the captain, though he blustered a little when he first heard the story,
was in his heart pleased to have got such an unexpected addition to his
crew; and, after a short time, Cummin, behaving satisfactorily, was
rated able seaman on the ship's books. On the Columbine's arrival at
Liverpool, Cummin immediately set off homewards, and made his appearance
at Kelton again, about eight months after he had left it, much to the
surprise of his parents. He told a long and affecting story of his
sufferings on board the Briton, and of the illness and death of poor
Goldie, who had fallen a victim at sea, he said, to cholera. After the
death of his friend, driven to desperation by the ill-usage he was
exposed to, he determined to run from his ship on the first opportunity,
and had accordingly deserted, as before stated. He spoke, on all
occasions, in the warmest terms of Goldie's great kindness to him, and
expressed the utmost regret at his loss. The sad news was a death-blow
to the poor old Goldies, who never recovered from the effects of it, and
who, broken-hearted and repining, fell easy victims, a few weeks
afterwards, to an epidemic then raging. Ellen Grey mourned deeply and
sincerely for Richard Goldie; she had always liked him as an agreeable
companion, and respected him as an amiable and steady character; and
though, at first, she had given the preference to the plausible Cummin,
yet, before they parted, Richie's good qualities had so much gained upon
her better sense, that she had begun to experience that kind of
partiality towards him which might in time have ripened into a warmer
feeling. With the quick eye of jealous rivalry, Cummin had noticed this
change in her feelings, almost before she was conscious of it herself.
He had never really loved her; his object in appearing to do so had been
to annoy Goldie; but the wound thus given to his vanity had rankled in
his heart, to the exclusion of every other feeling but that of a wish
to punish her for her defection.
He now renewed his intimacy with old Grey, and was doubly assiduous in
his attentions towards him. He had become, apparently, quite an altered
character--that is, he had become a more finished hypocrite; he had
learned to calm his temper and to smooth his brow; and appeared, on all
occasions, so steady and industrious, that the old man began to feel the
kindest regard towards him, and pointed him out to his daughter's
attention as a pattern for the young men around, and one who would make
a steady and respectable husband. There was at first, however, a
changeableness in his manner towards Ellen that puzzled and surprised
her. At times, he was almost servilely obsequious in his attentions
towards her; at others, when he thought himself unobserved, she was
startled by the malevolent expression of his countenance, and by the
derisive smile that played round his lips, as he gazed upon her. Cummin
noticed the unfavourable impression he was making, and became more
guarded in his behaviour; he redoubled his attentions, and never allowed
a shade of unpleasant feeling to be visible on his brow. His
perseverance had the desired effect of reviving her old partiality, and
in an evil hour she consented to become his wife. The morning after
their wedding, he had disappeared, and had never since been heard of. A
deserted bride, she was left in all the misery of uncertainty respecting
his fate or his intentions, and in utter ignorance to what cause she
could impute the cool contempt with which it appeared he had treated her
from the moment of their union.
But we must return to our friend Richard Goldie. Nothing particular
occurred during the remainder of the voyage of the Briton, until their
arrival in China, where, in consequence of a dispute with the
authorities, the ships were detained for several months, and a year
elapsed before they returned to England. As soon as he had received his
pay, Richard set off for Liverpool, from whence he proceeded by steam to
Annan. When his foot was fairly planted on the soil of Dumfries-shire,
and his face was turned homewards, Richard could not restrain the
exuberance of his spirits. He laughed, he sang, he ran, he waved his
hat, and was guilty of all those extravagances which could only be
excused in a young sailor just let loose; and which, had they been
witnessed by others of a cooler temperament, would have been looked upon
as the freaks of a madman. Then he began to think of Kelton, of his
parents, and of bonny Ellen Grey; and with thoughts of her came a sad
recollection of poor Cummin, and a kind of flattering notion that the
latter had had good cause for his jealousy on the night of their
quarrel, when Ellen, every feature of whose face and every note of whose
voice were vividly present to his memory, smiled so sweetly upon him,
and bid him take care of himself "for a' our sakes."
