never took payment for sheltering the head of a houseless stranger, nor
will we noo. But ye were sayin that ye're out o' employment; as this is
a backward season, an' we have a hantle to do, an' mair than a', as I'm
turned frail and feckless mysel, an' unco sair fashed wi' rheumatisms,
I've been thinkin if ye could consent to stay an' help us for a owk or
twa, maybe ye would be nae waur, an' we could gie you as guid wages as
ony ither body."
To this proposal Duncan offered no objection, only he wished to
stipulate for a bed in the house, as, he said, he had never been
accustomed to lie in barns; and, as a guarantee that he would neither
injure their property, nor run off without giving them notice, he
offered to place five guineas in the hands of the guidman--remarking,
that it was all the ready money he had about him. "And as to wages," he
continued, "I _wull_ ask no more than what you _wull_ think I work for."
The five guineas were accepted, not as a guarantee for his good
behaviour, but that they might be in safe keeping. He was given to
understand that he might have them at any time; and, when the family
retired to rest, he was accommodated with a bed in the house.
On the following morning, which happened to be fair, he was employed in
the labours of the season; and, though he manifested an uncommon degree
of awkwardness, George Chrighton, who was his fellow _bandster_, did
everything in his power to instruct and assist him in his new
profession; so that he succeeded in performing his part of the labour
till breakfast time. After this meal had been despatched, as each
youngster drew closer to his favourite lass, Duncan, following the
example thus set before him, began to attach himself to Catherine Roger,
who, though the youngest, and perhaps the fairest, seemed to have no
sweetheart present. But Catherine, though thus left alone, was far from
encouraging his attentions; and, with great dexterity, she contrived,
during what remained of the breakfast hour, always to keep her mother's
person between her and him--thus defeating his strong inclination to
imitate the conduct of some of his fellow-labourers, by placing his arm
around her neck.
On rising to recommence the labours of the day, Duncan found that his
hands were blistered, and that it would be extremely difficult for him
to resume his work; but George again assisted him, by inquiring if any
of the lasses would be so kind as come and dress the injured parts.
Catherine, notwithstanding her former coyness, was the first to obey.
Bounding, with a light step, to her small repository of bandages and
thread, she was back in a moment; and, spreading a small quantity of a
very healing ointment, which her mother had previously prepared, upon a
piece of linen cloth, she applied it to the part where the skin was
beginning to peel off, with the dexterity of an experienced surgeon,
and, having fastened it with a bandage drawn sufficiently tight, she was
at her work again before Duncan could move his lips to thank her. He was
now offered a pair of gloves, and with them, and the soothing nature of
the ointment, his labour was less painful than he had anticipated, till
their operations were interrupted by the rain.
Frosty mornings and rainy days, with short intervals of fair weather,
succeeded each other. When in the field, Duncan had always an
opportunity of seeing Catherine; but, though he really did endeavour to
ingratiate himself in her favour, she still dexterously contrived to
eschew all his attentions. He was not in love with her; but he felt
attached to her by the same sort of feeling with which one regards a
beautiful picture, or any other object which delights the senses. The
symmetry of her form, the brilliancy of her complexion, and the lustre
of her eyes, excited his admiration; and, in the absence of other
objects, drew his attention. In this state of mind, he frequently
puzzled his brains to account for the strangeness of her manners; and,
one evening, shortly after his arrival, he resolved to introduce himself
to her mother; if, peradventure, his so doing might throw some light
upon the subject. With this intention, he had passed the little window,
and was approaching the door, when he heard a chair overturned and a
noise within, as if some one had fled to the farther end of the house in
great confusion. This induced him to listen for a moment; and, while
thus listening, he heard Elspeth exclaim--
"What i' the warld's come owre the lassie noo!--whaur hae ye run till,
Kate? Na, I never saw the like o' that! The sark ye was mendin at, lyin
i' the aise-hole, an' a red cinder aboon't!--if I hadna grippit it, it
might hae been a' in a lowe lang afore ye cam to look for't; an' Andrew
would only gotten a pouchfu o' aise to tak hame wi' him on Saturday
nicht, instead of a sark." Duncan was no eavesdropper; but his curiosity
was strongly excited by what he had heard, and he could neither go in
nor drag himself with sufficient speed from the door.
