when the gloom of her mind increased as the shades of darkness spread
around her. She felt that she could suffer the agonising thoughts no
longer, and, starting up, and throwing over her shoulders a night-cloak,
she hurried out of the castle. She found herself intuitively taking the
way to Death's Croft. The night was getting dark, and there was a
hollow, gousty wind blowing among the trees, and whistling among the
whins and tall grass that lay in her path. Heedless of all obstructions,
and insensible to danger, she wandered along, and soon found herself at
the side of the turf-dyke that surrounded the place of the dead.
Surmounting this slight obstacle, she groped her way among the
tombstones, starting occasionally, as a gust of wind made the long grass
rustle by her side, or produced a hollow sound from the reverberation of
some hollow cenotaph. After considerable labour, she came to a new-made
grave, and endeavoured to satisfy herself that there was not another
equally new among the many _tumuli_ that raised their green bosoms
around her. On a stone at the foot of the grave she sat down, and
wrapped the folds of the mantle round her, to keep from her tender frame
the chill night-winds. She rose, and knelt down upon the new-made grave,
the green sods of which she bedewed with her tears. The spot was doubly
hallowed by recollections and self-criminations, and she could not, for
a longer period than was consistent with her safety, drag herself away
from it. Throwing herself on the grass in a paroxysm of grief, she
kissed the sods, and, crying bitterly, rose, and mournfully sought the
path that led to that home where a new misery awaited her. She wandered
slowly along; and, as she approached the castle, saw with dismay a light
shining in her chamber. Her mother, she concluded, was there, and would,
by her absence, get all her suspicions fortified, that her illness was
merely assumed. She stood for a moment, and paused, irresolute how to
proceed--terrified to enter the house, yet unknowing whither to go. A
voice struck her ear--it was that of Bertha; and, looking round, she saw
her old nurse in close conversation with a man who had on the very
dress worn by the individual who formerly endeavoured to carry her off,
and who, she suspected, was no other than Sir Thomas Courtney. What
could this mean? Was it possible that Bertha was in the interest of the
man who had attempted to force her affections, by retaining possession
of her person? The question was an extraordinary one, and startled her.
She stood and looked for a moment. The man observed her, and retreated,
while Bertha stealthily sought the castle by a back entry. Her suspicion
increased, and, hurrying home, she threw herself on a couch. She was
thus beset on every hand. Her lover was dead, and in his grave, and all
left behind seemed to be against her. There appeared to be no refuge
from the fate that awaited her. The marriage-day was on the wing, and
would soon cast the cloud of its dark pinion on the turrets of
Roseallan. Her reliance on Bertha was changed to the poignant suspicion
of treachery. Her mind recurred to the scene on the bridge, which she
suspected was a part of her scheme to get her into the hands of the
English reformer, whose tenets, she thought, Bertha secretly favoured.
Thus had she lost both friend and lover--the one by death, the other by
infidelity; and she could scarcely tell which was most painful to
her--such is the anguish felt on the discovery of the falsehood of
friendship. Her mother's cruel and unjust reproof rung in her ears; her
father was obdurate; her lover proud, determined, and, worse than all,
filled with what he called an ardent love, and which she looked upon as
a loathing, ribald passion, the indications of which she would fly as
she would the embrace of the twisting serpent. Pained to the inmost
recesses of her spirits, she could get no relief from tears; her dry,
glowing eyes looked unutterable anguish; and a feverish heat pervaded
her system, rendering her restless and miserable. She flung herself on
her bed, where she lay tortured by her conflicting thoughts. Her mother
did not again visit her, and Bertha remained absent, apparently from
shame. A domestic obeyed her call, and administered the few necessaries
she required. The night was passed in great anguish, and the morrow's
light brought no assuagement of her pain. The domestic who waited upon
her told her that Sir George Douglas had arrived at the castle with a
party, and that her mother expected her presence in the hall next day.
