and the hearers shudder; "shelter from you!--the murderer of my
brother!--of my husband!--of my children!--of my seven fair sons!--you
that have made me childless! Back to thy dwelling, dog; and, if it will
add another drop of torturing anxiety to your soul, to know that your
son lives, and that you shall see him, but never know him--learn that he
does live! He lives!"
"Where, woman?--where?" exclaimed the wretched father.
She hastily dashed a sort of lantern from the hand of the servant who
held it, and, rushing from the shed towards the open fields, again
laughed more dismally than before, and cried, "Where? She whom you have
made childless, leaves that _where_ to torture you for ever!"
The wretched father rushed after her; but, in the darkness, the noise,
and tempest of the night, it was impossible to trace in what direction
she had fled. As every reader must be already aware, the strange and
fearful-looking woman was Barbara Moor, the widowed and childless
mother. The words which she had spoken, regarding his son being yet
alive, increased the anxious misery of Walter Cunningham. It caused his
wounds, the anguish of which time had in some degree abated, to bleed
afresh. At one time he doubted, and at another he believed, the words
which the seeming maniac had uttered; and he made journeys to many
places, in the hope of again meeting her, and of extorting from her a
confession where he should find his son, or of obtaining some
information that might throw light upon his fate. But his journeys then
were as fruitless as his former inquiries.
We must here introduce another character to our readers, in the person
of Sandy Reed. At the period at which we introduce him, he was a
widower, between forty and fifty years of age, with an only daughter,
named Anne, a child of five years old; and his house was kept by a
maiden aunt, who was on the aged side of sixty. Sandy was a farmer near
the Reed water, in Northumberland, and as fine a specimen of the ancient
Northumbrian farmer as could be met with--a distinct race, a few samples
of whom were here and there to be found within the last thirty
years--free, careless, hospitable, happy, boisterous, unlettered, and
half-civilized. Sandy was one of these in their primitive state. He was
in truth--
"A fine old English farmer,
One of the olden time."
He was as hardy as the hills on which his sheep fed. He was ready at all
times either to shake hands or to break a head--to give or to take. No
one ever entered his house and went out hungry. He had a bed, a bite,
and a bottle for every one; and he was wont to say that he would rather
treat a beggar than lose good company. He was no respecter of rank, nor
did he understand much concerning it. He judged of the respect due to
every one by what he called the "rule of good fellows." Burns makes the
wife of Tam o' Shanter say--
"Ilka horse ye ca'ed a shoe on,
The smith and you gat roarin' fu' on."
But Tam had been but the degenerated shadow of Sandy Reed; for every
time he had to pay a visit to the smith with his nag, they would have
"Been fu' for weeks thegither!"
When he had business at Morpeth market, his journey home never occupied
less than a fortnight, though the distance was not quite thirty miles;
for the worthy farmer had to stop three or four days at every hostelry
by the way, for the sake of company, as he affirmed, and the good of the
road; but he cared not much for going half-a-dozen miles out of his way
to add another house of entertainment to the number; and it mattered not
to him whether the company he met with were Roundheads or Cavaliers,
provided they could show the heel-taps of their bottle, and in the
intervals of bringing in a new one, wrestle, run, leap, or put, or
quarrel in a friendly way, if they preferred it.
But we shall record a portion of Sandy's adventures, so far as they are
connected with our story, in his own words. The following was one of his
favourite anecdotes of himself:--
"It was about three years after my wife's death, poor body," (he began)
"that I had been owre at Morpeth market, wi' four score o' ewes and six
score o' hogs. I was at least comfortable when I left Morpeth, but
noughts aboon comfortable; for I had only had twenty queghs[1] o'
English gin (which, thou must understand, in our part o' the country,
means Cheviot-made whisky), and seven o' them were public-house ones,
which wouldna count aboon three or four guid ones--so thou seest that I
had had noughts in the world to make me onything but sober. Hoos'ever, I
just thought to mysel', thinks I--drat! I'll away round by Elsdon, and
see what a' my cronies there are about. So, 'To the right, Dobbin, my
canny fellow,' said I to my nag--and it was as wise an animal as ever
man had to speak to; it knawed every word I said, and understud me
whether I was drunk or sober, mony a time, when ne'er a one else could
make out what I said. But the poor beast had had sae meikle experience
wi' me, that it knawed what I meant by a wink as weel as a nod. So I
said to it--'To the right, Dobbin, my canny fellow; thou shalt be
foddered at awd Betty Bell's t'night, and if a' be as it shud be, thou
shalt hae a rest t'morrow tee, into the bargain.' So Dobbin took away
across the moor to Elsdon, just as natural as a Christian could hae
done. Weel, when I reached Elsdon, and went into Betty Bell's, there
were five o' my cronies sitting. They were a' trumps, and they gied me
three cheers when I went in, for they knawed that I was out and out a
gud 'un.
