thinking of the old brochure, "was always moody, as I have said--ay, and
crotchety; no one had any power to drive from him a settled opinion or
resolution. After I had listened to him I said--
"'Master, permit me, your poor servant, to say that this is not evidence
on which I would beat a dog.'
"'I am convinced,' he replied sternly and unkindly, and he moved his
hand as a sign that I should leave him. I retreated, grieved to the
heart, for I knew master's nature. When I got to the top of the stair, I
saw my lady beckoning me from the door of the library. I went to her.
"'Francis,' she said, as she shut the door, 'what is this? Has my
husband told you anything?'
"'All,' I replied. 'He has recounted to me some strange words uttered by
you in your sleep, from which he infers that you poisoned my lady
Lillah.'
"'Repeat them--repeat them,' she said hurriedly.
"I did so, and when I mentioned the name Grierson, she seemed to
brighten a little. O how she hung upon my words!
"'Francis,' she said, 'I may be saved. You may help me. Some nights
ago I was occupied in reading the history of Jane Grierson--a little
pamphlet which you will find in the drawer of the escritoire, in
the dressing-room. There is the key. That story is the story I had
recounted in my sleep. Go get the book, and bring it to me. That will
save me, and nothing but that will save me.'
"'God be praised,' I ejaculated, and then hurried with all speed to get
the book. I searched the escritoire; it was not there. I examined other
drawers with no better success. At length I returned to my lady, and
reported my failure. Without saying a word she hurried away from me,
rushed along the lobby, and entered the parlour opening into the
dressing-room. Not doubting her word, and agitated by the hope of all
being thus satisfactorily explained when the book should be got, I flew
to my master's room through the door from the passage.
"'It is all explainable,' I cried, as I entered.
"'Indeed!' answered Mr. Bernard satirically.
"'My lady was some nights ago reading the story of Jane Grierson,' said
I, 'and her sleep-walking conversation was only a repetition of the
story.'
"'Grierson, Grierson!' cried my master, as he rose frantically, and
placed his hand on his forehead. 'Yes, yes! she mentioned the word. I
have never thought of that. Yes! yes! show me that book, and I shall be
satisfied.'
"I ran immediately to the door leading to the dressing-room, where I
heard my lady searching. Master had shut it. He opened it for me by the
key which he held in his hand, and locked it as I passed out. It seemed
he wanted no interview till the book should be got. Amelia was there,
searching and searching, trembling and sighing.
"'What means this?' she ejaculated, as she proceeded--then paused. 'I
must have placed it in the trunk, from whence I took it;' and she rushed
away to the room where the trunks lay, which she had brought with her to
Redcleugh.
"'Twas all in vain. That book could not be got, sir. That book was never
found. No copy of it could be procured. The loss of that book was the
ruin of the house of Redcleugh."
"There it is," said I, holding up the tattered brochure to the wondering
eyes of the old butler.
"Gracious Heaven!" cried the old man. "Yet not gracious--too late, too
late!" and he staggered, like one who is drunk. "Mr. Bernard is dead."
"And Amelia is mad," said I, sorrowfully.
"Yes, mad," said he, as he still gazed on the brochure, and turned it
over and over with trembling hands.
"But how did you come to get this," he inquired.
I told him, and he rose and hastened to the escritoire to examine it,
and satisfy himself of the truth of my statement.
"When that book could not be found, sir," he resumed when he came back,
"my master put his resolution into effect. He placed his children with
Mr. Gordon, one of his trustees, executed a settlement, and went to the
East. My lady Amelia never saw him from that morning, but he left word
with me, that if the pamphlet was found in the house, he should be made
acquainted with it through his trustee, Mr. Gordon. But, ah! sir, that
never happened, in God's mysterious providence; and now my poor Lady
Amelia could receive no advantage from this proof of her innocence. I
have heard from her own lips, before her reason gave way, that she was
the grand-daughter of Jane Grierson and Mr. Temple, and that was the
reason why she came to have this little book. The story haunted her, yet
she read it; while, at the same time, she concealed her possession of
it, and her connection with the parties."
Francis now left me, and if I had little inclination to sleep before, I
had less now. All the strange incidents of the story seemed to revolve
round myself; though my part in it seemed merely the result of chance, I
appeared to myself somehow as a directly-appointed agent for working
out some design of Providence. Yet what I was required to do I did not
know. I cogitated and recogitated, and came to no conclusion as to how I
should act; only I saw no great benefit in the meantime in endeavouring
to make any use of the pamphlet for the purpose of recovering the
aberrant reason of the poor lady. At length I fell asleep, and next
morning awoke to the strange recollections of what had occurred so
shortly before. I saw Amelia again; she was depressed and moody; the
fiend within her was dormant, but its weight pressed on the issues of
thought, and her vacant stare told unutterable woe.
