hold out no longer. On the very day on which Mr. Manners was engaged in
the melancholy duty we have described, the unhappy lover bent his steps
thither, with an anxious and fluttering heart. As he walked up the
garden, he observed Miss Manners watering a small bed, in which she
had planted some favourite flowers. The young lady was a good deal
embarrassed on beholding him. Her father's injunctions against receiving
his visits had made a deep impression on her mind, and she had directed
the servant, the next time he called, to say that she could not be seen.
Now, however, there was no escape. Jones walked towards her with a
smile of mingled fear and admiration; and, if not with cordiality, she
received him at least with politeness. Their conversation, as they
strolled through the garden, was at first embarrassed, but became more
free by degrees, and assumed at length an almost confidential tone. To
a person of a romantic disposition, Jones' conversation was in a high
degree fascinating; and his companion in this delightful walk did not
conceal the pleasure with which she listened to it. His candour and
unreserve she admired; his misfortunes she commiserated; and, with much
that he said she could not fail to be both interested and flattered.
Nevertheless, she avoided any word by which she thought she might give
encouragement to his hopes; while he, on the other hand, although freely
expressing his passion, was careful to avoid a syllable which might lead
her to believe that, in his present disgrace and poverty, he presumed to
the honour of her hand. After wandering about for some time, their souls
melting into each other, Miss Manners could not resist inviting him into
the house to rest. Scarcely, however, had they seated themselves in the
parlour, when Mr. Manners appeared. He entered with rather a hasty step,
and his manner was a good deal agitated. On perceiving Jones, he bowed
to him, then turning to his daughter--
"My child!" he said.
"What is it?" inquired Miss Manners, in a tone of alarm.
"Have you," he continued, "forgotten my injunctions?"
Miss Manners cast her eyes on the ground, and seemed displeased at being
taken to task before a stranger.
Jones, observing her embarrassment, said--
"Sir, I shall be sorry if my presence here should occasion you any
uneasiness. Believe me, I am the last person in the world to intrude
where I am not welcome. It will, no doubt, cost me a pang, sir; but if
it be your wish that I should not see your daughter more, I shall try to
tear my heart from her--I shall go and hide myself in obscurity, and
endeavour to forget all I have most loved in this world!"
Mr. Manners raised his hand, as if commanding silence, and gazed
stedfastly on his daughter. The latter looked up to him with tears in
her eyes, and exclaimed--
"I think Mr. Jones is innocent!"
"He _is_ innocent," said the old man, emphatically. "Come to my arms,
both!"
Both moved forward and took the hand he offered, but with amazement
depicted on their countenances.
"Oh, my children!" he said, "I have witnessed such a scene!"
The old man sat down on the sofa, and, for a few moments, covered his
eyes with his hands.
"I have been," he, at length, proceeded, "by the dying bed of the poor
village maiden's murderer--I have heard the fearful confession from his
own lips. O God! may I never behold such another deathbed!"
Jones dropped on his knee, and Miss Manners clasped her hands as in mute
prayer.
"Thank God!" at length exclaimed the latter; "the innocent will no
longer suffer for the guilty!"
"No!" said the old man. "Mr. Jones, you have been deeply wronged."
"Ay," said Jones; "but not by you. From you only have I received
kindness--kindness often better deserved, but never more needed--often,
perhaps, bestowed, but never received with deeper gratitude. While every
door was barred against me, yours was open--while every heart"----
His utterance became choked, and he was altogether unable to proceed.
Mr. Manners shook him warmly by the hand; and, with many expressions of
thankfulness, Jones withdrew, leaving Miss Manners in tears.
On returning homewards, it was obvious that the news of Merrideth's
death, together with its fearful revelations, had spread like wildfire
through the village. How different was Jones' reception!--nods,
recognitions, congratulations, cheers, wherever he passed! Of these,
however, he thought not: he thought only of the girl he had left behind
him weeping. That very night he again repaired to the manse. He went
often; and every succeeding time seemed to be made more welcome.
A pleasant--a delightful change had now taken place in his feelings. The
consciousness of having outlived the slander which had so long sullied
his name, filled his bosom with a sensation of honest pride, and
inspired him with a degree of ease and confidence which he had not
previously experienced. Miss Manners was scarcely less gratified by the
mystery having been at length cleared up, and the public mind disabused.