"'Ha! Sandy!' said they, 'thou'rt welcome, my canny lad--we just wanted
you to make the half dozen. Hast thou been at Morpeth?'
"'Yea,' said I, 'and hae just come round by Elsdon to hae a boot wi'
thee.'
"'So be it,' said they; and we sat down in gud earnest, and three
glorious days we had, and would have had mair, but that we drank Betty
Bell's cupboards dry. The stars were just beginning to wink out as I got
my feet in the stirrups, and to confess the truth, I was winking far
worse than the stars. However, Dobbin took across the moors, and I was
in the high road for my home. How it was I dinna knaw; but I rather
think that I had fallen asleep, and that something or other had scared
the nag, and I had slipped out o' the saddle. I mind o' lying very cauld
and uncomfortable, half-dreaming, half-waking, and I daresay, more than
three parts the worse o' drink. I mind, tee, o' calling to my aunt as I
thought, 'Auntie!--do thou hear?--bring another blanket to throw owre
me, and put out that light--I canna get a wink o' sleep for it.' Then I
thought I found something upon my breast, that was like my little Anne's
head, and I put my hand out, and I said, 'Is that thee, Anne love?' But
there was no answer; and I gied the head a shake, when, my conscience!
there was such a frightened squall got up, that I sprang right upon my
feet, and, to my astonishment, there had I been lying upon the moor, wi'
Dobbin at my side, and the light which I wished to have put out was
neither more nor less than the moon! But what surprised me most of all,
and put me about what to dow, was, that what I had taken for my little
Anne that had creeped to my side, as she often did when I came home, was
nowther more nor less than a wee, ragged infant laddie, that had been
lying fast asleep, wi' his head upon my bosom! There wasna a living
creature in human shape upon the moor but our two sells; and how he came
there was a miracle to me! 'Laddie,' says I, where dost thou come frae?
What be thy faither, eh?--or thy mother? Be they alive?--or who brought
thee here? Come, tell me, and I will gie thee a penny.'
"But the poor bairn seemed more bewildered to find itsel' where it was
than I did, and the more I offered to speak to it, it cried the louder.
"'Why, thou needna cry,' said I, 'I winna eat thee; but how came thou
here?--and where be thy faither and mother?'
"However, I could get nought but screams and cries o' terror out o' the
little innocent; so I cried all round the moor at the very pitch o' my
voice,--'Holloa!--be there any one within hearing that has lost a
bairn?' But I am thinking that I might have cried till now, and nobody
would have answered, for it is my belief the bairn came there by magic!
I canna say that I have seen the fairy folk mysel', though I have heard
them often enough, but I am inclined to believe that they had a hand in
stealing away the infant laddie frae his parents, and laying his head
upon my breast on the moor. I declare to thee, though I couldna stand
steady, I was at a stand still what to do. I couldna leave the infant to
perish upon the moor, or I shud never hae been able to sleep in my bed
again wi' the thoughts on't; and whenever I had to go to Morpeth, why, I
should hae been afeared that its little ghost would hae haunted me in
the home-coming; and, if I would hae been afeard o' it, it is mair than
I would hae been o' meeting the biggest man in a' Northumberland. But if
I took it hame, why I thought again there would be sic talking and
laughing amang a' wur neighbours, who would be saying that the bairn was
a son o' my awn, and my awd aunt would lecture me dead about it.
However, finding I could mak naething out o' the infant, I lifted him up
on saddle before me, and took him home wi' me.
"'Why, what be that thou hast brought, Sandy lad?' asked my awd aunt,
as she came to the door to meet me.
"'Why, it be a bairn, aunt, that I found on the moor, poor thing,' said
I.
"'A bairn!' quoth she--'I hope thou be na the faither o't, Sandy?'
"'I'll gie thee my hand and word on't, aunt,' said I, 'that I knaw
nowther the faither nor mother o't; and from the way in which I found it
upon the moor, I doubt whether ever it had owther the one or the other.'