Bertha, she said, was indisposed, and could not attend her; but she
would, in the meantime, supply her place. The day passed with no
variation; there was no relief from the hope of succour; and her mind,
dark and foreboding, sunk into a state of gloomy melancholy. The night
came on, and threw the physical shades of gloom into a mind darkened
with the misery of despair. As she lay in this state, she thought she
heard the sound of a lute; and rising, she placed herself at the window.
The night was still, and the moon, which had not for some time been
visible, was sending forth faint beams before she set. The scene was
composed and pleasant, and brought to her mind recollections that added
to her griefs. She fixed her eye on the wood, and observed a figure
passing between the trees. It was too indistinct to enable her to know
who it was. A dark dress, unrelieved by any mixture of colours,
suggested the idea of Bertha's friend, Sir Thomas Courtney. A new source
of curiosity now arose in the individual playing (in, however, as she
thought, a very indifferent manner) the tune that used to be played by
her lover. The sounds went to her heart; but suspicion of treachery
accompanied them, and fired her with as much anger as her gentle nature
was capable of, against this new scheme to wile her from the castle. At
this moment, her mother and father entered.
"We have got again, in the wood-bower, a lover," cried the father. "I
insist, Matilda, that thou dost tell me who it is."
"I do not know, father," replied Matilda.
"Is it he with whom you attempted to elope that night when Bertha fell
on the bridge?" asked the mother.
"I never attempted to elope," answered the maiden, weeping; "but I was
attempted to be carried off by some one in disguise; and the man that is
now in my bower may be he, but I know not."
"Sir Thomas Courtney!" cried the mother.
The father rushed out of the room. The sounds of voices were heard in
the base-court, and that of George Douglas was pre-eminent. A shot was
heard. Matilda looked out at the window, and saw some servants carrying
the body of a wounded man across the bridge. Lights were brought, and
some one called out the name of Templeton the archer. Matilda flew out
of the room, and was in an instant in the ballium. She looked in the
face of the wounded man. It was George Templeton. He opened his eyes,
and fixed them on her face, took her hand into his, pressed it, sighed,
and expired.
Some days afterwards, Matilda Rollo was led, dressed by the hands of her
mother, into the presence of the priest who was to unite her and Sir
George Douglas. When asked if she consented to receive the knight as her
husband, she burst into a loud laugh. Her reason had fled; she was ever
afterwards a maniac, and was tended by Bertha Maitland, who, sitting in
the wood-bower, often contemplated, with feelings we will not attempt to
describe, the unhappy victim of her treachery.
THE TWO SAILORS.
One dark and cloudy evening in September, two young men were seen
walking on the road that winds so beautifully along the shore of the
Solway, below the mouth of the Nith, between the quay and Caerlaverock.
The summit of Criffel was hidden in clouds; the sky was dark and
threatening; and the shrieking of the sea-fowl, and the whitening crests
of the waves, as they broke before the freshening breeze, gave warning
that a storm was at hand. At some distance, a two-masted boat, or
wherry, as it is there called, lay on the beach, half afloat on the
rising tide; and a boy sat on the green bank near, apparently watching
her.
The two men appeared, by their dress, to be sailors. They were both in
the prime of life, and remarkably handsome; but their countenances were
of very different expressions. The one, whose short, crisp hair curled
over a forehead embrowned by exposure to the elements, had the frank,
bold, joyous look which we love to recognise as a characteristic of the
class of men to which he belonged; the other, his superior in face and
figure, as well as his senior in years, had a deep-set dark eye, whose
very smile was ominous of the storm of evil passions and tempers within.
Their conversation was loud and earnest, and was carried on in tones of
considerable occasional excitement; the violent motion of their hands,
and the increasing loudness of their voices, gave token that passion was
beginning to usurp the throne of prudence; till at last the elder of the
two, stung to madness by some observation of his companion, suddenly
raised his hand, and struck him a blow on the head, which made him
stagger for some paces. Quick as lightning, however, he recovered
himself, and rushed to avenge the blow. A short and violent struggle
ensued; and then the younger, whom we shall call Richard Goldie, sat
astride the prostrate body of his antagonist, panting with violent
exertion, and with his knees pinioning the arms of the other to the
ground; while the latter, exhausted with his exertions, made feeble and
ineffectual struggles to rise.
