a female, who held a small lamp in her hand, and we were ushered into a
small apartment--not the same we had seen, but a dark and uncomfortable
place. She appeared to be greatly alarmed, and requested us not to make
any noise, or to speak loud, whatever we heard, or we might bring her
into danger for her humanity, and ourselves into greater hazard. We
would, she added, have ourselves alone to blame for any evil that might
follow. Taking the lamp with her, she retired, saying she would bring us
refreshments in a few minutes. We now regretted being admitted into this
mysterious shelter; yet the looks of the woman--the younger of the two
we had seen from the back of the house--were soft and sweet, rather
inclining to melancholy. We had no time to communicate our suspicions
before her return. She set before us a bottle containing some brandy, a
jug of water, and a sufficient quantity of bread and cheese; and urged
us to make haste and retire to bed. Having filled a glass of the liquor,
she gave it to Malcolm. He drank it off at once, with great pleasure. My
eyes were upon her. I saw a shade of anxiety on her countenance,
succeeded by a look of satisfaction, when he returned the empty glass. I
cannot account for it, but a suspicion came upon me that there was more
in the giving of the liquor than courtesy; and I resolved not to taste
it. She filled out the same quantity for me; but I declined it. Her look
changed--she became embarrassed--and she requested me to take it, as it
was to do me good. There was a something in the tone of her voice, and a
benignity in her manner, that almost did away with my suspicions. I took
the glass in my hand, and, requesting her to fill a cup of water for me,
lifted the glass to my head. While she poured the water, I emptied the
liquor into the bosom of my vest, placed, by the same movement, the
glass to my mouth, and, returning it to her, drank off the water. She
immediately retired; saying, with a smile, in which there was much of
good nature--
"I am sorry for your poor accommodation. Good night!"
I now began to reflect upon my situation. Fear predominated. I had been
led into it I scarce knew how. I blamed myself for entering; yet I was
not aware of what was to take place in it. We were, unarmed and
fatigued, on a part of the coast I knew not where. I looked to my watch;
it wanted a few minutes of twelve; we had not been one quarter of an
hour under the roof. I looked at Malcolm, by the feeble light of the
lamp, wondering why he neither moved nor spoke. He was in a dead sleep,
leaning upon his high-backed wooden chair. I attempted to rouse him, in
vain, by shaking him. That the brandy had been drugged, I was now
convinced. My heart sank within me. I glanced round, for means to
escape, and procure help to rescue my faithful servant; but there was
neither window nor fireplace in the small room in which we were. I
placed my hand upon the door, to rush into the other apartment; but the
recollection of the man I had seen, the suspicion that there might be
more in the house, and the girl's warning, detained me. As I stood,
sweating with agony, I heard voices in conversation in the other
apartment.
"Mary," said the old woman, "ye are owre softhearted for the trade we
are engaged in. Ye will, some time or ither, rue yer failing."
"Mither," was the reply, "I may rue it, but ne'er repent it. I couldna,
for the life o' me, keep twa human creatures pleading for shelter, wha
kendna whar to gang in a mirk nicht like this. Did I do wrang, Jamie?"
"I fear you have, Mary," said the man. "If Captain Bately finds them
here when he arrives--he is such a devil!--I know not what he may do to
them; he is so jealous and fearful of informers; and, this trip, he has
a rich cargo for the Glasgow merchants."
"I'm no feared, if ye dinna inform yersel," said the daughter; "for I
hae given them baith a dram o' the Dutchman's bottle, that will keep
them quiet aneugh, or I'm sair cheated; for it's nae weaker for me."
At this period of the conversation, I heard the tramp of horses' feet
and the voices of several men approaching the house. The door was opened
without knocking, and several men entered. One of them demanded if all
was right.
"Sae far as I hae heard, captain," said the old woman.
"So far good, old mother," replied he. "James, have you seen our agent
from Glasgow?--how goes it there?"
"All right, captain," said James.
"I will then make a good run of it," rejoined the other. "But I was
nearly making a bad one. Two of these land-sharks were watching our
motions under the rocks; fortunately, they were observed, and put out of
the way in time. All had been up with me this trip, had they got back to
Largs before we were cleared. Come, lads, bait your horses quickly; we
have a long way through the muirs ere dawn."