I left Redcleugh without much hope, intending to pay another visit
shortly afterwards. About three or four days after reaching home, a
letter came to me from Francis, inclosing one from Mr. Gordon, the
latter of which contained the intelligence that there had been some
mistake as to the report of Mr. Bernard's death. A gentleman of the same
name had died at Aleppo, but the master of Redcleugh was still alive. A
gleam of the sunshine of hope darted through my mind. The dark images of
the story were illumined--even the figure of that poor lady enshrined in
the gloom of sorrow became bright with lustrous, meaning, intelligent
eyes. Within an hour I had a letter posted for Mr. Gordon, informing him
of the finding of the pamphlet, and requesting him to send for Mr.
Bernard by an express messenger.
In the meanwhile I visited Mrs. Bernard regularly, though the distance
was much beyond my usual journeys. Some parts of the intelligence were
broken to her through the medium of Francis, but without any marked
result, if exacerbations were not more frequent, ending in deeper
depression; as if a wild hope had risen and died away in the absence of
anything visible or tangible to justify it to the erring but suspicious
judgment of the victim of despair. Other preparations were made; the
old servants recalled; and Francis was glorying in the prospect of a
restoration of the old ways, if not the very continuation of that broken
happiness of which he was so full. At length Mr. Bernard arrived, along
with Caleb and Mira. Mr. Gordon was along with them, and I was sent for.
We were all assembled without Mrs. Bernard being aware of our presence
in the house. I counselled caution, and Mira was introduced to the
mother alone; but the child retreated under the fear of a scream which
might betoken either joy or despair; nor did her mother ask for her
again--a strange circumstance, and not of good omen; but we behoved to
persevere, and Mr. Bernard himself, accompanied by Mr. Gordon and me,
presented ourselves before her. Was there ever a meeting under such
circumstances? The husband clasped the unconscious wife to his bosom. I
stood to watch the effect of an act which I considered precipitate, if
not imprudent. The moment she felt herself in the arms of her husband
she struggled to release herself, uttered the loudest scream I ever
heard from her, and fell in a swoon upon the floor. That swoon gave me
hopes, for in confirmed madness we do not often find that moral causes
working on the mind show any power over the body. When she recovered,
and was placed in a chair, she panted for breath, like one choking; and
waving her hands and grasping convulsively the clothes of those next to
her, seemed as if she were testing the reality of all these appearances,
as things new and wonderful and incredible. I then held out to her the
pamphlet, in all its tattered condition. The effect was extraordinary.
She clutched it with such an intensity of grasp that she crumpled it all
up, and then tried with trembling hands to undo the crushed leaves, some
of which fell at her feet. I watched the rise of the natural expression
of wonder struggling through the look of insanity; but I could discover
no joy, only something like fear. I still augured favourably. She was
laid upon her bed, and in about an hour afterwards fell into a troubled
sleep. A day passed, yet amid my hopes I could see nothing on which I
could absolutely rely as an undoubted sign of a favourable change, till
on the evening of the second day, when she burst into a flood of tears.
I had Mr. Bernard at her side at the end of this paroxysm, and in a very
short time she was hanging upon his neck, sobbing like a child who is
reconciled to its mother.
Under a date some six months after these indications of Amelia's
convalescence, I find a note in my diary, "Dined at Redcleugh with
Mr. and Mrs. Bernard; the invalid restored, and again the object
of her husband's affection; the butler once more the pride of his
major-domoship; the old Burgundy produced and declared better than ever;
heard that musical laugh which once charmed Mr. Bernard from the depth
of his sorrow, as it now mingled, like a fluid, with the glory of a
summer sun shining through the green blinds, and spread joy throughout
the old house of Redcleugh."
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN.