"Let me rise," said he, at last, in a sullen tone; "you need not be
afraid."
"Afraid!" replied the other, with a contemptuous laugh; "it wad ill set
a born and bred Nithsdale man to fear a mongrel o' a foreigner. Rise up,
man--rise up; ye brought it on yoursel. I wadna cared for yer sharp
words, or yer ill tongue, had ye but keepit yer hans aff. But dinna look
sae dour-like man. Ye needna be cast doun aboot it; it was a fair
stand-up fecht, and ye did yer best. Come, gie's yer han, and we'll
think nae mair o't?"
"Richie Goldie," said Cummin, rejecting the proffered hand, and drawing
back, as if he thought its touch would be contamination, while his eye
flashed with vindictive fire--"Richie Goldie, hear me. When we were boys
at school together, you were like a serpent in my eyes. Since we left
it, you have always crossed my path, like the east wind, to blight, and
blast, and wither all the flowers that lay in it. You have stood between
me and my love; and now you have struck me to the earth, and wounded me,
when fallen, with your taunts and sarcasms. You have roused the
slumbering devil within me, and before he sleeps again, you shall
bitterly repent this day's work: you shall find the mongrel foreigner is
no mongrel in his revenge!"
"Dinna talk that fearfu gate," said Goldie, laughing; "ye'll mak a body
think ye're clean demented--speakin o' revenge, and lookin at a man as
if ye wished yer een war daggers. I wish ye a better temper and a kinder
heart. I fear neither you nor yer revenge; and as we _maun_ gang this
trip thegither, just put yer revenge in yer pouch, and let's 'gree and
be freends."
So saying, he sprang into the boat, which was now rocking in the tide,
and rewarding the boy for his trouble, and followed in sullen silence by
Cummin, he hauled aft the sheets, and in a few minutes the boat was
dancing over the waves towards Annan.
It is now necessary that we should introduce the two heroes of our tale
more particularly to the reader, which we will endeavour to do as
concisely as possible. Edward Cummin's mother was an Italian, who had
accompanied a family of rank to England in the capacity of lady's-maid.
She was a beautiful woman, of warm and violent passions, and, for her
station in life, remarkably well-informed and clever. Her mistress had a
high opinion of her, and thought she was throwing herself away when she
asked permission to marry her master's gardener; but, finding that her
arguments to dissuade her from the connection were ineffectual, she gave
her consent to it, and did all in her power to render her favourite's
married state a comfortable one. For seven years the Cummins lived a
happy and industrious life together--the only fruit of their union being
a boy, the Edward of our story. He was an uncommonly handsome child, and
was very much noticed by the family at the hall, from whom he received
the rudiments of an excellent education, and acquired manners and habits
superior to his station. He was the idol of his parents; but his
father--a sensible, steady Scotchman--did not allow his partiality to
blind him to his son's faults, and was firm and steady in his correction
of them; while the mother, with foolish and mistaken fondness,
endeavoured on all occasions to conceal his failings, and soothed and
caressed, when she ought to have checked and punished him. The
consequence was, that young Edward soon learned to fear his father, and
to despise his mother--and dissimulation and hypocrisy were the natural
consequences of such contradictory management. At this time
circumstances obliged the family to leave the hall, and settle on the
Continent--the estate was sold, and Cummin, being deprived of his
situation, returned, with his family, to his native place. Here their
nearest neighbours were the Goldies; and a considerable degree of
intimacy arose between the two families. The boys, Richard Goldie and
Edward Cummin, were sent, during the winter months, to the same school,
where a great deal of apparent friendship subsisted between them. But,
on Edward's part, it was all seeming--for he was a hypocrite by nature,
and, to suit his own purposes, could fawn, and cringe, and flatter, with
an air, at the same time, of bold off-hand independence; and it was his
interest to keep on good terms with Richard Goldie, who, though younger
than himself, was more active and hardy, and who really _was_, what _he_