"My aunt was easier satisfied than I expected, and, by degrees, I let
out the whole secret o' the story o' finding him, both to her and to my
neighbours. Nobody ever came to own him, and he soon grew to be a credit
to the manner in which I had brought him up. Before he could be more
than seventeen, he was a match for ony man on Reed water or Coquet side,
at ony thing they dared to take him up at. I was proud o' the laddie,
for he did honour to the education I had gien him; and, before he was
eighteen, he was as tall as mysel'. He isna nineteen yet; and my
daughter Anne and him are bonnier than ony twa pictures that ever were
hung up in the Duke o' Northumberland's castle. Ay, and they be as fond
o' each other as two wood pigeons. It wud do thy heart gud to see them
walking by Reed water side together, wi' such looks o' happiness in
their eyes that ye wud say sorrow could never dim them wi' a tear. Anne
will be a year, or maybe two, awder than him; but, as soon as I think he
will be one-and-twenty, they shall be a wedded pair. Ay, and at my
death, the farm shall be his tee--for a better lad ye winna meet in a'
Northumberland, nor yet in a' the counties round about it. He has a kind
heart and a ready hand; and his marrow, where strength, courage, or a
determined spirit are wanted, I haena met wi'. There is, to be sure, a
half-dementit, wild awd wife, they ca' Babby Moor, that gangs fleeing
about wur hills, for a' the world like an evil speerit, and she puts
strange notions into his head, and makes a cloud o' uneasiness, as it
were, sit upon his brow. When I saw that I would have to keep him, I
didna ken what name to gie him; but after consulting wi' my friends and
the clergyman o' the parish, it was agreed that he should bear the
surname o' wur family, and my faither's Christian name; so we called him
Patrick Reed. But the daft awd wife came upon him one day amang the
hills, and she pretended to look on his brow, and read the lines on his
hand, and tald him, frae them, that Patrick Reed wasna his real name,
but he would find it out some day--that he was born to be rich, though
he might never be rich--and that he had an awd grey-haired faither that
was mourning for him night and day, and that he had adopted the son of a
relation to be his heir. When he came home he was greatly troubled, but
he was too open-hearted to conceal from me, or from Anne, the cause of
his uneasiness; and when he had tould us a' that the mad awd wife had
said, I tried to laugh him out o' thinking about it, and bade him bring
the bottle and take a glass like a man, and never mind it. But Patrick
was nae drinker; and he gravely said to me, that the face o' the
half-daft woman came owre his brain like a confused dream--that he had
something like a remembrance of what she had said; and he also thought
that he remembered having seen her. I wish the witch had been in the
bottom o' the sea ere she met wi' him; for ever syne then--though Anne
and he are as kind and as loving as ever--he isna half the lad that he
used to be; and there is nae getting him now to take a game at
onything--though he could beat everybody--for either love or money."
Such was one of the stories which rough, honest, fear-nothing Sandy
Reed told, in relating his adventures. Now, it came to pass, when
Patrick, the foundling of whom he has spoken, had been sheltered beneath
his roof for the space of seventeen years, that Sandy, having introduced
the cultivation of turnips upon the lowlands of his farm, proposed to go
to Whitsome fair, to purchase cattle to fatten with them, and also sheep
from the Lammermuirs to eat them on the ground. He was now more than
threescore, and he was less capable of long journeys than he had been;
and he requested that his adopted son Patrick, who was also to be his
son-in-law, should accompany him; and it was agreed that they should set
out for Whitsome together.
But, on the evening before their departure, as the maiden Anne was
returning from a visit to the wife of a neighbouring farmer, she was
intercepted within a mile of her father's house. The sibyl-like figure of
Barbara Moor stood before her, and exclaimed--"Stand, maiden! Ye love the
young man whom ye call Patrick--whom your father has so called--and who
resides beneath his roof. He loves you; and ye shall be wed, if I, who
have his destiny in my hand, have strength to direct it! And yet there
must be more blood!--more!--for I am childless!--childless!--childless!