From her first interview with Jones, she had entertained a strong
impression of his innocence; and the fact of her good opinion of
him being confirmed, she regarded with feelings almost of triumph.
Accordingly, their meetings were mutually delightful. If, at any
time, the latter doubted the propriety of encouraging his visits, the
reflection that she had done right, in the first instance, in following
the dictates of her heart, caused her to continue in the same course.
The truth is, she pitied Jones; and pity, it is well known, is akin to a
still tenderer emotion.
Two or three weeks after the scene we have described, there was a small
evening party at the manse. It was given in honour of Mr. and Mrs.
Green, who had just been a few days married. The young couple were
ushered into the drawing-room in gay attire, and with their faces
wreathed into still gayer smiles; and, in the fair bride, Jones, who
was, of course, present, recognized the lady who had, on one occasion,
betrayed so much alarm on his doing her a trifling act of kindness. The
affair, in the absence of more important topic of conversation, was
talked and laughed over; and the bride acknowledged herself to have
been a very silly girl. All the company were soon in high spirits, and
the merriment was kept up till it was near midnight. On separating, the
company could not help expressing their admiration of the serenity of
the night. It was a clear, lovely moonlight; and the exquisite stillness
and beauty of the scene caused some of the younger individuals of the
party to regret that they had spent so much time within doors. When they
reached the gate, Miss Manners, who had accompanied them through the
garden, bade them "good night." "Good night," said they, and parted; but
Jones, who was the last to shake hands with her, could not part. He
lingered, pressed her hand, wished her "good night," and still lingered.
"I must escort you a little way back," he at length said; and,
accordingly, the two strolled up the garden, hand in hand--she speaking
of the lateness of the hour, and he of the loveliness of the moon and
stars, until night, moon, and stars, were all forgotten.
After a few moments' silence, Jones suddenly paused, and, pressing her
hand in both of his, said--
"Marion, I would we might never part. I never leave you without pain."
"I know not why it should be so," she said; "but you must just come back
the oftener."
"Ay," said he; "but even to be absent from you a little while, is
torture."
"I fear," she said, "you are but a poor philosopher."
"Ah," he replied, "philosophy can do many things, but it cannot cure the
heartache. O Marion! I love to call you by that name! It is in your
power to end all my anxieties: a word--a word will do it! How say you?
May I hope? Nay, I do hope; but, may I call you by that name?"
"What name?" interrupted Miss Manners, tremulously.
"That name, dear heart, which is the tenderest man can bestow on woman?"
Her reply was inaudible. Jones, however, kissed her lips, and she
forbade him not. On parting, he again kissed her, and returned to his
lodgings with feelings of unmixed ecstacy.
A few weeks passed--they were weeks of delicious expectancy, of
unrestrained intercourse, of active preparation; and the event which was
to crown their happiness was duly solemnized. It was a day of great
rejoicing in the village; and, as they dashed off on their marriage
jaunt, they were honoured with the blessings and cheers of a large crowd
of people who had assembled to wish them joy. On returning, a few days
afterwards, similar demonstrations of respect awaited them; and they
continued to live in the neighbourhood, greatly esteemed and beloved by
all who knew them--esteemed for their many virtues, and beloved for
their simple and unostentatious manners.
One little incident, which happened many years afterwards, is perhaps
worth relating. An old man, who had been long unable to work, and to
whom Jones had shown much kindness, grasped him one day by the hand, and
said--
"Sir, I once struck you on the head with a stone; do you forgive me?"
"I do," was the reply; "but you must not do so again."
THE SERGEANT'S TALES.