When I was a boy, I used to pass the summer vacation in the Isle
of Bute, where my father had a small cottage, for the convenience
of sea-bathing. I enjoyed my sea-side visits greatly, for I was
passionately fond of boating and fishing and, before I was sixteen, had
become a fearless and excellent swimmer. From morning till night, I was
rambling about the beach, or either sailing upon or swimming in the
beautiful Frith. I was a prime favourite among the fishermen, with most
of whom I was on familiar terms, and knew them all by name. Among their
number was one man who particularly attracted my attention, and excited
my curiosity. He was civil and obliging, though distant and reserved in
his manners, with a shade of habitual melancholy on his countenance,
which awakened my sympathy, at the same time that his "bearing," which
was much above his station, commanded my respect. He _appeared_ to be
about sixty years of age; particularly prepossessing in his appearance;
and his language and demeanour would have done honour to any rank of
society. I felt involuntarily attracted towards him, and took every
opportunity of showing my wish to please and become better acquainted
with him; but in vain. He seemed gratified by my attentions; but I made
no nearer approach to his confidence. He went, among his companions, by
the name of "Gentleman Douglas;" but they appeared to be as ignorant of
the particulars of his history as myself. All they knew of him was, that
he had come among them a perfect stranger, some years before, no one
knew from whence; that he seemed to have some means of support
independent of his boat; and that he was melancholy, silent, and
reserved--as much as possible avoiding all communication with his
neighbours. These particulars only served to whet my boyish curiosity,
and I determined to leave no means untried to penetrate to the bottom of
Douglas' mystery. Let me do myself justice, however: my eagerness to
know his history proceeded from an earnest desire to soothe his sorrow,
whatever it might be, and to benefit him in any way in my power. Day
after day I used to stroll down to the beach, when he was preparing to
get his boat under way, and volunteer to pull an oar on board. At first
he seemed annoyed by my officiousness; and, though he always behaved
with civility, showed, by his impatient manner, that he would rather
dispense with my company; but the constant dripping of water will wear
away a stone, and hard indeed must be the heart that will not be
softened by unremitting kindness. My persevering wish to please him
gradually produced the desired effect--he _was_ pleased, and evinced it
by his increasing cordiality of manner, and by the greater interest
he seemed to take in all my movements. In a short time we became
inseparables, and his boat hardly ever left the shore without me. My
father was not at all adverse to my intimacy with Douglas; he knew him
to be a sober, industrious man, and one who bore an irreproachable
moral character; and as he was anxious that I should strengthen my
constitution as much as possible in the sea-breeze, he thought I could
not roam about under safer or less objectionable protection. On a
further acquaintance with Douglas, I found him a most agreeable
companion; for, when his reserve wore off, his conversation was amusing
and instructive; and he had tales to tell of foreign lands and of
distant seas, which he described with that minuteness and closeness
which only a personal acquaintance with them could have produced. Often,
in the course of his narration, his eye would brighten and his cheek
glow with an emotion foreign to his usual calm and melancholy manner;
and then he would suddenly stop, as if some sound he had uttered had
awakened dark memories of the past, and the gloom clouded his brow
again, his voice trembled, and his cheek grew pale. These sudden
transitions alarmed and surprised me; my suspicions were excited, and I
began to imagine that the man must have been guilty of some unknown and
dreadful crime, and that conscience was at such times busy within him.
Douglas must have observed my changing manner; but it made little
alteration in his demeanour towards myself.
"What is the matter, Douglas?" said I, one day, when I observed him
start and turn pale at some casual observation of mine.
"Do not indulge a vain and idle curiosity, Master Charles, at the
expense of another's feelings," replied he, gravely and mournfully, "nor
endeavour to rake up the ashes of the past. The heart knows its own
bitterness: long may yours be a stranger to sorrow! I have observed,
with pain, that you, as others have done, begin to look upon me with
suspicion. Be satisfied with the assurance, that I have no crimes
needing concealment, to reproach myself with; and the sorrows of age
should be sacred in the eyes of youth."
I was humbled by the old man's reproof, and hastened to express my
concern for having hurt his feelings.
"Enough said, enough said, Mr. Charles," said he; "curiosity is natural
at your age, and I am not surprised at your wishing, like some of your
elders, to learn the cause of the melancholy which hangs over me like a
cloud darkening the path of life, and embittering all its pleasures. At
some future time I will tell you the reason why you see me what I am;
but I cannot now--the very thought of it unmans me."
Time wore on; every year I returned to the sea-side during the summer,
and was always welcomed with unaffected cordiality by my old ally,
Douglas. I was now a strapping youth of nineteen, tall and powerful of
my age--thanks to the bracing sea-air and constant exercise. One day
Douglas told me he was going over to Largs, and asked if I would
accompany him.
"With all my heart," said I; and in ten minutes we were standing across
the Frith with a fine steady breeze. We were close over to the Ayrshire
coast, when a sudden puff of wind capsized the boat, and we were both
thrown into the water. When I rose to the surface again, after my
plunge, I looked around in vain for Douglas, who had disappeared. He
had on a heavy pea-jacket, and I was at first afraid the weight and
encumbrance of it must have sunk him; but, on second thoughts, I dived
under the boat, and found him floundering about beneath the sail, from
whence I succeeded with great difficulty in extricating him. He was
quite exhausted, and it required all my strength to support him to the
gunnel of the boat. After hanging on there some time, to recover breath,
we swam together to the beach, which was not far distant. When we
landed, he seated himself on a large stone, and remained silent for some
time, with his face buried in his hands.
"Douglas," said I, wondering at his long silence, "are you hurt?"
To my great surprise I heard low sobs, and saw the tears trickling
between his fingers. Thinking that he was grieved at the loss of his
boat, I said--
"Cheer up, man! If the boat be lost, we will manage among us to get
another for you."