He was interrupted by the scraping and furious barking of a dog at the
door where I stood listening. My heart leaped as if it would burst, my
temples throbbed, and my ears rung; yet my presence of mind did not
forsake me. Imitating Malcolm, I placed myself in my chair, and feigned
myself dead asleep.
So many voices spoke at once that I could not make out a word that was
said, except imprecations and entreaties. The lamp still burned upon the
table before me. The door opened, and the captain entered, accompanied
by several others.
"Dear captain," said Mary, "they are not informers--they are strangers,
and fast asleep. Harm them not, for mercy's sake!"
"Silly wench!" replied the captain. "Peace!--I say, peace! These are
the same rascals who were watching us this whole afternoon. How the
devil came they here, if they have not some knowledge of our
proceedings? Look to your arms, my lads! We will shew them they have
caught a Tartar." I heard one pistol cocked, then another. How I
restrained myself from shewing my agitation I know not; I was nearly
fainting.
"Captain," cried Mary, "you shall not harm them, or you must do to me as
you do to them. You are as safe as ye were before I let them in. Do ye
no see they are dead asleep?--try them, and believe me for aince, like a
good fellow."
"I don't wish to do more than is necessary for my own safety," said he;
"perhaps they are not what I take them for; but fellows will talk of
what they see." Taking Malcolm by the shoulder, he gave him a shake, as
I saw through between my eyelids, nearly closed. "Fellow," he cried,
"who are you?" Malcolm neither heard nor felt him; so powerful had the
opiate been. He passed the lamp before his eyes, and made a blow at his
head with the but-end of his pistol. Malcolm moved not a muscle of his
face. He was satisfied. After passing the lamp so close before my eyes
that one of my eyebrows was nearly singed by the flame, he set it slowly
upon the table, and I felt the muzzle of the pistol touch my temple. I
moved not a muscle of my face. It was withdrawn, and I heard him pace
the room for a moment, muttering curses at the young woman, who
endeavoured to soothe his rage. No other person spoke. He paused at
length, and, lifting the lamp, held it again to my face.
"I am satisfied--all is right," said he; "but, if you dare again, Mary,
to do the same, you and your mother may go hang for me--that's all.
Come, boys, be moving--we lose time." In a few minutes afterwards, I
heard the sound of their horses' feet leaving the house. My lungs
recovered their elasticity; I breathed more freely. Mary entered, and,
lifting the lamp to remove it, looked upon us in tears. I would have
spoken, but refrained, lest I had given farther alarm and uneasiness to
one so kind and humane. She looked upon us, smiling through her tears.
"Poor men!" she said, "yer hearts were at ease when mine, for your sake
and my ain, was like to break; yet, I dinna think he wad killed ye,
devil as he is, if ye didna fight wi' him; but he wad carried ye awa to
Holland, or France; and then what wad yer puir wives, if ye hae them,
hae suffered, no kenning what had come owre ye? Oh, that I could but get
free o' them, and Jamie gie up this way o' life!" (A heavy sigh
followed.) "But ye are sleeping sound and sweet, when I am sleepless. O
Jamie, will ye no leave thae night adventures, and be content wi what ye
can earn through the day?" She gently shut the door as she retired, and
all became still as death. With a feeling of security I laid myself upon
the bed, and soon fell into a profound sleep. It was late in the morning
ere I awoke. Malcolm was awake; his movements had roused me. He was
still confused from the effects of the opiate, and was gazing wildly
around the apartment. After taking a heavy draught of the water, he
became quite collected. I rose, and we entered the larger part of the
cottage, where the mother and daughter were busy preparing breakfast.
After the usual salutations, and an apology for the badness of our
lodging, I inquired how far we were from Largs, and was informed it was
about three miles from where we were. Feeling myself much indisposed,
and threatened with a severe cold, I resolved to return home as direct
as I could, not choosing to run the risk of any more such adventures. I
despatched Malcolm to the inn, to prevent the horses being sent off to
Dumbarton, and to bring them as quick as possible to where I now was.
During his stay, I became more and more interested in the gentle Mary.
She was not in the least embarrassed, as she thought that I was
unconscious of what had passed through the night. I felt it would be a
cruel return for her kindness to mention it, and alarm her fears for her
lover, for such I supposed him to be. I could have gained no object by
doing so. I already knew, from what I had heard, that she was connected
with a band of smugglers, whose calling she loathed.