THE PALANTINES.[G]
Of all the countless numbers that take their pleasure walks upon the
Calton Hill of Edinburgh, none that do not remember it an isolated spot,
of awkward access, can have any recollection of Sergeant Square's tall
and gaunt figure, his cue, cocked hat, gaiters, and military appearance,
as he took his daily promenade around the airy and delightful walks, or
sat upon its highest point, where Nelson's Monument now stands, in
stately solitude, as if he had been the genius of the hill, resting his
square and bony chin on the top of his gold-headed cane, with his
immense hands serving as a cushion between. Thus would he sit for hours,
gazing on the busy scene beneath, as if he knew what occupied the
bustling crowds, and directed their labours according to the impulse of
his will. We had passed and repassed each other in our walks for weeks,
before any approach to recognition took place between us. I was the
first to make an advance, by giving him a slight bow, as we passed; this
he returned, and an acquaintance soon ripened into intimacy. Under his
stiff and formal air, I found one of the most kind and communicative
hearts I ever communed with. It is long since I laid his head in the
grave; and I never visit the hill, but memory conjures up his
remarkable figure, as vividly as if we stood face to face, till I almost
think I may meet him at each turn, while I saunter along, lost in musing
on days that are gone. I may meet with new piles of stone and mortar
profaning the sacred spot; but, Sergeant Square I shall never meet there
again! But to proceed. It was on that day the 42d regiment marched into
Edinburgh, after their return from Egypt, that we were enjoying our
usual walk. It was a spirit-stirring time, and our talk was of war, and
the gallant exploits of our countrymen. His eye flashed; his gold-headed
cane rested on his shoulder as if it had been a musket; his walk became
a march; he was evidently thinking of the battles he had been in;
when, embracing the opportunity, I requested a short account of his
adventures. It was some time before he took any notice of my request,
so completely was his mind absorbed in his own recollections. We had
reached the north-east angle of the hill before he spoke. At length he
seated himself on the smooth green turf--I by his side; and, after a
pause--
"If you have the patience to listen to me," he said, "I do not care if I
do give you some account of what I have seen, suffered, and enjoyed in
this strange world."
[G] Palantine--a name given by the Americans and seamen, to
kidnapped individuals, or those who went out voluntarily to be indented,
for a time agreed upon, with any person in America willing to pay the
sum of money required by the captain for their passage out. The famous
Williamson, who first invented the penny-post and directories, obtained
damages from the magistrates of Aberdeen for suppressing his narrative,
in which he exposed them for this traffic.--ED.
"It is of small importance," he began, "where a man was born, or who was
his father--his own actions must bring him fame or shame. The first
sounds that ever attracted my particular attention, were those of the
music bells of old St. Giles', and the firing of the guns in Edinburgh
Castle. I had reached my twelfth year, when my father, who was a
Jacobite, joined the Highland army at Duddingstone, while Prince Charles
was in Holyrood House, and I never saw him again. My mother, who was
weakly at the time, and our circumstances very poor--for my father was
only a day-labourer--took it so much to heart that she survived only a
few months, and I was thrown destitute upon my own resources, which,
God knows, were scant enough. I was tall and stout for my age, and
roughed it out, ragged, hungry, and cold, about the city, for three
years and some months--running messages, or doing any little thing I
could get to do for a piece of bread or a mouthful of victuals; and
choosing the warmest stair, or any other convenient place, for a
bedroom. Rough as this training was, I was far from being unhappy; for I
had my enjoyments, humble as they were--as yet innocent, and as keenly
relished as if they had been those of luxury. These few years of
hardships were soon to be of eminent service to me--perhaps the means of
saving my life.
It was the spring of the year. The winter had been very severe, and I
was rejoicing in the thought of summer, which, for the poor, has fewer
wants and less of suffering. Loitering, as usual, upon the High Street,
hungry enough, and looking for some little job to earn a breakfast, I
was accosted by a rough-looking man, rather genteelly dressed, who
inquired if I would carry a parcel for him to Leith, and he would give
me a sixpence. My heart bounding with joy at the rich reward, I said I
would. Whereupon he inquired if my parents would not be angry at my
going, or my master, if I had one. I told him I had neither parent nor
master, not even a friend in the world to find fault with me how I spent
my time. A grim smile of satisfaction came over his countenance; he put
the offered sixpence again into his pocket, and gave me a small paper
parcel, with the direction where I was to carry it; adding, as I stood
waiting for my reward--'Run quick, like a good boy. Tell them to give
you some breakfast, and wait until I come and give you the sixpence.'