pretended to be, courageous and independent. But, in his heart, Edward
hated his high-spirited companion; it was gall and wormwood to his proud
and vindictive spirit to notice the evident partiality shown towards
Richard by his companions, and the coolness and avoidance evinced
towards himself. Several circumstances at last transpired, which served
to open Richard Goldie's eyes to the true character of his pretended
friend; and a coolness arose between them, which, though it never
proceeded to an open rupture, for some time put a stop to the closeness
of their intimacy. Years passed, and the young men both adopted the sea
for a profession, and sailed for some time together in the same
vessel--an American trader, "hailing" from Dumfries. Here, as at school,
though equally active in the performance of their duties, Richard
Goldie's frank and generous disposition rendered him a favourite with
the rest of the crew, while Cummin in vain strove to make himself
popular--he always was, or fancied himself to be, an object of distrust
and aversion. Towards Goldie he maintained the same apparently friendly
and kindly bearing, while he was storing up bitter feelings against him
in his heart. It was strange that, with growing, though concealed,
hatred on the one side, and with want of confidence on the other, these
two young men should have continued to associate, and to keep up a
companionship which it only depended upon themselves to discontinue; but
so it was. They had learned from the same books; they had sported
beneath the same roof; they had risen from boyhood to manhood together;
and they could not, though so different in disposition, entirely sever
the links with which early associations had bound them together. In the
neighbourhood of Kelton lived an old fisherman, whose daughter was one
of the loveliest girls in the district. Our two companions, being near
neighbours of old Grey, were very constant in their attentions to him;
they managed his boat for him, helped him to mend his nets, and made
themselves useful in every possible way. Some of the neighbours
insinuated, that all this kindness proceeded less from a regard for the
old man, than from a wish to conciliate his pretty daughter. That,
however, was matter of doubt; and old Grey took the "benefit of the
doubt," and the compliment to himself. While flattering the father,
however, they were both very assiduous in their attentions to the
daughter, and each in turn fancied that he was the object of her
exclusive regard. But Ellen Grey was as sensible as she was lovely, and
had met with so much passing admiration, and knew so well what value to
put upon it, that she was but little affected by this additional proof
of her power. She liked both the young men as pleasant companions, but
had, as yet, shown no decided partiality for either. She was perfectly
well aware that they both admired her, and she was gratified by their
attentions--as what pretty woman would not have been?--but the only use
she made of her influence over them, was to restrain their angry
passions, and to keep up friendly feelings between them. Of the two,
Cummin was the most calculated to please the eye and attract the fancy
of a young and inexperienced girl; for, besides being more strikingly
handsome than Goldie, in his intercourse with the softer sex he had
successfully studied the art of concealing and glossing over all the
worse qualities of his nature. Goldie, on the contrary, was frank and
open to all alike; he was manly and independent in his address to
females, and never stooped to flattery or dissimulation. Things went on
in this uncertain way for some time, till the young men, wearied of
sailing backwards and forwards to and from America, resolved to vary the
scene, by making a voyage to India. Although they both felt that
friendship was with them but a name, yet they had become so united by
habit and early association, that they could not make up their minds to
separate, and accordingly agreed to "enter" on board the same ship.
The evening on which our story commences, was the one fixed upon for
their departure. Goldie had been to Annan the day previous, to ascertain
the time of the steamboat's sailing from Liverpool, and had borrowed a
boat from a friend of his father's there, in which he and Cummin were to
return. They had passed the afternoon together at old Grey's, and Cummin
fancied that Ellen smiled more kindly upon his rival than upon himself.