As Elspeth was concluding her ejaculations, the frightened damsel
returned, and was heard to say, in a suppressed tone--"O mither, dinna
be angry--I thought I saw Duncan Cowpet come past the window, an' I ran
to be out o' his gait. I canna bide him; his een's never off me the hail
day, an' mony a time I dinna ken whar to look."
"Hoot, lassie," rejoined her mother; "ye aye mak bogles o' windlestraes.
Duncan is an honest lad, I'll warrant him, an' willin to work, too,
though he's no very guid o't. But, for a' that, dinna think that I want
ye to draw up wi' him; for I wouldna hae ye to gie ony encouragement to
anither man on earth, as lang as Andrew Sharp pays mair respect to you
than the lave. But only tak my advice--neither rin awa when ye see
Duncan coming, nor seem to notice his attentions when he comes, and
he'll soon bestow them on some ither body."
"I'll rather cut my finger for an excuse to bide at hame, though, afore
I gang to the field when he's there," was Catherine's half-pettish
reply.
"Confound ye if ye do ony sic thing!" cried her mother: "though Sandy
pays the house-rent, noo, recollect the guidman can ill spare ony o' his
shearers when the weather is fair."
Duncan stood to hear no more; if he had formerly admired Catherine for
her beauty, he now respected her for the principles upon which she
acted, and he wished for an opportunity to convince her that he too
could act a disinterested part. On the following day, his conduct was
such as to free her mind from most of those disagreeable feelings which
hitherto she had entertained; and, when he repeated his visit in the
evening, though she again saw him pass the window, she did not run away.
After he was seated, he spoke of Andrew Sharp, and gratefully adverted
to his kindness in conducting him to Sunnybraes on an evening when few
would have cared for venturing abroad. Catherine's fears were now gone;
she felt as if she could have died to serve the man who spoke favourably
of her lover; and the conversation was kept up with the greatest
cordiality upon all sides. Local affairs came to be discussed; and, as
Duncan seemed curious to gain information concerning the farms, and the
character of the farmers in the neighbourhood, Elspeth, in her
endeavours to satisfy his curiosity, told him all she knew of Mr. Black
and Mr. Goosequill, with their supposed schemes for the ejectment of
William Chrighton.
It was now the latter end of October, and still the harvest was far
from being completed. The watch-dog had died, and the horses began to
exhibit symptoms of lameness, which were the more distressing, that the
securing of the crop depended entirely upon their ability to labour. Two
of the cattle were brought home, by the boy who herded them, in a
diseased state, and the same evening one of them died. On the following
morning, one of the horses was found unable to rise; and, before noon,
he was dead also. It seemed as if the fates had conspired to ruin the
old farmer and his family; day after day, horses, cattle, and other live
stock, sickened and died; and, in a short time, he found himself without
the means of prosecuting the labours of so precarious a season, with any
prospect of success. To add to his distress, a summons was now served
against him for fifty pounds, "which," as that document affirmed, "he
still owed, and had refused to pay to the creditors of Mr. Rickledyke,
for the building of his barn, &c." Mr. Rickledyke was the contractor who
had been employed on this occasion; the whole of the money had not been
paid when he became bankrupt; and, though the old farmer was perfectly
certain that he had paid it, when he recollected that the bankrupt was a
friend of Mr. Goosequill's, and that the money had been paid in his
office, he felt convinced that the whole was a trick, intended to
embarrass if not to ruin him. He recollected farther, that, as a _stamp_
could not, at the time, be obtained, for giving him a discharge, he had
left the place without any voucher for the payment of the debt, beyond
the testimony of two witnesses who were now dead; and thus he had no
alternative but to pay it again.
The appearance of the law officers, at Sunnybraes, gave rise to a
report, which was industriously spread, that William Chrighton was
either a bankrupt or about to become one; and every individual who had
the slightest claim upon him, came hurrying in with distraints and
summonses; and, to complete the catastrophe, on Saturday, about noon,
Mr. Goosequill made his appearance, with the proper assistants, and
placed the whole of the crop, stocking, &c., on the farm of Sunnybraes,
under sequestration for the rent.