Away I ran, like a greyhound from the slip, to get a breakfast and earn
my sixpence. Swift as was my flight, never did the Canongate or the
Easter Road--the only one to Leith from Edinburgh at this time--appear
so long to me. When I arrived at the house to which I had been
directed, in one of the dark alleys near the shore, I was ushered into a
small, darkened room. A stout, thick-set man, in a seaman's dress, heard
my message, received my parcel, without once opening his lips, and
locked the door.
Hungry, disappointed, and alarmed at this unlooked-for reception, I
stood for some time lost in amazement. At length I looked around; there
was no furniture in the room, not even so much as a seat of any kind. My
fears became excessive. I screamed to be set at liberty, and beat upon
the door with my hands and feet, until I sank upon the floor from
fatigue, and burst out into a fit of weeping. No answer was made, nor
any notice taken of my efforts. I looked through my tears at the window;
but it was high, small, and strongly secured with iron stanchels. I had
lain thus on the floor for an hour or two, when I heard the key turn in
the lock. I sprung to my feet as the door opened; and the same person
entered, bearing a pewter tankard of beer, some bread, and salt beef. A
thick stick under his arm caught my eye, and excited new terrors. He set
the victuals upon the floor, and then, brandishing the bludgeon over
my head, threatened to beat my brains out if I made such a noise
again--giving, in pure cruelty and wantonness of power, a few blows
across the shoulders, to teach me, as he said, what I might expect if I
did not attend to his orders. Pointing to the food, he surlily ordered
me to eat, and immediately again locked the door. Hungry as I had been a
short time before, my heart was too full for me to eat; and the blows I
had received pained me very much. I sat down and wept more bitterly than
I had done; but the hunger of a boy is keener than his grief--so I at
length made a hearty meal, moistened by my tears, and wept myself
asleep.
How long I had lain thus I had no means of ascertaining. I was roused
by the voice of mirth and singing in another apartment. All was dark; so
much so, I could not even distinguish the small grated window from the
dead walls. I listened for some time in surprise, and would fain have
persuaded myself I had been in an unpleasant dream; but my shoulders
were still sore, and the small basket and tankard, I felt, were still at
my side. For some time I revolved in my mind what step to take--whether
to remain quiet, or knock upon the door, and implore my liberty--at
least to be made acquainted with the cause of my being detained. At
length my suspense became so unbearable that I resolved to brave every
danger, and began to knock at the door, for which I had groped, tapping
gently at first, and gradually knocking louder and louder. The voice of
my jailor, evidently in extreme anger, again sounded fearfully through
the key-hole--'Be quiet, or I will come in and beat your noisy body to a
mummy.' I shrunk from the door, and leaned upon the wall, as far from
him as the small dimensions of the room would admit, trembling, in
fearful expectation of his entrance. While I stood thus, a prey to the
keenest anguish, the mirth and jollity for a time increased, and at
length grew fainter and fainter, until it ceased. All was still for a
little; then I heard the noise of footsteps approaching the door of my
prison-room, and a sound as if something was in the act of being dragged
along the passage. The key was placed in the door, and it opened. My
heart beat as if it would have burst my bosom, when I saw the ruffian
who had locked me up, and another like himself, dragging what appeared
to me to be the dead body of a man. I uttered a suppressed scream, and
must have fallen to the ground, had I not been pent up in the corner. My
eyes were as if they would have started from their sockets, and I could
not withdraw them from the horrid sight. One of the men held a lanthorn
in his left hand, which threw a feeble light upon the group; while,
with his right hand, he grasped the left arm of the body; and, his
companion exerting all his strength, they dragged it to the side of the
room, and dropped it upon the floor. A stifled groan issued from it,
which thrilled through my ears like an order for my execution; and I
would have darted from the spot, wild with despair, although I saw the
eyes of both watching me, as they deposited the body, with a malignant
grin of satisfaction; but my limbs refused to obey my will, and I stood
the image of despair. The men spoke not a word, but, retiring, locked
the door upon me, and left me with a thing my nature revolted from.
Scarce were they gone when similar sounds fell upon my ear, and they
again entered with a second victim. This was more than I could endure: a
wild energy came over me; I sank upon my knees, and implored them not to
murder me, or leave me alone with the bodies, for mercy's sake! I sank
upon the floor, and grasped their legs in the fervency of my
supplications. With a fiendish laugh, they spurned me from them; and,
as they locked the door, growled--
'What does the fool mean?--beware, the cudgel!'