There was a firmness of purpose, mixed with her gentleness, displayed
during the time the band and their captain were in the house, which
shewed I could gain no information as to them, from her; neither did I
feel any anxiety to know more than I did, or ever to be in their company
again. Had I had the wish to give information of the lawless band, I
could only inform as to the females; the others had managed so well I
could not have identified one of them.
At length my horses arrived, and I prepared to depart. As I took my
leave, I put five guineas into the hand of Mary. She looked at the sum,
then at me, and refused to accept any remuneration for our shelter.
"Keep it," said I, "to enable you to induce James to quit his dangerous
trade." She blushed, trembled, and then became pale as death. My heart
smote me for what I had said. She gave me such an anxious, imploring
look, as her trembling lips murmured--
"Oh, what shall I do?"
"Fear nothing, Mary, from me; I owe you much more for your goodness of
heart. If you and James will come to reside near Allan Gow, he shall do
all in his power to assist you." Amidst blessings from the mother, and
the silent gratitude of the daughter, I rode off, on my way to Glasgow,
and on the following day was under my parents' roof.
It is now many years since then. James and Mary are settled in the
neighbourhood, and prosperous. Malcolm is still with me; but whether
servant or companion, I can scarce tell at times. When my strange
imaginations come upon me--for I have never been, for any length of time
free from them--he is almost master of my small establishment.
THE YOUNG LAIRD.[5]
In one of the midland counties of Scotland lies the estate of Sir
Patrick Felspar. On this estate, and on the southern declivity of a
moderately-high hill, stood, about thirty years ago, two old-fashioned
farmsteads, called Nettlebank and Sunnybraes, of which, as we have a
long story to tell, we can only say that the former--being the
largest--was tenanted by Mr. Black, and the latter by William Chrighton;
that the family of the one consisted of a boy and a girl called
_Gilbert_ and _Nancy_; and that the other was the father of an only son,
named _George_.
The harvest had been concluded, and preparations were making for
lifting the potato crop, when Mrs. Black was taken ill of a fever; and
her husband, on discovering that she was seriously indisposed, after
sending the servant girl to "tell Elspeth Roger that her mistress wished
to speak with her," left the house, to which he did not return for
several days. Elspeth, who was the wife of one of the farm servants,
being thus sent for, hastened to her mistress's presence. On entering
the room, and seeing the state of the sufferer, she saw at once that a
sick nurse was indispensable; and, though she had herself a husband and
two children to attend to, and, consequently, could be but ill spared
from her own house, she readily offered her services, and was accepted.
By her advice, medical assistance was immediately procured; and the
kind-hearted matron continued to attend the sick-bed of her mistress,
night and day, for three weeks, during which period Mr. Black was seldom
at home. Hitherto, the doctor had entertained hopes of his patient's
recovery; but, on the eighteenth day, to Elspeth's anxious inquiries, he
only shook his head, and bade her "not be surprised whatever should
happen." His words were deemed ominous: a messenger was despatched to
bring Mr. Black home; and, on the following day, his wife died. Upon
this sad occasion, Nancy seemed to be the only real mourner; for, though
her father and brother hung their heads, and looked demure for a day or
two, even the semblance of sorrow vanished before the exciting potations
which they swallowed at the _dregy_.[6] Nancy, however, did feel the
loss of her mother, and mourned it as deeply as her young heart could.
And, as she had been oftener than once rebuked with great severity by
her remaining parent, for what he called her _blubbering_, when grief
overcame her she frequently sought a hiding place for her tears in the
house of Elspeth, who, with the heart and the feelings of her sex,
shared the sorrows of the poor girl while she strove to alleviate them.
But she was soon deprived of this refuge; for, in a few days after the
funeral, Elspeth, who had probably caught the infection while attending
the deathbed of her mistress, found herself in the grasp of the same
terrible disease which had carried her mistress off; and Nancy, to avoid
the same fate, was debarred from entering the door of her humble friend
and only comforter.
