, Ben, if you don't find it out--ye that can
cipher--there's a rope's-end to your supper, and that's all."