As the sound of the closing and locking of the door died away, I was
roused from my stupor of fear to an agony of terror, that drove me
almost to madness. A movement in one of the bodies, accompanied by deep
guttural sounds, indicated that the objects of my terror were coming to
life again, or were not yet quite dead. This produced new terrors, and I
dashed myself upon the door, uttering the most piercing cries. The
ruffians again entered, and beat me without mercy; but I was now beyond
the fear of personal suffering; and I really believe, so intense was my
feeling of fear and horror, that I would have leaped into a furnace to
avoid or free myself from my situation. Their threats and blows were
vain. I reiterated my cries more intensely; for I saw both the bodies
become apparently animated, and turn their dull, stupid gaze on me, as
I struggled to wrench myself from the grasp of the ruffians. Our
struggle was short; for one of them set down the lanthorn, forced down
my arms behind me, and held me fast, while the other dropped the cudgel
with which he had been beating me, and, taking a piece of rope-yarn from
his jacket pocket, bound my wrists behind my back; he then deliberately
took the large key out of the lock of the door, placed it in my mouth,
across between my teeth, tied it firm behind my head, and so effectively
gagged me, that I could not utter a sound. How I retained my reason at
this fearful period I know not, for I expected death every moment; and
there was a misty vagueness about my fate that had even greater terror
than death itself. As soon as I was thus silenced, they stood grinning
at my agony for a minute before either spoke. At length--
'This is a troublesome customer enough, for noise part,' said the first
ruffian to the other; 'but he will now be quiet enough, I think. I wish
the boat were come, or we shall have plenty on our hands soon, when
these two have slept it off. It is full tide now, and they were to have
been here an hour ere flow. What can detain the lubbers, think you?'
'Can't say,' replied the other; 'perhaps something is in their way.
There they are.'
At this moment a low whistle sounded faintly into the room, as if coming
from under the window. One of the men answered by a similar whistle, and
both left the room; and in a few minutes four sailors entered, and,
taking up one of the objects of my dread, carried it out. One of the
ruffians then assisted me to rise, and, holding me by the collar,
dragged me out of the house after them, down to the Ferry-boat Stairs at
the quay, more dead than alive. The four seamen had placed their burden
in a boat that lay there. I was placed beside it. It lay inanimate; and
I, seated on one of the thwarts, was guarded by two seamen, who kept
watch, while the four were away for the other victim. At length they
came, deposited their burden beside the other, pushed off from the pier,
and rowed out of the harbour's mouth. As they pulled along, I felt my
spirits revive, the fear of immediate death passed from my mind; and,
besides, I was in company with living beings like myself, however cruel
they might be. Before we reached the beacon, the ruffian who had first
locked me up, and who was now in the boat with us, loosened the key from
my mouth, and undid the cord from my hands, which had begun to swell,
from the tight manner in which they were tied. This act almost relieved
me of my fears; still all was silence in the boat, not a word had as yet
been spoken by any one; but afterwards, as we gained distance from the
shore, they began to converse.
'So the Betsy sails to-morrow, without fail,' said the first ruffian.
'She does,' was the answer of the seaman.
'Why has her stay been so short this trip?' again asked the man. 'We
will make but a poor job of it. We have only nabbed five.'
'Why, I think you have done pretty well,' answered the sailor;
'twenty-five pounds for two days' work is good pay. Old Satan, you are
never content.'
'None of your slack, mate,' rejoined the other; 'I won't stand it. Two
days more would have made it fifty or better; and no man, more than I,
would be content with one half of what he might and ought to have.'
'I believe we are full, old Grumbler,' said the tar; 'others are more
active than you; but here, we are just alongside of the Betsy. Ship,
ahoy! Throw us a rope! Are you all asleep?'
In a few minutes, a rope was thrown; it was made fast by the fore
thwarts, when the ruffians and mate went on board, and remained for
some time. At length the mate returned, and, holding the end of the rope
from the vessel, ordered me to ascend, which I did with difficulty. My
two companions were then hoisted on board, being fastened to a rope, and
dragged up by the crew of the vessel. As soon as they were on deck, the
ruffians descended into a boat without speaking a word, and put off for
the harbour.