She immediately, with the quickness of woman's tact, perceived, and
endeavoured to remove, the impression--but in vain; and, in so doing,
excited the jealous feelings of Goldie. They left the house in gloomy
silence; but had not proceeded far before their irritated feelings found
vent in words--few, and cautious, and half-suppressed at first, but
gradually increasing in loudness, and energy, and bitterness, till the
result was the struggle we have already described. Cummin's face, as he
sat beside Goldie in the stern-sheets of the boat, was a true index to
the black and vindictive passions that boiled within his heart. His
glaring eye, set teeth, clenched hand, and heavy breathing, told too
plainly what was passing within. A child might have read his secret on
his brow--and yet he was too great a coward to utter it. He sat brooding
over his wrath, and nourishing dark thoughts of hatred and revenge
against his unconscious companion, whose momentary anger had passed
away, and left no trace behind it.
"Ye're as quiet's a sittin hen, Ned," said he; "I doot ye're hatchin
mischief. Dinna tak on sae, man; let byganes be byganes, and think nae
mair aboot it."
Cummin's first flush of rage had by this time passed away, and he began
to think of the expediency of _appearing_ to be reconciled to
Goldie--for he knew that it was only by treachery and cunning he could
hope to gratify his longing for revenge. He, therefore, in reply to
Richard's speech, grasped him warmly by the hand, and said--
"Do not think so ill of me, Richard, as to suppose that I bear you any
ill-will on account of what has passed. The words I uttered in my
passion I am sorry for and disclaim, now that I am cool. I _was_
angry--very angry, certainly; but that is past. How can you wonder that
I am sad and silent, when you remember that we may never return to the
'bonny banks o' Nith.' We are going among strangers, and into strange
lands: let us not forget our old friendship--let us always be friends as
well as countrymen."
"That's said like a true Scot, at a' rates," replied Goldie. "What wi'
yer English lingo and yer grand words, ye talk for a' the warld like a
prented bulk; it does a body's lugs guid to listen t'ye. Ay, 'shouther
to shouther' is the word in the Highlands, and we'll tak it for _our_
by-word." And the warm-hearted, generous lad shook him heartily by the
hand.
Next day, they took their passage in the steamer for Liverpool, and from
thence made the best of their way to London. There they were soon picked
up by one of the "crimps," on the look-out for men for the
outward-bound Indiamen, and, in the course of a few days, were shipped
on board the Briton--a vessel of twelve hundred tons. Here everything
was strange to them, and they were subjected to a course of discipline
to which they had not before been accustomed. They both proved
themselves to be smart, active young fellows, and good seamen; but at
first Cummin was a greater favourite than Goldie--for he was too cunning
and timeserving to commit himself in any way; while the latter, always
in the habit of speaking out his mind boldly and freely, frequently got
himself into trouble by his forgetfulness of forms, and by the bluntness
of his remarks. In a short time, however, they each appeared in their
true colours, and the scale was turned in favour of Goldie, whose frank
and open manners, and straightforward, fearless confidence, established
him in the general good opinion of his officers and messmates; while, on
the other hand, the mean cunning spirit of Cummin, becoming daily more
apparent, rendered him an object of contempt and avoidance to the
latter. This change in the opinion of his shipmates rankled deep in the
heart of the vindictive Cummin; and, forgetting that he himself was the
cause of it, he attributed all to the influence of the detested Goldie.
A circumstance soon occurred which served to add fuel to the fire of
evil passions that lay smouldering in his heart. The ship was within a
few degrees of the equator, when one day a strange sail was seen ahead,
which proved to be a "homeward-bounder." The captain immediately
determined to board her, and gave his orders accordingly to the chief
mate.
"Midshipman! tell the sailmaker to make a bag for the letters, and pass
the word fore and aft that a bag is going to be made up for England.
First cutters, clean themselves!"