It was late in the evening when he approached Kelton, on his way
homewards; and he resolved to give the Greys a call as he went past. At
length he saw the well-known cottage, and a flush came over his brow
when he recognised Ellen sitting at the door. He hastened forward to
greet her; but, instead of the friendly reception he had anticipated, he
was surprised and mortified to see her start up with a faint scream, and
avert her eyes, with looks of horror and alarm.
"Ellen!" exclaimed he--"hae ye forgotten me? What gars ye turn awa yer
head, as though ye'd seen a bogle? Am I sae changed, that ye dinna ken
yer auld freend, Richie Goldie?" And he advanced to take her hand. The
girl started from his touch, with a cold shudder, and muttered--
"Is it no gane yet?"
"What is't ye're speakin o', Ellen? There's nought here but yersel and
me? Can ye no speak to me? It sets ye ill to turn the cauld shouther to
an auld freend."
The girl now looked at him for a moment fearfully over her shoulder, and
exclaimed, with a start of joy--
"Oh! I believe it's himsel!"
"Why, wha else did ye tak me for, Ellen?"
"For yer wraith, Richie; they tell't me ye were dead."
"And wha tell't ye sic a lee?"
"He tell't me sae himsel."
"And wha was he?"
"Ned Cummin: he said he saw ye dee."
"Ned Cummin! Why the lassie's head's in a creel. Ned drowned himsel,
puir chiel! in Madras Roads; and mony a sair thocht has it gien me that
we war unfreends when we parted."
"Weel, Richie, a' I ken is, that it's Gude's truth that Ned Cummin
tell't me ye were dead--and I believed him." And the tears gushed from
her eyes as she said so. "But come ben the hoose, and see my faither."
Old Grey was at first as much alarmed as his daughter at the apparition,
as he thought it, of Richard Goldie; for they both were infected with
the superstition of the country, and firmly believed in the doctrine of
wraiths, bogles, and other supernatural appearances.
"And, noo," said the old man, "that we ken that ye're yersel, and no yer
wraith, sit doun and tell us a' that's happened ye sin ye gaed awa."
"I hae nae time 'enow," said Richard; "I maun awa hame; for I haena seen
my ain folk yet--mair's the shame; but I'll come back the morn's morn,
and gie ye my cracks."
"But Richie, my man, hae ye no heard--d'ye no ken?" said the old man,
hesitatingly.
"What's happened?" cried Goldie, alarmed. "Are they no a' weel at hame?"
"They heard ye were dead, Richie: and ye ken, they aye said that ye war
the life o' their hearts--they were never like the same folk again; the
grass o' Caerlav'rock kirkyard is green abune their heads."
Goldie was staggered by this unexpected and distressing intelligence; he
had loved his parents with the fondest affection, and the hope of
cheering and supporting them in their declining years had been the
mainspring of his activity and industry. He covered his face with his
hands, and remained for some moments silent; and at last, with a sudden
outburst of grief, exclaimed--
"Gane! baith gane! and I am left alane without a leevin freend, or a
roof to shelter me!"
"Yese no want either, Richie, as lang's I'm to the fore. Come, bide whar
ye are; ye'll aye be welcome for the sake o' langsyne. I hae aften
wished, and I ance thocht, that oor Ellen and you micht come thegither;
but it wasna to be."
"And what for can it no be?" said Richie, forgetting his recent loss for
the moment, and looking at Ellen. But she burst into tears, and left the
room.
Goldie, surprised at her emotion, asked the reason of it; and the old
man, in explanation, told him the story we have already related, and
expressed his surprise at Cummin's conduct, and his wonder as to what
could be his motive for such deception.
"What for did he tell us ye were dead, Richie?"
"I see it a' noo," said Richard: "when I struck him to the ground, he
swore he would hae revenge--and sair revenge has he taen. My puir
faither and mither! What had they dune?" And the poor fellow hung down
his head, and sobbed aloud.
"But what could hae garred him leave our Ellen?"
"Oh, he kent that I liked Ellen, and jaloused that she thocht mair o' me
than o' himsel; and he just married her to spite me, and to be revenged
upon her for slighting him at first. But there's a time for a' things;
if I get a grip on him, he's repent it."