All hope of continuing in the farm was now at an end, and it only
remained to make the most of the wreck which was still left. On Sabbath
morning, the sky had cleared; the wind shifted about to the north, and,
on the afternoon of the same day, a strong frost set in. The frost,
accompanied by a sharp breeze, continued throughout the evening, and,
as soon as midnight was past, the old man and his son prepared to
embrace so favourable an opportunity for securing a portion of the
victual which was still exposed. While they were engaged in these
preparations, Duncan was left to the care of Mrs. Chrighton, who had
been instructed to furnish him with some _warm meat_, and a greatcoat.
After these injunctions had been obeyed, as he sat by the fire, while
she stood over him with anxiety and distress depicted in her
countenance--"O Duncan," said she, "it's a terrible thing for honest
folk to be sae sair harassed. If lairds would only look after their
affairs themselves, instead of trusting them to factors, I'm sure it
would be better for a' parties. But it's a' owre with us, and there's
naething noo but to tak some cothouse, and the guidman maun e'en work
in a ditch, and I maun spin for the morsel that supports our lives.
George, too, is so disgusted with the usage we have received, that he
speaks of going off to America. And Nancy Black--poor lassie! my heart
is aye sair when I think about her--they've had a likin for ane anither
since they were bairns at the school, and, if things had gane richt,
they might been happy, and we might been comfortable; but that, like
the rest of our prospects, is at an end." Mrs. Chrighton's disjointed
observations--particularly what related to Nancy Black, were a mystery
to Duncan; and, though he wished to have an explanation, as the cart
was now ready and he was called, he was obliged to console himself with
the expectation that time might enable him to discover their meaning.
When they reached the field, the moon was shining clear, the wind was
blowing a stiff gale from the north, and the sheaves of corn, where any
moisture had attached to them, were frozen as hard as iron. There was
only one of the working horses now serviceable: to supply the place of
another, a colt had been that morning pressed into the service; but,
owing to the awkwardness of this animal, the cart was overturned and
broken in such a manner as to render the assistance of the smith
necessary before it could be again used. Duncan Cowpet, who,
notwithstanding his unlucky name, had escaped unhurt, volunteered his
services for this expedition, and went off, with the cart and one of the
horses, to the smithy. When he reached Nettlebank, on his return from
the smithy, he had nearly driven his cart over Nancy Black, who,
whitened by the falling snow, was leaning against the garden wall, and
appeared to have been shedding tears. On discovering him, she
endeavoured to assume an air of cheerfulness, and asked if he would stop
for a short time, as she would have a message for him. Being answered in
the affirmative, she hurried into the house, and in a few minutes
returned with a piece of folded paper, which she requested him to give
to his master's son. "But stay," said she, as he was putting it into his
pocket--"it is not closed--I had forgot;" and then, after a short pause,
she added--"but perhaps you do not read _write_?"
"Na," said Duncan, speaking in an accent much broader than the
provincial dialect--"na, my faither was owre puir for giein me ony buke
lear." This seemed to satisfy the damsel, and she intrusted him with the
letter in its unclosed state, only enjoining him to show it to nobody,
and give it into the hands of George Chrighton.
After nightfall, George said that "he must go to the smithy for some
things which had been forgotten in the forenoon," and wished to see
Duncan, to give him some orders about foddering the remaining horses.
But Duncan was nowhere to be found; and, after performing the task
himself--the evening being now well advanced--he took the road for the
smithy. It seemed, however, that he had business elsewhere; for, on
reaching Nettlebank, he climbed over the garden wall, and, tapping
gently at a low window, he was answered by a sigh from within. The door
was immediately opened without noise, and a female form stood by his
side. He placed her arm in his, and they passed silently to the barn,
where they both stood without speaking for some time, and both sighed
deeply. At last--
"George," said Nancy Black--for it was she--"I have done wrong in
requesting you to meet me to-night; but I have been so much agitated
with what I have heard of late that I could not do otherwise."
