of her mother's, named James Davidson. He was in poor circumstances, and
had been so all his life; and, whether from this or some other cause, he
had never stood high in the favour of his brother-in-law. He was a
hard-featured old man, stern and morose, and without any of that patient
forbearance of disposition and manner which gives to age so pleasing and
amiable a character. Davidson, as we have said, was poor. He had never
been able to improve his circumstances, or to rise above the condition
of a labourer. There he started, and there he was still. Nor did his
eldest son promise to be more fortunate in the world. He inherited his
father's disposition, which was an unhappy one; was idly inclined; and,
somehow or other, could never gain the good-will of any one. Neither
Jane nor Mary Edmonstone had ever seen much of their uncle; their
father's dislike to him prevented this. Neither did they know much about
his circumstances or character; the same cause preventing all
intercourse between the families. They, in short, only knew of their
uncle's existence by his frequent applications to their father for the
loan of money, which he invariably refused. Still, he was their uncle,
and the nearest relative they had, and, in their present circumstances,
they naturally looked on him as the fittest person to consult regarding
their affairs, their wishes and intentions. These Jane now laid before
the old man, who received her kindly, notwithstanding his usual asperity
of manner; telling him, at the same time, that she and her sister were
resolved, at all hazards, and at whatever loss, to sell off at Braehead,
and take up their residence in Glasgow; "for," said she, "we are day and
night in danger of our lives yonder; and besides, we are wholly unable
to conduct our father's business--buying and selling cattle--or to carry
on the affairs of the farm. These are things that we cannot do--and
neither need we, as we have enough to live upon without it. All that we
want is safety."
The old man heard her patiently, and it was some time before he made any
reply. At length he said--
"Yes, enough to live upon, I daresay you have. How much did your father
leave, Jane?--in money, I mean."
"Somewhat about three hundred pounds," replied his niece.
"A good round sum," said the old man, "to be all in hard money. And is
it all past you--all in the house?"
"All."
Davidson thought for a moment. Then--"Well, I'll tell you what it is,
Jane," he said: "I do not at all approve of your leaving Braehead. If
you do so, you throw yourselves at once upon your little capital, which
will not last you very long in a town like this, where all would be
going out, and nothing coming in--and where would you be when it was
exhausted? Now, your byres and farm in the country are a certain source
of emolument to you; and, by keeping these, you will make a decent
maintenance of it, without encroaching on the funds left you by your
father. My advice to you, then, Jane, is, by all means to remain where
you are. Hire persons to do your heavy out-of-door work; and, as the
distance is not great, I will come out myself once or twice a week, and
assist you with both my personal services and advice."
"Thank you, uncle," replied his niece; "but we really cannot remain at
Braehead, on any account. I would not remain in it another week for any
consideration."
"No! what for, Jane? What are you afraid of?" said her uncle.
"Of being murdered," replied Jane; "and I have but too good reason to
fear it."
"Nonsense, Jane. Who would murder you? What ridiculous fears are
these?"'
"But I have a reason, though, for fearing it, uncle," replied his niece,
with emphasis.
"Reason!--what reason can you have but your own idle and absurd fears?"
"Yet I have, though, uncle," said Jane, pertinaciously, but appearing
somewhat confused and embarrassed.
"What do you mean, girl?" said her uncle, fixing his keen grey eye upon
her countenance scrutinisingly; for he observed her embarrassment. "What
_is_ this reason of yours for so unreasonable a fear?"
"Well, uncle, I'll tell you what it is at once," replied Jane: "I had a
most frightful dream last night. I dreamed that a soldier--a tall,
fierce-looking man--broke into our house in the middle of the night,
with a drawn bayonet in his hand; that he murdered my sister before my
eyes--I saw her blood streaming on the floor; and that, having done
this, he seized me by the hair of the head, and was about to plunge his
bayonet into my heart, when I awoke. It was a horrible dream, uncle, and
has made such an impression on me--it was so fearfully true--that I
cannot think of abiding longer in the house. It was this frightful dream
that urged me in to see you to-day. I have not told my sister of it; for
it would put her distracted."
Jane's uncle listened patiently, but with a smile of contemptuous
incredulity, to the strange dream of his niece; and when she had done--
"Pho, pho! what stuff!" he said--"what absurd stuff! How can you be so
silly, girl, as even to speak seriously, let alone putting any faith in
such nonsense as this?"