It was long before Goldie was able to bear up against the disappointment
of all his fondest hopes; and when the first violence of his grief was
past, the springiness and buoyancy of his disposition seemed to have
left him entirely. He became grave and thoughtful, a smile was scarcely
ever seen to brighten his countenance, and he went about his usual
occupations with a sort of dogged indifference, as if it mattered not to
him how they were performed, and as if they were to him a mere
mechanical and tiresome duty. Yet he loved Ellen Grey as fondly as ever;
but she was now, though deserted, the wife of another, and he assumed a
coldness of manner, to conceal the warm feelings which still reigned but
too powerfully in his breast. He was _reserved_, because he felt a kind
of painful pleasure in brooding in silence over his sorrows. In thinking
of his poor parents, and of Ellen Grey, who might have been his wife but
for another, he would mutter threats of retaliation upon the
cold-blooded villain who had caused him so much misery. He would fain
have left a place which, much as he loved it, only kept awake so many
painful recollections, had he not been withheld from doing so by a
strong feeling of gratitude to old Grey, who was now unable to work for
his own subsistence, and depended almost entirely upon him for his daily
support. Ellen herself, who was much liked in the neighbourhood, and
whose story had excited much interest among the neighbouring gentry,
obtained a good deal of employment as a dressmaker, which enabled her
not only to assist in the support of her father, but likewise to procure
many luxuries for him which he otherwise could not have obtained. At
length, after lingering for some months in a state of gradual decay, the
old man died, and Goldie, after having seen Ellen comfortably settled in
a neighbouring family, took an affectionate farewell of her, and went
to Liverpool in search of employment. No accounts had been heard of
Cummin, although nearly two years had elapsed since his disappearance;
and Goldie, who could not forget his love for Ellen Grey, was kept in a
state of most unpleasant uncertainty.
Richard had been for a short time in Liverpool, and was walking one day
on the Clarence Dock, as some carts were being unloaded. The horse in
one of them took fright at some passing object, and dashed off at full
speed. A sailor, who was standing on the dock, ran forward and attempted
to stop it; but was instantly knocked down with great violence, and the
wheel of the cart passed over his head. Richard, who was close to the
spot, hastened to his assistance; and was horrified at the sight that
met his eyes. The poor fellow was senseless; his arm appeared to be
broken, and his face, dreadfully disfigured, was covered with gore and
dust. Richard raised his head on a log of wood lying near, loosened his
collar, and, a crowd instantly collecting, requested some of them to run
for the nearest doctor. He then, with the assistance of some of the
bystanders, conveyed the poor sufferer into one of the houses near,
where he lay for some time panting and groaning; but apparently quite
insensible.
After they had all gone, the wounded man turned to Richard, and, looking
in his face, gave a heavy sigh.
"Are ye in much pain?" said Goldie.
"Pain of mind more than pain of body, Richard Goldie," replied the man,
in feeble and imperfect accents. "Do you not know me?"
"Mercifu powers!" exclaimed Richie; "sure it canna be Ned Cummin?"
"It _is_ Edward Cummin, Richie, your false friend, your once bitter
enemy, that lies bruised, and crushed, and broken-spirited before you.
Can you forgive me?--can you forgive a dying and a penitent man?"
"Ned Cummin," said Richard, "ye hae dune me grievous wrang; but I forgie
ye wi' a' my heart."
"Thanks, dear Richie!--this is more than I deserved. Now I shall die
happy."
"Speak nae mair, Ned; ye heard what the doctor said."
"But I _must_ speak, Richie, while time is mine. Oh, that a few years
were allowed me, to prove my repentance sincere! But I feel that is not
to be. Death is before me, Richie, and I see things in a very different
light now. You were always better than me; you were frank, and open, and
confiding; I was a proud, revengeful hypocrite, and I hated you because
I always _felt_ myself to be one when you were near me. When you struck
me to the earth, the feeling of revenge was aroused within me; but it
was long before I could contrive how to gratify it. At last I thought of
Ellen Grey; I knew you loved her, and I fancied she had deserted me for
you; I determined to be revenged upon you both. I wooed and won, and
then deserted her. But the terrors of an accusing conscience went with
me, and I had resolved to return homewards, when the accident occurred.