"What have you heard, my love?" inquired the other, in a tone of the
deepest tenderness--"only tell me, and, whatever your feelings may be,
there is at least one heart ready to share them."
"I thought I could tell you all," said Nancy, "before you were here; but
now, when you are beside me, I cannot, and yet I must; for, though my
father and brother are from home, they may soon be back, and I may be
missed from the house. Did you ever hear," she continued, evidently
placing her feelings under a strong restraint as she spoke--"did you
ever hear that your dog was poisoned?"
"I was never told so," said George; "but, perhaps, I have suspected that
the dog, and the horses and the cattle likewise, were poisoned; and,
perhaps, I have suspected who did it. But, if that were the worst, we
might get over it still; and you must not distress yourself, my love,
for dogs and horses."
"But I have other causes of distress," said she, still keeping her
feelings under the same control. "We had Mr. Goosequill here last night
and this forenoon; and, from parts of the conversation which passed when
they were more than half drunk, I learned that Gilbert and Miss
Goosequill are to be married, and Sunnybraes is to be their residence,
which the factor says he is certain he can now get at my father's offer.
Oh, how my heart burns to think a daughter must thus reveal a parent's
disgrace!"
"Nay, my dearest, do not distress yourself for this," rejoined the
other. "Though my father cannot resign Sunnybraes to you and me, as he
had intended, to mourn over it will not mend the matter. Let Gilbert and
Grizzy enjoy the farm; but, before they can establish themselves on it,
I will be on my passage to America; and, in a few years, with the
blessing of God, I may be able to return--a better man than the farmer
of Sunnybraes; and then, Nancy--but, first, promise that you will love
me till"--
Here he was interrupted by the sobs of her whom he addressed. It was
long before she could speak; and, when she could speak, long and
earnestly did she try to dissuade him from his purpose. But the youth,
perceiving no prospect of their union, except by the plan which he
proposed to adopt, was inflexible. Finding all her entreaties were
vain--
"Then it is as my heart foreboded," said she. "To-day I heard from
Andrew Sharp of your intention of going to America. I walked out to
conceal my feelings; and, while leaning on the garden wall, forgetful of
everything else, your servant passed, and then the wish rose in my heart
to see you once more. After I had made my foolish request, I had still
another wish ungratified, and that was, in case my arguments should
fail, as they have done, that you would carry along with you some
remembrance of her whom you once professed to love. This is woman's
weakness, but perhaps you will pardon it; and perhaps you will keep the
gift, though no better than a child's bauble, for the sake of the
giver."
"I will--I will!" interrupted George, eagerly, whilst he took her hand.
"I am half ashamed of it," she continued; "it is only a small sampler,
on which, shortly after leaving school, I sewed your father and mother's
names at full length, and yours, and--and mine--I may tell you this now,
when we are about to part, perhaps for ever. No one ever saw me put a
stitch in it. Will you keep it for my sake?"
"While life remains," said the lover; "run, my love, and bring it, that
I may place it in my bosom."
"It is here already," said she, "and that is the reason why I wished our
meeting to be in this place. Fearing lest my father should come home,
and prevent me getting it from the house, I brought it out and concealed
it here."
With these words, she made a few steps aside; and, as she stooped down
to bring her little keepsake from under the empty sacks which covered
it, instead of returning with it, she started and screamed. George flew
to her assistance. Something seemed stirring among the sacks, as if an
animal had been attempting to rise; he laid hold of it, and dragged a
heavy body after him to the door. The moon, which was now up, showed his
burden to be a man; and, grasping him by the collar--"Scoundrel!" he
said, "what business had you there?" then, turning him round to have a
better view of his face--"Duncan!" he added--his anger in some measure
yielding to surprise--"I had nearly given you a thrashing; but you have
been our guest, and assisted us in our difficulties, and I must hear
from your own lips that you are guilty, before I pass sentence upon
you." With these words he quitted his grasp.