"I cannot help it," interrupted Jane.
"Well, well--perhaps you cannot," continued Davidson; "but it is not the
less ridiculous for that; and, if it were known, it would certainly get
you laughed at. Pay no attention to such trash, Jane. Think no more of
it; but return to Braehead, and proceed with your usual occupations, and
I will come out in a day or two, to see how you get on."
To this he added the advice which he had already given, and in nearly
the same words, but in vain. Nothing could drive the girl from her
purpose--from her determination to leave Braehead. Finding this--
"Well, then," said her uncle, "at least remain where you are for a day
or two, when I will come out and assist you in your arrangements, and in
the disposal of your effects; you cannot manage these matters
yourselves."
To this proposal Jane yielded a reluctant consent, but repeated her
determination to leave the place as soon as possible, and to come into
Glasgow to reside.
On this understanding, then--namely, that Jane and her sister should
remain at Braehead until their uncle came out--the former returned home,
when she told Mary of all that had passed, excepting what related to
her dream, to which, for the reason she had herself assigned, she
carefully avoided all allusion. By a very strange coincidence,
however--but, though strange, by no means unprecedented--the considerate
caution of Jane, in the particular just spoken of, was soon after
rendered unavailing. On the very next morning, the elder sister awoke,
in an exactly similar state of perturbation with that in which Jane had
arisen on that preceding, exclaiming--
"O Jane, Jane! I have had a frightful dream!"
"What was it, Mary?" inquired her sister, in great alarm, recollecting
her own frightful vision.
"O Jane!" replied the former, still trembling with terror, "I dreamed
that a person in the dress of a soldier broke in at our back-window, and
murdered us both. O God! it was horrible! I think I see you on the floor
there, struggling with your murderer, who held a naked dagger in his
hand, with which he had already stabbed you in several places."
"Gracious God protect us!" exclaimed Jane, leaping to the floor, in a
state of alarm exceeding even that of her sister. "This is dreadful! Oh,
these are fearful warnings! It can no longer be doubted--it can no
longer be doubted! O Mary, Mary! I dreamed precisely the same thing last
night; and it was that, though I did not tell you, that hurried me in to
our uncle yesterday. I told him of my dream; but he treated it with
contempt. He will surely now acknowledge that it is a warning not to be
slighted."
We need not interrupt our narrative at this point, by stopping to
describe further Jane's feelings on hearing of this strange and
appalling repetition of her own frightful vision. These feelings were
dreadful. She grew pale as death, and shook like an aspen leaf. On their
first terrors subsiding a little, the two sisters began to consult as to
what they should do, to avoid the horrible fate with which they now had
no doubt they were threatened; and finally resolved that, if their uncle
did not appear on that day--or, indeed, whether he appeared or not--they
would, on the next, remove to Glasgow, taking with them all their ready
money, and whatever other things they could conveniently remove, and
leave the rest, for a time, under the charge of a neighbouring farmer,
who had been an intimate friend of their father's. They, in short,
resolved that, in any event, they would remain only one other night at
Braehead.
Before proceeding further with our story, we would beg the reader to
observe, that the circumstances we are now relating occurred in the year
1760, in the month of January. It was a winter of great severity, and
remarkable for the amazing quantity of snow that fell; but one of the
wildest days of that wild season was the 21st day of the month above
named. It was the same day in which the scene between the two sisters
which we have just related occurred.
The storm, bearing huge drifts of snow on its wings, which had been
raging all day, increased as night approached; and, when darkness had
fallen upon the earth, it became tremendous. The trees around the little
cottage of Braehead bent before the wind like willow wands; and loud and
wild, nay, even appalling, was the rushing sound of the storm amongst
the leafless branches. The snow, too, was whirling all around, in
immense dense masses, and overwhelming every object whose height they
surpassed in their cumbrous layers of white. It was in truth a fearful
night, and such a one as no person long exposed to it could possibly
have survived. Dreadful in particular to the lonely traveller, who was
seeking a distant refuge, and whose urgencies required that he should do
battle with the storm; and many a harrowing tale was afterwards told of
the shepherd and wayfarer who had perished in the terrible night of the
21st of January, 1760.
While the tempest is thus howling about the little lonely cottage of
Braehead, and the huge wreaths of snow are blocking up door and window,
what are its two solitary inmates about? There they are, the two
unprotected women--all their previous fears increased tenfold by the
awful sounds without, and their sense of loneliness and helplessness
deepened into unendurable intensity. There they are, we say, sitting by
their fire, pale and trembling, one on each side of the chimney--for
they are afraid to go to bed--listening in silent awe to the raging of
the storm.