Richard, I am dying! Cruel and revengeful as I have been, can you still
forgive me?"
"I do, I do, from my heart," sobbed Richard.
"Bless you for saying so! Now leave me to my own thoughts, that I may
make my peace with Heaven."
Next morning Edward Cummin was no more. Goldie was with him in his last
moments, and was gratified by the conviction that he departed in a happy
frame of mind. After having attended the remains to their last home, he
gave up his intention of going abroad, and turned his steps homeward.
Having arrived, he sought Ellen, and communicated to her the sad news.
His love for her was as strong as ever; and all obstacles to their union
having been removed, they were soon afterwards wedded--a union very
different from the former marriage into which Ellen had been betrayed.
THE DREAM.
The war of reason against the prejudices of superstition has been a long
one. It followed on the heels of the crusades of superstition against
reason. How different the spirit, tactics, and results of the two!
Cruelty, injustice, blood, the burning stake, and an _increase_ of the
strength of the persecuted, on the one side; on the other, argument,
persuasion, and, at the worst, a harmless satire, with the almost _total
extinction_ of the cowardly foe, who, having no refuge but in the dark
recesses of ignorance, required only to be brought to light to suffer
extermination. Auguries and divinations ruled the world for two thousand
years, and were put an end to by the Christian faith, which left
untouched the power of witches, ghosts, and dreams. The first of these,
notwithstanding all the probation of King James, have perished; the
second, maugre the arguments of Johnson, have left this earth; but the
third, which has had a thousand supporters between Artemant Milesius and
Lord Monboddo, still retain some authority in the world. We support them
not; but we subscribe to the opinion of Peter Bayle, who stated, in
reference to the reality of the dream of the Spanish Jesuit, Maldonat,
there are many things appertaining to dreams which have troubled and
perplexed strong spirits more than they have been ever willing to
confess. We are now to add one instance more to those of which the same
author has said the world is almost already full; but we again protest
against the inference of our own belief in oneirology.
About half-way between the towns of Hamilton and Glasgow, there stand,
at the distance of about a quarter-of-a-mile from the highway, and on
the left as you approach the latter place, the remains of what was once
a small farmhouse. It is now long since the last inhabitant left this
little humble domicile, whose handful of ruins would perhaps excite but
little attention from the passer-by, were they not so delightfully and
conspicuously situated. They stand on the very extremity and summit of a
beautiful green promontory, of considerable height, that projects into
and overlooks a lovely strath, skirted with wood, and through which
winds one of the prettiest and best trouting streams in Scotland. The
situation, therefore, of these humble ruins invests them with an
interest which would by no means attach to them, were they situated in a
less romantic locality.
Of the farmhouse of which we speak there now remain only one of the
gables and a portion of the side-walls; but, if your curiosity tempt you
to further investigation, you may still trace the limits of the little
_kail-yard_, which lay immediately behind it; and, struggling for an
obscure existence with the rude bramble, which has now usurped the place
of the homely but civilised vegetation of the little garden, may be seen
a solitary rose, the last and almost only trace of its former
cultivation. The little garden, in short, is now all but obliterated,
and can only be distinguished by the low irregular green mound--once its
wall--that forms the boundary of its limits.
There is nothing in all this, perhaps, to excite any particular
interest; for we have rarely any sympathy for the humble and the lowly.
In the case of such vestiges of bygone days as those alluded to, it is
only the ruined castle, the half-filled moat, and the crumbling walls of
mighty masonry, that excite our curiosity, and set our imagination to
work--not the handful of loose stones that once formed the cottage of
the obscure peasant, not the little rudely-cultivated patch that formed
his Eden. These are by far too commonplace and too undignified to
attract a moment's notice, or to excite a moment's interest. Yet the
cottage has its tale as well as the castle, as we will presently show.
