We left Andy in what may be called a delicate situation, and though
Andy's perceptions of the refined were not very acute, he himself began
to wonder how he should get out of the dilemma into which circumstances
had thrown him; and even to his dull comprehension various terminations
to his adventure suggested themselves, till he became quite confused in
the chaos which his own thoughts created. One good idea, however, Andy
contrived to lay hold of out of the bundle which perplexed him; he felt
that to gain time would be an advantage, and if evil must come of his
adventure, the longer he could keep it off the better; so he kept up his
affectation of timidity, and put in his sobs and lamentations, like so
many commas and colons, as it were, to prevent Bridget from arriving at
her climax of going to bed.
Bridget insisted bed was the finest thing in the world for a young woman
in distress of mind.
Andy protested he never could get a wink of sleep when his mind was
uneasy. Bridget promised the most sisterly tenderness.
Andy answered by a lament for his mother.
“Come to bed, I tell you,” said Bridget.
“Are the sheets aired?” sobbed Andy.
“What!” exclaimed Bridget, in amazement.
“If you are not sure of the sheets bein' aired,” said Andy, “I'd be
afeard of catchin' cowld.”
“Sheets, indeed!” said Bridget; “'faith, it's a dainty lady you are, if
you can't sleep without sheets.”
“What!” returned Andy, “no sheets?”
“Divil a sheet.”
“Oh, mother, mother!” exclaimed Andy, “what would you say to your
innocent child being tuk away to a place where there was no sheets?”
“Well, I never heerd the like!” says Bridget.
“Oh, the villains! to bring me where I wouldn't have a bit o' clane
linen to lie in!”
“Sure, there's blankets, I tell you.”
“Oh, don't talk to me!” roared Andy; “sure, you know, sheets is only
dacent.”
“Bother, girl! Isn't a snug woolly blanket a fine thing?”
“Oh, don't brake my heart that-a-way!” sobbed Andy; “sure, there's wool
on any dirty sheep's back, but linen is dacency! Oh, mother, mother, if
you thought your poor girl was without a sheet this night!”
And so Andy went on, spinning his bit of “linen manufacture” as long as
he could, and raising Bridget's wonder that, instead of the lament which
abducted ladies generally raise about their “vartue,” this young woman's
principal complaint arose on the scarcity of flax. Bridget appealed
to common sense if blankets were not good enough in these bad times;
insisting, moreover, that, as “love was warmer than friendship, so wool
was warmer than flax,” the beauty of which parallel case nevertheless
failed to reconcile the disconsolate abducted. Now Andy had pushed his
plea of the want of linen as far as he thought it would go, and when
Bridget returned to the charge, and reiterated the oft-repeated “Come
to bed, I tell you!” Andy had recourse to twiddling about his toes, and
chattering his teeth, and exclaimed in a tremulous voice, “Oh, I've a
thrimblin' all over me!”
“Loosen the sthrings o' you, then,” said Bridget, about to suit
the action to the word. “Ow! ow!” cried Andy, “don't touch me--I'm
ticklish.”
“Then open the throat o' your gown yourself, dear,” said Bridget.
“I've a cowld on my chest, and darn't,” said Andy; “but I think a dhrop
of hot punch would do me good if I had it.”
“And plenty of it,” said Bridget, “if that'll plaze you.” She rose as
she spoke, and set about getting “the materials” for making punch.
Andy hoped, by means of this last idea, to drink Bridget into a state of
unconsciousness, and then make his escape; but he had no notion, until
he tried, what a capacity the gentle Bridget had for carrying tumblers
of punch steadily; he proceeded as cunningly as possible, and, on the
score of “the thrimblin' over him,” repeated the doses of punch, which,
nevertheless, he protested he couldn't touch, unless Bridget kept him in
countenance, glass for glass; and Bridget--genial soul--was no way both;
for living in a still, and among smugglers, as she did, it was not
a trifle of stingo could bring her to a halt. Andy, even with the
advantage of the stronger organisation of a man, found this mountain
lass nearly a match for him, and before the potations operated as
he hoped upon her, his own senses began to feel the influence of the
liquor, and his caution became considerably undermined.
Still, however, he resisted the repeated offers of the couch proposed to
him, declaring he would sleep in his clothes, and leave to Bridget the
full possession of her lair.
The fire began to burn low, and Andy thought he might facilitate his
escape by counterfeiting sleep; so feigning slumber as well as he could,
he seemed to sink into insensibility, and Bridget unrobed herself and
retired behind a rough screen.
It was by a great effort that Andy kept himself awake, for his
potations, added to his nocturnal excursion, tended towards somnolency;
but the desire of escape, and fear of a discovery and its consequences,
prevailed over the ordinary tendency of nature, and he remained awake,
watching every sound. The silence at last became painful--so still was
it, that he could hear the small crumbling sound of the dying embers
as they decomposed and shifted their position on the hearth, and yet he
could not be satisfied from the breathing of the woman that she slept.
After the lapse of half an hour, however, he ventured to make some
movement. He had well observed the quarter in which the outlet from the
cave lay, and there was still a faint glimmer from the fire to assist
him in crawling towards the trap. It was a relief when, after some
minutes of cautious creeping, he felt the fresh air breathing from
above, and a moment or two more brought him in contact with the ladder.
With the stealth of a cat he began to climb the rungs--he could hear the
men snoring on the outside of the cave: step by step as he arose he
felt his heart beat faster at the thought of escape, and became more
cautious. At length his head emerged from the cave, and he saw the men
lying about its mouth; they lay close around it--he must step over them
to escape--the chance is fearful, but he determines to attempt it--he
ascends still higher--his foot is on the last rung of the ladder--the
next step puts him on the heather--when he feels a hand lay hold of him
from below!
His heart died within him at the touch, and he could not resist an
exclamation.
“Who's that?” exclaimed one of the men outside. Andy crouched.
“Come down,” said the voice softly from below; “if Jack sees you, it
will be worse for you.”
It was the voice of Bridget, and Andy felt it was better to be with
her than exposed to the savagery of Shan More and his myrmidons; so he
descended quietly, and gave himself up to the tight hold of Bridget,
who, with many asseverations that “out of her arms she would not let the
prisoner go till morning,” led him back to the cave.