It was only at long intervals that the two sisters exchanged words on
this dreary night, and then it was little more than a brief exclamation
or remark, excited by some sudden and violent gust that swept over their
little cottage, or roared amongst the trees with a fury exceeding the
general tenor of the storm. To bed they could not think of going. They
therefore continued by the fire, where they sat almost without moving
for many hours.
It was now late, perhaps about twelve o'clock, and the storm was at its
height, when the fears of the two lonely sisters were suddenly wrought
up to a horrible climax, by a loud rapping at the door, which, again,
was instantly followed by the sound of a voice imploring admittance. In
the first moment of alarm, the women leaped from their seats and flew to
different corners of the apartment, screaming hideously, having no doubt
that their fatal dream was now about to be realised. From this terror,
however, they were gradually in some measure relieved by the
supplicatory language and tones of the person seeking admittance.
"For God's sake, open the door!" he said--for it was the voice of a
man--"or I must perish. I have already travelled fifteen miles in the
storm, and am now so benumbed and exhausted that I cannot move another
step. Open the door, I say, if you have the smallest spark of humanity
in you, and give me shelter till daylight."
Somewhat reassured by these appeals, which had in them so little of a
hostile character, and to which circumstances gave so truthful a
complexion, Jane, the younger of the two sisters, asked the elder, in a
low voice, what they should do. "Shall we admit him?" she said; "for it
really seems to be a person in distress, and it would be cruel to refuse
him shelter in such a night as this. We could never forgive ourselves,
Mary, if the poor man should perish in the storm."
"It is true, Jane," replied her sister--"we could not indeed. We will
admit him, and trust the result to God. He will not allow a deed of
charity and benevolence to be turned into an instrument of crime."
Saying this, Mary approached the door, and, placing her hand on the bar,
put one other query ere she undid it. "Are you," she said, addressing
the person without--"are you really in the situation you represent
yourself to be?"
"Before God, I am!" replied the voice from without, emphatically. "Admit
me for heaven's sake! You have nothing to fear from me."
In the next instant the bolt was withdrawn, the door flew open, and in
walked a man in the garb of a soldier. The brass plate on his cap
glittered in the light of the lamp held by the younger sister, who stood
at some distance from the door, and from beneath the greatcoat he wore
peeped the dreaded red livery of the king. One fearful and simultaneous
shriek from the sisters, as they fled frantically into the interior of
the house, told of this horrid realisation of their dreams. The soldier,
in the meantime, walked into the kitchen; but any one who should at this
instant have marked his countenance, would have seen very little in it
to indicate the fell purpose for which there seemed good reason to fear
he had come. He was, in truth, a young, handsome, and singularly
good-looking man, with a face expressive of great good-nature and
mildness of disposition. Little regarding these indications of a
character so different from that which occupied their minds, the
sisters continued to express their horror and alarm in wild shrieks, and
in the most piteous appeals for mercy. On their bent knees they implored
it; offering all they had, if their lives were only spared. The soldier,
benumbed and exhausted though he was, seemed to forget his own
sufferings in contemplating what he appeared to consider as a most
extraordinary and unaccountable scene--the terrified sisters on their
knees, imploring his mercy.
"Good women," he at length said, "what is the meaning of this? What are
you afraid of? Is there anything in my appearance so dreadful as to
excite this extraordinary alarm? If there be, I never knew it before;
and am very sorry to find it out now. I am sure I intend you no
harm--none in the world. God forbid I should! I am but too grateful to
you for having opened your door to me; and but too happy to get near
this cheerful fire."
Again somewhat calmed by these friendly expressions, so different from
what they had expected, the sisters ceased their frantic cries for
mercy; and, though yet far from being reconciled to their tremendous
visiter, they became a little more composed when the soldier, perceiving
the effects of his disclamations, followed them up by repeated
assurances of the perfect innocence of his intentions, and of the
perfectly accidental and harmless nature of his visit. These
asseverations, delivered, as they were, in a mild and conciliatory tone,
eventually induced the sisters not only to look with less alarm on their
unwelcome guest, but to desire him to take a seat by the fire. We will
not say, however, that this act of kindness was dictated by pure
benevolence. We will not say that it was not done more with a view to
disarm their still dreaded visiter of any hostile intentions he might
entertain towards them, than from any feeling of compassion. Be this as
it may, however, the soldier, after throwing off his snow-covered
greatcoat, gladly availed himself of the invitation of his hostesses,
and sat him down before the fire.