"'Tisn't the boat, sir, 'tisn't the boat; we can soon raise _her_ again:
it is your kindness that has made a fool of me."
He then looked up in my face, and, drying his glistening cheek with one
hand, he shook mine long and heartily with the other.
"Mr. Charles, before I met you, I thought I was alone in the world;
shunned by most around me as a man of mystery. Because I could not join
in their rude sports and boisterous merriment, they attributed my
reserve and visible dejection to sinister causes--possibly to some
horrible and undiscovered crime." A blush here flitted across my
countenance; but Douglas did not remark it. "Young, and warm, and
enthusiastic, _you_ sought me out with different feelings; you were
attracted towards me by pity, and by a generous desire to relieve my
distress. It was not the mere impulse of a moment; your kindness has
been constant and unwavering--and now you have crowned all by saving
my life. I hardly know whether or not to thank you for what was so
worthless to myself; but I _do_ thank you from the bottom of my heart
for the friendly and generous feeling which actuated you. You shall know
the cause of the sorrow that weighs upon my heart; I would not that one
to whom I owe so much should look upon me with the slightest shade of
suspicion. I think, when you know my story, you will pity and sympathize
with me; but you will judge less harshly, I doubt not, than I do of
myself."
"Do not call up unnecessary remembrances, which harrow your feelings,
Douglas. That I have often thought there is mystery about you, I will
not deny; but only once did the possibility of a cause of guilt flash
across my mind. That unworthy suspicion has long past, and I am now
heartily ashamed of myself for having harboured it for a moment. But we
are forgetting the boat; we must try to get assistance to right her."
We soon fell in with one of the fishermen on the coast, with whose
assistance she was speedily righted and baled out; and, after having
done what we came for at Largs we returned homewards.
"Meet me to-morrow at ten o'clock, Mr. Charles," said Douglas, as he
grasped my hand at parting, "and you shall then hear my story, and judge
whether or not I have cause to grieve."
At the appointed hour next morning I hastened to the rendezvous. The
fisherman was already there, waiting for me.
"I daresay you are surprised to see me here so soon," said he; "but
now that I have determined to make you my confidant, I feel eager to
disburden my mind, and to seek relief from my sorrows in the sympathy of
one whom I am so proud to call my friend.
"I was not always in the humble station in which you now see me,
Mr. Stewart; but, thank Heaven! it was no misconduct of my own that
occasioned the change. My father was an English clergyman, whose
moderate stipend denied to his family the luxuries of life; but we had
reason to acknowledge the truth of the wise man's saying, that 'a dinner
of herbs, where love is, is better than more sumptuous fare where that
love is not'. We were a united and a happy family, contented with the
competence with which Providence had blessed us, and pitying, not
envying, those who, endowed with greater wealth, were exposed to
greater temptations. Oh! those happy, happy days! It sometimes almost
maddens me, Mr. Stewart, to compare myself, as I am now, with what I
was then. Every morning I rose with a light and happy heart, exulting
in the sunbeam that awakened me with its smile, and blessing, in the
gladfulness of youthful gratitude, the gracious Giver of light and life.
My heart overflowed with love to all created beings. I could look back
without regret, and the future was bright with hope. And now, what am I?
A broken-hearted man, but still, after all my sufferings, grateful to
the hand which has chastened me. I can picture the whole family grouped
on a summer evening, now, Mr. Stewart, as vividly as a sight of
yesterday, though fifty years have cast their dark shadows between. My
mother, seated beside her work-table under the neat verandah in front of
our cottage, encouraging my sisters, with her sweet smile and gentle
voice, in the working of their first sampler; my father, seated with his
book, under the shade of his favourite laburnum tree; while my brother
and I were trundling our hoops round the garden, shouting with boyish
glee; and my little fair-haired cousin, Julia, tottering along with her
little hands extended, to catch the butterfly that tempted her on from
flower to flower. My brother Henry was two years younger than myself,
and was at the time I speak of a remarkably handsome, active boy, of ten
years of age--full of fun and mischief, unsteady and volatile. My father
found considerable difficulty in confining Henry's attention to his
studies; for, though uncommonly quick and intelligent, he wanted
patience and application. He could not bear the drudgery of poring over
musty books. He used to say to me--'How I should like to be an officer,
a gallant naval officer, to lead on my men through fire and smoke to
victory!' And then the little fellow would wave his hand, while the
colour flushed his cheeks, and shout--'Come on! come on!' He had,
somehow or other, got possession of an old naval chronicle; and from
that moment his whole thoughts were of ships and battles, and his
principal amusement was to launch little fleets of ships upon the pond
at the bottom of the garden. My father, though mild and indulgent in
other matters, was a strict disciplinarian in education; and often did I
save Henry from punishment by helping him with his exercises and other
lessons. Dearly did I love my gallant, high-spirited little brother; and
he looked up to me with equal fondness.