We are not even yet!" She paused, and pressed her hand upon her brow;
while the maiden, startled at her manner, trembled before her. But she
again added--"Yes! yes!--ye shall be wed--the bauble wealth shall be
yours, and ye deserve happiness. But hearken, ye maiden, for on the
obeying of my words depends your fate. When your faither and Patrick set
out for Whitsome fair, request ye to accompany them--insist that ye do,
and ye shall return here a wealthy and a wedded wife; for she says it
whose words were never wasted on the wind. Swear, maiden, that ye will
perform what I have commanded ye."
"Woman!" said Anne, quaking as she spoke, "I never swore, and I winna
swear; but I give thee my hand that I will obey thee. I will go to
Whitsome fair wi' my faither and Patrick."
"Go! go!" cried the sibyl, "lest the dark spirit come upon me; and he
whom ye call Patrick shall die by his father's hand, or his father by
his. But speak not of whom ye have seen, nor of what ye have heard--but
go and do as ye have been commanded. Be silent till we meet again."
Anne bent her head in terror, and promised to obey; and the weird woman,
again exclaiming--"Go!--be silent!--obey!" hastened from her sight.
When Anne entered the house, her father, and her adopted brother, or
lover, were making ready for their journey. She sat down silently and
thoughtfully in a corner of the apartment, and her half-suppressed sighs
reached their ears.
"Why, what in the globe, daughter Anne," said her father, "can make thee
sigh? Art thou sad because Patrick is to leave thee to go to a fair for
a day or two? I suppose thou wouldn't hae troubled thy head, had thy
father been to be absent as many months. But I don't blame thee; I mind
I was tender-hearted at thy age, too--but Patrick knaws better what to
say to thee than I do."
"Dear Anne," whispered the youth, taking her hand, "what ails thee?"
"Ask my father," she rejoined, hesitatingly, "that I may accompany you
to Whitsome fair to-morrow."
"Nay, thou canst not go, dear," returned Patrick; "it is a long ride and
a rough one; and the society thou wilt meet with will afford thee no
pleasure, and but small amusement."
"I must go," she replied--"a strange being has laid a terrible command
on me!"
"A grey-haired, wild-looking woman?" ejaculated Patrick, and his voice
trembled as he spoke.
"Ask me no more," was her reply, "I must--I will accompany you."
"A dead dream," said the youth, "seems bursting into life within my
brain. There are once familiar words ready to leap to my tongue that I
cannot utter; and long forgotten memories haunting my mind, and flinging
their shadows over it as though the substance again were approaching.
But the woman that ye speak of!--yes! yes!--there is something more than
a dream, dear Anne, that links my fate with her! I remember--I am sure
it is no fancy--I do remember having been at a fair when I was a
child--a mere child--and the woman ye allude to was there! Yes!
yes!--you must accompany us! I feel, I am certain, that woman hath,
indeed, my destiny in her hands!"
"Gudeness me!" exclaimed Sandy, "what is it that ye twasome are saying
between ye? Is there ony light thrown upon the awd story; or, is it only
the half-crazed randy--(forgie me for ca'ing the poor afflicted creature
by ony sic name)--but, I say, is it only some o' the same nonsense that
Babby Moor has been cramming into Anne's ear wi' which she has filled
thine, lad? Upon my word, if I had my will o' the awd witch, I would
douk her in the Reed till she confessed that every story she has tould
to thee was a lie from end to end."
"Well, father," said Patrick--for he always called Sandy father--"let
Anne accompany us to the fair--she requests it, and I will also request
it for her."
"Ou, ye knaw," said Sandy, "if ye hae made up yer minds between
yourselves that ye are determined to gang, I suppose it would be o' no
use for me to offer opposition to owther o' the two o' ye. So, if thou
wilt go, get thee ready, Anne, my dear, for it will take us to be off
frae here by twelve o'clock t'night, for it is a lang ride, and a rugged
ride, as thou wilt find it to thy cost, ere ye be back again. I was
never there for my own part; but I hear that the sale o' feeding cattle
is expected to be gud--and there I maun be. So, get thee ready,
daughter, if ye will go, and hap thysel' weel up."
At midnight, Sandy Reed, his daughter, and his adopted son, with three
or four farm-servants, all mounted on light, but strong and active
horses, accustomed to the character of the country, set out for Whitsome
fair.
They arrived at Whitsome before noon on the following day, having
crossed the Tweed at Coldstream. There was one individual in the fair
who had some hundred head of cattle exhibited for sale, and that was old
Cunningham of Simprin. He himself was present; but he took but small
interest in the transactions, for he was becoming old, and was in
general melancholy; and a nephew, whom he intended to make his heir,
accompanied him, and in most matters made bargains for him and in his
name.