"Now, my good friends," he said, after having warmed himself a little,
and having still further abated the terrors of the sisters by more kind
and gentle words, "will you be so good as tell me why you were so much
afraid of me when I first entered the house?--for I cannot understand
it--seeing that you yourselves opened the door, and of your own accord,
and must, therefore, have been prepared to see somebody or other. Was it
my cap and red coat that frightened you so? Come, tell me now,
candidly."
The sisters looked to each other with a faint smile, and an air of
embarrassment; but with an expression of inquiry which said as plainly
as an unspoken expression could say it--"Shall we tell him?"
Their guest perceived their difficulty, and saw very clearly that there
was something to explain--something that they did not altogether like to
avow. Observing this--
"Come, now, out with it!" he said, laughingly, "and, depend upon it, I
shall not be the least offended, however uncomplimentary it may be to
myself."
"Well, then," said the younger sister, "I _will_ tell you. Both my
sister and I dreamed very lately, that a soldier came into this house
here, as you have done, and murdered us. We both dreamed the same dream
at different times, and without its being previously known to either of
us. Now, you'll allow that there was little wonder that we should have
been so much alarmed at your appearance."
"Odd enough," said the soldier, laughing; "but, in my opinion, very
particular nonsense. Had you dreamed of a soldier coming to court you,
it would have been a much more likely thing, and you would have had a
better chance of seeing it realised, I should think, than that he should
have come to murder you."
"But why were you abroad in such a night as this, and at such an hour?"
inquired the elder sister, whose fears, as well as those of Jane, were
by no means entirely allayed by this familiarity. "Where were you going
to, and whence came you?"
"Why, I'll tell you all about that, mistress," replied the soldier,
"when I have filled this pipe." And he proceeded to the operation of
which he spoke. When he had done, and had expirated a whiff or two--Now,
I'll tell you (he said) how it happens that I am out in such an infernal
night as this. Depend upon it, it was not with my will. I belong to the
50th Regiment, now stationed in Glasgow, and have been absent on
furlough, seeing my poor old mother in the south country, where she
resides. I had not seen her, poor soul! for several years; and as she
was unwilling to part with me again, I was obliged to stay with her to
the last moment of my time. My furlough expired yesterday, and I was
anxious to get on to quarters before it was out; for we have got a devil
of a fellow in our commanding officer: and this is the reason why I was
so late upon the road in such a night. I wanted to save my distance, and
avoid a bothering. But it wouldn't do--I was obliged to knock under.
I found my poor mother (went on the soldier) in much better
circumstances than I expected to find her; for my father left her in
great poverty and with a large family; but a rather curious occurrence
gave her a lift in the world, in her own humble way, about a couple of
years ago, of which she still reaps the benefit. Mother, you see, is a
very pious woman, and she attributes it all to Providence, saying that
it was the Divine interference in her behalf. However this may be, it
was a very simple affair, and all natural enough.
In mother's neighbourhood, you see--she lives in a remote parish in the
south of Scotland--there resides a fellow of the name of Tweedie--Tom
Tweedie. Tom is a cattle-dealer to business, and is well to pass in the
world--a lively, active, bustling little scamp he is, and extremely fond
of a practical joke, in which he often indulges at the expense of his
neighbours. Amongst those who suffer most severely by his waggery is a
good-natured man of the name of Brydon--Peter Brydon, a farmer who lives
close by him--that is, at the distance of about a mile or so. Well, on
this person, who is his favourite butt, Tweedie has played innumerable
tricks--all, indeed, of a harmless character, but some of them
sufficiently annoying. Either from want of opportunity, or what is more
likely, from want of genius, Peter never could accomplish any
retaliation--a circumstance which tended greatly to increase the fever
of agitation in which Tweedie's superior dexterity and ingenuity in the
way of practical joking constantly kept him. At length, however, chance
threw in Peter's way what he considered an excellent opportunity of
annoying his mischievous neighbour in turn.