The blood flushed Duncan's cheek, and for some seconds he seemed
uncertain whether to offer resistance or sue for peace. At last he
said--holding out his hand, which the other as frankly took--"If you had
_thrashed_ me, it would have been no more than I deserved. But perhaps
you shall have no reason afterwards to repent of having spared yourself
this labour; for, though I had my own reasons for doing as I have
done"--
These words were spoken in good English, with an accent and a dignity
altogether different from the speaker's former mode of speaking; but,
before he could proceed, he was saluted, by a rough voice from behind,
with the words--"I shall _thrash you_, you skulking vagabond!" And, at
the same moment, he was grasped roughly by the collar by Mr. Black, who
raised a heavy oaken cudgel to strike him on the head. Had that blow
descended, the probability is that Duncan Cowpet would have slept with
his fathers; but George Chrighton wrenched the stick from the hand of
the infuriated man.
"Unchain the dog!" bawled Mr. Black, in a voice of thunder.
"I'll s-et loose Cae-sar," hickuped his son. But, instead of doing as he
said, he lay down beside the animal, and began, in good earnest, to that
operation which the "dog" must perform before he can "turn to his
vomit."
Mr. Black still continued to keep a hold of Duncan with one hand, and to
strike him with the other, till George, stepping behind him, threw him
quietly down upon a quantity of straw; and he, too, began to discharge
the contents of his over-loaded stomach. Nancy, who, up to this moment
had stood in speechless terror, now stepped from the barn.
"Fly, fly," she whispered. "My father is drunk. I know it. He has never
seen me; and you may escape. I will find some means of sending it. Fly,
I conjure you!" And she pushed him gently from her.
On the following morning, Duncan was amissing; and, like a fool, he
had run off and left his five guineas behind him. But the mystery was
about to be cleared up. A little after daybreak, letters were delivered
to the whole of the parties concerned, summoning them to meet the
_laird_ at an inn in the neighbourhood; and the surprise of all may be
easily imagined when they discovered that Sir Patrick Felspar was no
other than Duncan Cowpet in a different dress. The result was such as
might have been expected from a laird who had learned the truth from
observation and experience. We have only room to add, that shortly
thereafter two marriages were celebrated--two individuals who had been
accustomed to hold their heads high were effectually humbled; and, to
this day, whenever any farmer, or other individual, is supposed to be
dealing unfairly with his neighbours, it is a common saying in the
district--"Send Duncan Cowpet, to see what he is about."
FOOTNOTES:
[5] We may claim for this tale the peculiarity of its having
been the first essay of its author, Alexander Bethune, the self-educated
"Fifeshire labourer." This excellent and ingenious man became
subsequently well known by his volume of "Tales and Sketches of the
Scottish Peasantry," published by Mr. Adam Black, and designated at the
time a literary phenomenon. It was truly said of him by the Spectator:
"Alexander Bethune, if he had written anonymously, might have passed for
a regular litterateur." Along with his brother John "the Fifeshire
forester," he published, in 1889, "Practical Economy"--a work which
deserves to be reprinted and spread among the people, as containing the
true secret of domestic happiness, so well exemplified in the contented
and virtuous lives of its humble authors.--ED.
[6] Repast, so called, to which, in some parts of the country,
the friends of the deceased are invited after the funeral.
[7] The materials of which a mud-wall is constructed in many
parts of Scotland.
THE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS.
One little sentence gave rise to all the disputes of the old
philosophers, from Parmenides down to Aristotle, and that was composed
of three words, _ex nihilo nihil_--nothing can come out of nothing--upon
which were raised the doctrines of the atomists, incorporealists,
epicureans, theists, and atheists, and all the other races of dreamers
that have disturbed the common sense, lethargy, or comfort of the world
for thousands of years; so that nothing could have better proved the
absolute nothingness of their favourite maxim, that nothing could come
from nothing, than the effects of that very dogma itself, for nothing
ever made such a stir in the moral world, since it deserved to be called
something. But a more extraordinary circumstance is, that, though we
every day see the most gigantic consequences result from what may be
termed, paradoxically, _less than nothing_, there are certain
metaphysical wiseacres who still stick to the old maxim, in spite of
their own senses, even that of feeling, and declare it to be true
gospel. Let them read the tale of real every-day life we are now to lay
before them, and then say, if they dare, that it is impossible that
anything can come out of inanity. But, to proceed:--