Now, Sandy Reed, after walking through the market, said the only lot
that would suit him was that of Cunningham of Simprin. We may here
observe that, throughout the day, young Patrick became thoughtful and
more thoughtful. Even the presence of Anne, who leaned upon his arm,
could hardly summon up a passing smile into his features.
After much disputing and sore bargain-making, Sandy Reed, at a good
round sum, became the purchaser of all the stock that old Walter
Cunningham exhibited in the fair. And when the bargain had been
completed, the seller, the buyer, and their servants, retired to a booth
together; the former to treat his customer with a bottle, and the latter
to spend the "luck-penny," which, on such occasions, he was wont to say,
would burn a hole in his pocket before he got home.
Both were men who were accustomed to drink deep--for old Cunningham had
sought to drown his sorrows in the bottle; and what would have been
death to another man took no effect upon him. Sandy saw him swallow
glass after glass, without his countenance betraying any symptom of
change, with vexation; for he had never before met with a superior,
either at the bacchanalian board, or at aught else. But, as the liquor
went round, the old men began to forget their age (and for a time, for
the first time, Walter Cunningham forgot his sorrows), and they boasted
of what they had done; and forgetful that each was above threescore,
they were ever and anon about to profess what they could still do; but
on such occasions, Anne Reed, who sat by her father's elbow, gently and
unobserved, admonished him.
Now, when Sandy found that he might not speak of what he could do, he
thought there could be no harm in saying what his adopted son Patrick
could do. He offered to match him at anything against any man in
Berwickshire, yea in all Scotland. The blood of old Cunningham boiled at
the bravado. He said he had had three sons--yea, he hoped to have said
four--any of whom would have stopped the boasting, and taken up the
challenge of his Northumbrian friend. But he said he had still a nephew,
and he would risk him against Sandy's champion.
"A bargain be it," cried Sandy, and the young men proceeded to various
trials of strength; but the nephew of Cunningham, though apparently a
strong man, was as a weaned child in the hands of young Patrick. Their
countrymen, on both sides, became enraged, and it soon became a national
quarrel. Scores were engaged on either side--knives were drawn and blood
spilt: and headmost in the fray, but unarmed, was Sandy Reed, striking
to the ground every one on whom his hand fell. But at length he fell,
pierced by a knife, by the edge of a pool of water; and his last words
were--"Revenge me, Patrick--protect my Anne--mine is yours!"
When weapons were exhibited, young Patrick drew one also, and he dealt
a wound at every blow. Just as he heard the voice of his foster-father,
he held the aged Cunningham by the throat, and his hand was uplifted to
avenge his protector's death by the sacrifice of the old man's--when a
loud, a hurried, and a wild voice cried aloud--"Hold, parricide!
hold!--he against whom your hand is raised is your father!"
It was the voice of Barbara Moor. The young man's arms fell by his side
as if a palsy had smitten them. He remembered the voice of the sibyl.
"What say ye!" cried the agonised old man--"who is my son?--how shall I
know him?" For he, too, remembered her and well.
"He whose hand has been raised against your life," she cried, "and on
whose bosom ye will remember and find the mark of a berry!
Farewell!--farewell!" she added--"I am childless--ye are not." She had
been wounded in the conflict as she rushed forward, and she sank down
and died. We might lengthen our story with details; but it would be
fruitless. In young Patrick old Cunningham found his long lost son; with
her last breath Barbara Moor acknowledged how she had decoyed him from
the tent, at the fair, where his father had left him; and how, when she
saw Sandy Reed asleep upon the moor, she had administered to the child a
sleeping draught, and laid him upon his breast. Vain would it be to
describe the joy of the old man, and as vain would it be to speak of the
double chagrin of the nephew, who lost not only his laurels during the
day, but also his hope of riches. Anne sorrowed many days for her
father; but gave her hand to him who, in compliance with her request,
his father continued to call Patrick; the fountain by the side of which
her father fell is still known in the village of Whitsome by the name of
_Reed's Well_; and, on account of the life lost, and the blood shed on
that occasion, Whitsome fair has been prohibited unto this day.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The wooden quegh, used as a drinking vessel in those days,
contained rather more than would fill a wine glass.
THE SURGEON'S TALES.
THE DIVER AND THE BELL.