Passing the gable of Tweedie's house one morning, pretty early, on
horseback (the road he was travelling led close by it), Peter saw a huge
wooden dish of oat-meal porridge smoking on the top of the wall of the
house-yard. It was intended for the breakfast of the family, and had
been put out there to cool. On seeing the dish of porridge, Peter,
struck with a bright idea, instantly drew bridle, and, after
contemplating it for an instant, rode up to it, and having previously
looked carefully around him to see that nobody marked his motions, he
lifted the dish from its place, porridge and all, placed it before him
on the saddle, brought his plaid over it so as to conceal it, and rode
off rejoicing with his prize. Well, you see, it happens that my mother's
house lies close by the road on which he had to travel, and at the
distance of about a mile from the place where the robbery had been
committed. Now, it struck Peter that he could not do better than leave
the dish of porridge there, where he knew there was a houseful of
children, who would clear all out in a twinkling; but he did not
know--for my mother had carefully concealed her poverty from her
neighbours--how seasonable would be the supply which he now proposed to
bring them. On that morning, the children had no breakfast of their own
to take. There was not a morsel in the house to give them. Having made
up his mind as to the disposal of the dish of porridge, Peter made
directly up to my mother's door, and, without dismounting, rapped with
the butt-end of his whip. My mother came out.
"Here," said Peter, handing down the stolen mess; "here's a dish of
porridge I have brought for the children's breakfast."
"Porridge!" exclaimed my mother, in amazement, and at the same time
blushing deeply, from a conviction that her poverty had been detected,
"how, in all the world, came you to think of bringing porridge to me, Mr
Brydon?"
This was a question which Peter had but little inclination to answer. He
therefore waived it.
"Hoot, hoot, guidwife," he replied, "what does that signify? There they
are--that's enough--and a capital mess, I warrant ye, your young anes
will find them. So let them fa' to wark as fast's they like, and muckle
guid may't do them! It'll save you the trouble, at ony rate, guidwife,
of making a breakfast of your own."
My mother having now no doubt that her neighbour knew of her destitute
condition--of which, however, he, in reality, knew nothing--and that his
gift was one of pure benevolence, rising the corner of her apron to her
eyes, thanked him with such expressions of humble gratitude as gave him
full information regarding what she thought he already knew--her
straitened circumstances. Peter made no remark, at the time, on my
mother's confession of poverty, and said little or nothing in reply to
what she addressed to him, but rode on his way.
Well, it happened that, on this very day, my mother went to Tweedie's
house with some yarn she had been spinning for his wife, who
occasionally employed her in that way, when the latter, amongst other
things, informed her of the robbery of the porridge; adding, however,
that she cared little about the mess, and only regretted the loss of her
dish, which, she said, was an excellent one of its kind.
"If they would only bring me the basin back," she said, "they are
welcome, whoever took it, to its contents."
The blood rushed to my mother's face. She remained for some moments in
silent confusion; but at length said--her face as red as crimson--
"Mrs. Tweedie, your dish is safe; it is in my house, but the porridge is
gone."
"In your house, Mrs. Johnston!" (that is my mother's name)--"my basin in
your house! How does that happen?" replied Mrs. Tweedie, with a look of
surprise, and something like displeasure.
My mother detailed the circumstances as already related; and, thinking
herself compelled to acknowledge her poverty, as an apology for having
made use of the porridge, she fairly stated her condition; saying,
amongst other things, that when it came she had not a morsel in the
house.
Mrs. Tweedie rated my mother for not having told her before of her
situation, and concluded by promising that neither she nor her children
should ever again want a meal as long as she had one to give them; and
she instantly loaded her with as many potatoes as she could carry home.
Her husband, who was present on this occasion, enjoyed the joke
exceedingly, and gave the chosen victim of his own wit, Brydon, great
credit for his trick. He further expressed himself highly pleased that
the latter had taken the dish of porridge to my mother, seeing that she
stood so much in need of them. To make a long story short (added the
soldier), both Tweedie and Brydon, who were good kind-hearted men, from
this moment that my mother's necessities were thus so strangely made
known to them, took her under their especial patronage.
On the following day, Brydon sent her as much meal and potatoes as
lasted her a month; each of them took one of my brothers into their
service; their wives gave her as much spinning as she could execute; and
a complement of provisions, sometimes of one kind and sometimes of
another, has been sent her alternately and regularly ever since by the
two benevolent jokers. From that day to this, old mother, has never been
in want; and when speaking of the occurrence says, that the day on which
Peter Brydon brought the dish of stolen porridge to her door was the
luckiest in her life.