About the year 1760, the farmhouse of which we have spoken was inhabited
by John Edmonstone--a man of excellent character, and who, humble as his
station was, had contrived, in the course of a long life of industry and
economy, to scrape together a very considerable sum of money, besides a
good deal of property invested in stock, such as cattle, grain, farming
implements, &c. The former--namely, the cash--according to the good old
custom of Scotland, amongst John's class, was stowed into a
stocking-foot, which again was stowed into a certain hole in the wall,
known only to the members of the family. But, ignoble and odd as this
depository may seem, it yet contained no inconsiderable treasure, and
that not a whit the worse or less valuable for the homeliness of its
abode. In one end of the stocking aforesaid was a bulbous swelling, as
large as a well-sized fist. This contained a tempting store of bright
and shining guineas, to the number of about, perhaps, 250. These being
at once confined and secured by a string tightly tied round the
stocking, produced the appearance above alluded to. Next followed, but
in the same general depository--namely, the stocking--a huge
conglomeration of crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, to the amount of
about L50 more, which were also secured by a tight ligature--thus
giving, if there had been another link or two to the stocking, something
the appearance of a string of sausages.
At the period of our story, John Edmonstone was a widower, with two
daughters--the one, at this time, about twenty, the other some four or
five years older. They were both unmarried, and lived with their father.
Jane Edmonstone, the younger of the two, was a very pretty and
interesting-looking girl. Her sister Mary did not possess such striking
personal advantages; but this was amply compensated by a pleasant manner
and a kind and gentle disposition. For many years these relatives lived
happily together, in their little, lonely cottage at Braehead. They led
a sober, industrious, and pious life; for, duly as the evening came
round, the "big ha' Bible" was placed on the kitchen-table, and, by the
light of a clean and well-trimmed lamp, aided by the blaze of a cheerful
fire, John read aloud to his daughters from the sacred page. But the
best regulated life must have an end, as well as the most reckless and
abandoned. John was suddenly seized with a mortal illness, of which he
shortly died, leaving his two daughters sole and equal inheritors of his
wealth. The death of their father was a grievous calamity to the two
unprotected girls; for they were without relatives--at least, there were
none near them--though certainly not without those who wished them well,
as they were universally respected in their own neighbourhood, both on
their father's account and their own. Yet did they feel, on the death of
their only parent, a sense of loneliness and of inability to cope with
the world, which at once alarmed and dispirited them, notwithstanding
the considerable resources which their father's industry and economy had
secured to them. Nor did their local situation tend to lessen the former
feeling; for it was a solitary one--the house in which they lived being
at a considerable distance from any other habitation. The neighbourhood
in which they resided, moreover, was a loose one. It was filled with
coal-miners and coal-carters--the latter, in particular, a brutal,
ruffian race; and to all these the poor solitary women believed it to be
well known, as it certainly was to a great many of them, that their
father had left them money, and that it was in the house; and thus, to
their other fears, was added the dread of their dwelling being broken
into, and themselves robbed and murdered.
It was while living in this state of feverish alarm and utter
helplessness--for they found they could not conduct the business of the
farm--and about a fortnight after the death of their father, that Jane,
the youngest of the sisters, suddenly awoke, early in the morning, from
a troubled sleep, and sprang from her bed, in an agony of terror and
affright, exclaiming, as she hurried on her clothes--
"O Mary, Mary! we'll stay here no longer. Not another day--not another
day. I'll go into Glasgow this forenoon, and consult with our uncle
about selling off, and removing into the city. We will not stay here,
Mary, to be robbed and murdered."
"I am as uneasy remaining here as you can be, Jane," replied her sister,
now more than ever alarmed by the latter's wild looks and unusual
excitement; "but what is the meaning of this sudden outcry?"
"It does not matter, it does not matter, Mary," said Jane, in great
agitation, and still hurrying on her clothes; "but I'll go this day to
Glasgow, and consult our uncle." And, without vouchsafing any
explanation of the cause of this sudden determination, so peremptorily
expressed, she shortly afterwards took a hasty breakfast, and, in a few
minutes more, was on the road to Glasgow, a distance of from four to
five miles.