The breeze was light, and gradually dying away; and, as the stranger was
still at a considerable distance, orders were given to "pipe to dinner,"
and for the cutter's crew to come up as soon as they had dined, to
lower the boat down. In a short time, the coxswain of the boat--a fine,
active, young north-country man--came up with three of his crew, two of
whom were stationed at the tackle-fall, to lower the boat, while the
coxswain, with the other man, jumped in, to be lowered down in her. One
of the men at the "falls" was Cummin; lowering away, quickly and
carelessly, he allowed the rope to run too quickly round the "cleat,"
and not being able to check it again, he was obliged to let go "by the
run." The consequence was, that the stern of the boat was plunged into
the water, while the bow hung suspended in the other tackle--the men
were thrown out, and the poor coxswain, not being able to swim, made two
or three ineffectual struggles, and sank to rise no more. The accident
was so sudden and unexpected, and there was so little apparent
danger--for the water was as smooth as a mill-pond, and the poor fellow
was within arm's-length almost of the boat's gunwale--that he was gone
almost before an alarm was given. The men were all below at dinner; but
ill news flies fast--in a moment there was a rush to the hatchways, each
hurrying to get on deck. Goldie was one of the first up, and, rushing
aft on the poop, he exclaimed, "Where is he?" and, hardly waiting for an
answer, sprung over the taffrail into the water, a height of twenty
feet, and dived after the sinking man; but in vain--the poor fellow was
gone beyond recall. The captain reprimanded Cummin severely for his
carelessness, degraded him from his station as topman, made him a
"sweeper," and stopped his allowance of grog. Goldie was publicly
praised on the quarterdeck for his spirited conduct, and received a
handsome present from the captain, besides being promoted to the station
of boatswain's mate at the first opportunity. This was a bitter potion
for the moody and jealous spirit of Cummin; and he brooded day and night
over his fancied wrongs.
The ship was now rapidly approaching the "line," and the crew had been
for some time anticipating with great glee the day of fun and license
which was in store for them. The old stagers amused themselves with
practising upon the credulity of those comparatively fresh-water sailors
who had never been to the southward of the equator; and strange and
mysterious were the notions which many of the latter formed of the
dreaded "line," from the contradictory accounts they heard. Some
imagined that it was a rope drawn across the sea, which could not be cut
without the permission of the old king of the waves; others were gulled
into the belief that there was a large tree growing out of the water, to
which the ship was to be made fast, until the necessary ceremonies were
gone through. But their doubts on the subject were soon to be changed
into certainty. The officer of the deck one day made his report to the
captain--
"The sun's up, sir."
"What is the latitude?"
"Fifty minutes north, sir."
"Very well--make it twelve o'clock."
"Strike eight-bells, quartermaster!" And away went the old fellow
"forward," to strike the bell, brimful of the intelligence he had just
overheard; and in two minutes it was known all over the ship, that, if
the breeze held, they would cross the "line" before morning.
"There it is at last," muttered one of the middies, who had been for
some minutes apparently straining his eyes through a three-foot
"Dollond," and who, knowing he was within ear-shot of a knot of young
cadets, _muttered_ loud enough to be overheard.
"What is it?" said a young Irishman.
"The line, to be sure--the equinoxial line--which we have been so
anxiously looking for."
In the meantime, great was the bustle among all the old hands on board.
Paint and tar were in constant requisition. A deputation had waited some
days before upon the lady passengers, requesting from them some of their
cast-off wearing apparel, as the crew expected "Mrs Neptune" to honour
them with a visit in a few days, and wished to have a change of raiment
in readiness for her, as she would most likely be wet and cold with her
long cruise upon the water. A list had been drawn up, ready for
presentation to Neptune, on his arrival, of all those who were for the
first time crossing the line; and those of the passengers who were
unwilling to undergo the ceremonies attendant upon being made "freemen
of the line," had expressed their readiness to pay the customary
exempting tribute, under the salutary dread of the razors, of three
degrees of comparison, which were duly brandished before their eyes.