On such occasions, to have one who will listen patiently to a recital
of our sorrows, and respond to them with a sigh, a look of sympathy, a
tear, or a word, in which the tone of the voice bespeaks a reciprocity
of feeling, is comfort, and almost the only comfort of which the case
admits; for the lengthened speech and the studied harangue, containing,
as they are supposed to do, "the words of consolation," often fall upon
the ear without reaching the heart. Such a comforter Nancy Black found
in George Chrighton, or, as he was universally termed, _the laddie
Geordie_. This boy, who was one of her schoolfellows, and nearly of her
own age, attracted by her sorrowful looks and the tears which sometimes
stole down her cheeks, left the boisterous sports of the other boys, and
devoted his hours of play to walking with her, or sitting in some
retired corner, and listening to her little "tale of wo." Hitherto, the
roads by which they came and went had been different; but now he
discovered a new one, by following which he could accompany her till
within a short distance of Nettlebank; and, at the place where they had
separated in the evening, he always waited for her appearance on the
next morning. Youthful friendships are soon formed. Ere disappointment
has done its work, and experience taught its salutary, though painful
lesson, there is little room for suspicion on either side, and the
hearts of the parties amalgamate, like meeting waters. Thus, the two
became _friends_, almost before they could understand the meaning of the
word.
While Nancy Black and her boyish companion were thus forming an
affection for each other, as pure, and certainly as deep, as any which
ever subsisted between persons of their years, Elspeth Roger was lying
dangerously ill. But her sickness was not "unto death:" and, after being
confined for twenty-four days, during which her life had been several
times despaired of by all who saw her, she began to recover. Scarcely,
however, was she able to move about, and bestow some attention on their
household concerns, when her husband began to complain; and, in a few
hours, he was laid upon that bed from which she had arisen, with all the
symptoms of a most malignant case of the same disease. Elspeth, who, in
the midst of many struggles, and without the outward show of more than
ordinary affection, was attached to her husband, now became fixed to his
bedside. Forgetting the weakness consequent on her own imperfect
recovery, and fearful of allowing hands less careful than her own to
approach him, she attended him, night and day, with a solicitude which
none save those who have all they value in the world at stake, can
comprehend. Medical advice was promptly procured. But, in spite of
medical skill, tender nursing, and tears shed apart, David Roger died.
Of Elspeth's grief upon this occasion, it were superfluous to speak.
Suffice it that, after many years had passed by, the general expression
of her countenance, and the tear which occasionally stole down her cheek
at the mention of his name, showed that she had not forgotten the
husband of her youth.
Though this event must have been distressing to the widow, her distress
was aggravated when, on the second day from that on which her husband
had been interred, Mr. Black told her that, "as he had engaged another
servant, and required his house, she must remove at the term." The first
week of November was now past; the term was on the 22d of that month;
every house in the neighbourhood was either occupied, or already let for
the coming year; and this information came to the heart of Elspeth like
a thunder-shock. It was what she had never dreamed of, and never thought
of providing for. For herself, she might have been careless; but when
she reflected on her children, the feelings of the mother awoke in her
bosom, and made her, for the time, superior to despair. Day after day,
she went in quest of a hovel to shelter them from the rigour of the
coming winter, and night after night she returned without having found
one. It seemed as if Heaven had determined to make her a houseless
wanderer; for not a single untenanted habitation could she hear of. But
we must leave her to pursue her fruitless search, and attend, for a
little, to what was going on elsewhere.
One evening, after George Chrighton had returned from school, without
taking time to snatch his accustomed morsel of bread from the _aumry_,
he inquired for his father, and hurried off in quest of him. Having
discovered the object of his search in the stack-yard--"Father," cried
the boy, as soon as he was within ear-shot, "hae ye heard that Mr. Black
intends to make Elspeth Roger flit at the term; an' she canna get a
house for hersel an' her bairns in a' the country?"
"I did hear she was gaun to flit," said the old man, composedly; "but
whatfor canna she get a house?"
"I dinna ken," was the boy's eager reply; "but she's been seekin ane
this aught days, an mair; an' Nan Black says, if somebody doesna help
her, she maun tak her twa bairns, an' gang an' beg.--Noo, faither, could
we no do something? There's our auld barn: I would mak the clay-cats,[7]
an' we might pit up a lum; an' I would help Jock to howk a hole i' the
wa', an' it wouldna tak muckle to get a _windock_; an'--an'--I've
forgotten what I was gaun to say; but I'm sure we can pit up the lum;
an' the woman canna lie out by."
"I daresay ye're richt, laddie," said his father, after raising his
hat, and scratching the hinder part of his head for a few seconds. "The
auld barn micht do. There's some bits o' sticks lyin at the end o' the
byre, an' some auld nails i' the stable--as mony o' baith as would be
required, I believe. Jock could bring a cartfu o' clay the nicht yet--he
could mak the cats the morn; ye micht bide at hame a day frae the
school, an' carry them in; an' I could pit up the lum mysel."
"But it would need a hallan too, faither," rejoined George.
"Hoot ay," said his father, "it would need a hallan, an' a hantle things
forby; an', after a' has been done that we can do, the place will be but
little, an' unco inconvenient; but it'll aye be a hole to shelter her
an' her bairnies frae the drift, afore they can get a better. An', e'en
though the scheme had been less feasible than it is, it maks my heart
glad to see that--laddie as ye are--ye hae a thought for ither folk's
distress."
"Na," interrupted George, "na, faither; it wasna me--it was Nan Black
spoke about it first, an' I only promised to tell ye."
"Weel, weel, laddie," rejoined the other, "I'm glad to hear that Nan
Black, as ye ca' her, is likely to turn out a better _woman_, if she be
spared, than ever her faither was a _man_--but, as he has a' his actions
to account for, of him I would say naething." With these words, the
worthy farmer was about to resume his labours, when his son, flushed
with the success of his plan, exclaimed--
"But will we no tell her, faither? Her mind canna be at ease afore she
ken about some place."
"That's weel minded too," said the father--"she's maybe gotten a house
already; but, in case she hasna, gang ye owre to your mither, an' tell
her I bade ye get a piece; an', when ye've gotten it, ye can rin yont,
some time afore it be dark, an' see a' about it. An' ye can tell her
that, if she likes, she's welcome to our auld barn, for a year; an', if
she taks it, we's no fa' oot about the rent."
Though George obeyed his father so far as to go the length of the house
door, he could not find time to go in for his promised _piece_; and,
without opening it, he turned, and set off at the top of his speed in
the direction of Nettlebank.
Return we now to the widow's cottage. The poor woman was far from
having recovered, when she was called upon to attend the deathbed of her
husband. The fatigue, terror, anxiety, and want of rest, from which she
had suffered during that period, might have been sufficient to break
down even the strongest constitution. When to these are added weeks of
wandering in quest of a habitation, the reader will hardly be surprised
when he is told that her animal strength was gone--her spirits sunk, and
despair seemed to be closing around her. With a frame completely worn
out, a head which ached, blistered feet, and, we might almost add, a
"bleeding heart," she sat by her fire one evening--her head resting on
her hand, and her eyes fixed upon her children, while sighs convulsed
her bosom. She wished to commit her little ones to the care of their
Maker; but such was the state of her mind, that she fancied she could
not perform even this duty, and the thought called forth another and a
deeper sigh. While she was thus employed, Nancy Black opened the door
unperceived, and, standing at her side, awoke her from her dream of
despondency by saying, in a half whispering, half faltering
voice--"Elspeth, dinna break your heart. I think I ken where you'll get
a house, noo. I was speaking about you, the day, to Geordie Chrighton,
at the school, an' he says they could soon mak a house o' their auld
barn; and that his faither will never hesitate"----
To this the mother was listening, and almost thinking the news too good
for being true, when the speaker was interrupted by some one coming
against the inner door of the apartment with such force as nearly to
break it. On hearing the noise, the widow rose to give the stranger
admittance; but he waited not for her services. Putting one hand to his
nose--the part which had produced the noise--and the other to the latch,
before another second had elapsed, George Chrighton stood in the middle
of the floor, panting from the rapidity of his march; and, without
taking time to recover breath, he began to deliver his message by
saying--"Elspeth, my father sent me owre to tell ye that, if ye want a
house, ye may get our auld barn. Jock's to bring a cartful o' clay--he's
to mak the cats the morn; I'm to bide at hame frae the school, an' carry
them in; an' my faither's to put up the lum. An'--what is't I was gaun
to say?--ou ay--tak it--tak it, Elspeth; an', if he'll no gie ye it for
naething, I'll keep a' the bawbees I get, to help ye to pay for't." Here
he paused, fairly out of breath. The substance of his message, however,
was delivered, and he now stood silent, and almost fearful of hearing
that she had already got a house.
The widow, bewildered by her own feelings, the excited manner of the
boy, and the intelligence which he brought, was also silent. Nor was it
till Nancy Black had whispered, "It's true enough--Geordie never tells
lies," that she recollected it was her part to make a reply.