matter of his little tale and his manner of telling it tended
considerably to calm the apprehensions of his hostesses, and to disabuse
them, in spite of their dream, of much of the unfavourable opinion they
had entertained of his intentions. Still, however, they felt by no means
secure, and would even yet have readily given the half, perhaps the
whole, of the money in the house, to have been quit of him. Nor were the
fears that yet remained lessened by their having discovered, which they
had not done for some time after he had entered, that he wore his
bayonet by his side. On this formidable weapon the two poor women looked
with inexpressible horror; having a strong feeling of apprehension that
it was the dreadful instrument by which their destruction was to be
accomplished and their dream fulfiled. Now, too, the sisters detected
the fellow occasionally glancing around the house, with a most
suspicious look, as if calculating on future operations. He now, also,
began to put questions that greatly alarmed them--such as, Was there
nobody in the house but themselves? How far distant was the nearest
house? and guessing, with an apparently assumed air of jocularity, that
their father (they had informed him of his death) had left them a good
round sum in some corner or other? In short, his behaviour altogether
began again to grow extremely suspicious; and, perceiving this, the
sisters' fears returned with all their original force.
In the meantime, the storm without, so far from abating, had increased;
the dreary, rushing sound of the trees became fiercer and louder, and
the fitful gusts of wind more frequent and furious. It was now about one
o'clock of the morning, when, actuated by the same motives which had
induced them to ask their terrible guest to sit by the fire--namely, to
disarm him, by kindness, of any evil design he might entertain towards
them--the sisters now offered the soldier some refreshment. He gladly
accepted the offer. Food was placed before him, and he ate heartily.
When he had done, one of the sisters told him that there was a spare bed
in a closet to which she pointed, and that he might go to it if he
chose. With this offer he also gladly closed, and immediately retired.
The sisters, well pleased to have got their guest thus disposed
of--thinking it something like a sign of harmless intention on his
part--determined to sit themselves by the fire throughout the remainder
of the night. They were, then, thus sitting, and it might be about one
hour after the soldier had retired, listening with feverish watchfulness
to every sound, when they suddenly heard a noise as if of some one
forcing the door. At first the poor horrified women thought it was some
unusual sound produced by the storm, but, on listening again, there was
no doubt of the appalling fact. They heard distinctly the working of an
iron instrument, and the creaking of the door from its pressure. The
wretched women leaped from their seats, and again their wild shrieks
were heard rising above the noise of the tempest without. Awakened by
their alarming cries--for he had been fast asleep--the soldier started
from his bed, calling out, as he hurried on his clothes--
"What the devil is the matter now! By heaven! you are all mad."
"Oh, you know but too well what is the matter," replied one of the
sisters, in a voice faint and almost inarticulate with excessive
terror--"you know but too well what is the matter. These are some of the
other murderers of your gang forcing open the door. O God! in mercy
receive our souls!"
"My gang forcing the door! What the devil do you mean?" replied the
soldier, emerging from the closet. Then, after an instant--"By heaven!
it is so far true. There is some one breaking in, sure enough."
Saying this, he drew his bayonet, and ran to the door; but, ere he
gained it, it was forced open, and two men were in the act of entering,
one behind the other. On seeing the soldier, the foremost presented a
pistol to his head, and drew the trigger; but a click of the lock was
the only result. It missed fire. In the next instant the soldier's
bayonet was through the ruffian's body, and he fell, when he who was
behind him immediately fled. The soldier pursued him, but, after running
several hundred yards, gave up the chase as hopeless, and returned to
the house, where he found, to his great surprise, that the man whom he
had stabbed, and whom he thought he had killed outright, had
disappeared, and was nowhere to be seen.
On entering the house--"Well, my good women," said the soldier, "are you
now satisfied of the sincerity of my intentions towards you? Why, I
think I have saved your lives, in place of taking them."
"You have! you have!" exclaimed both the sisters at once. "And oh how
thankful are we to God, who alone could have sent you here to protect us
on this dreadful night!"
"It certainly was as well for you that I was here," replied the soldier,
modestly; "but have you any idea of who the villains could be?"
"None in the least," said the younger sister; "but this neighbourhood is
filled with bad characters, and we have no doubt it was some of
them--for all of them know, we believe, that our father left us a little
money. We have alwas dreaded this."
"In that case," said the soldier, "I would advise you to leave this
directly, and go to some place of greater safety."
The sisters told him that they had, for some time, meant to do so, and
that they intended going to Glasgow to reside.
What subsequently passed, on this eventful night, between the sisters
and their gallant protector, we will detail as briefly as we can, in
order to get at a more interesting part of our story. Having again
secured the door, the soldier sat with his hostesses by the fire till
daylight, when, having previously partaken of a plentiful breakfast, he
prepared to take the road. Just as he was about to leave the house, the
youngest sister approached him, and, after again expressing her
gratitude for the protection he had afforded them, slipped ten guineas
into his hand. The soldier looked at the glittering coins for an
instant, with a significant smile, and laying them down on a table that
stood by--
"Not a farthing," he said--"not a farthing shill I take. I consider
myself sufficiently paid by the shelter you afforded me. I was bound to
protect you while under your roof. By admitting me last night you saved
my live--and I have saved yours; so accounts are clear between us. This,
at any rate," he added laughingly, "will balance them." And,
soldier-like, he flung his arms around Jane's neck, and, ere she was
aware, had robbed her of half-a-dozen hearty kisses.
This theft committed, he ran out of the door; but was almost immediately
after called back again by the elder sister, who, on his return,
informed him, that, as Jane intended going into Glasgow on that day, to
inform her uncle of what had happened, and to make arrangements for
their instant removal from Braehead, she thought her sister could not do
better than avail herself of his company to the city, and go in with him
just now. "Besides," she said, "I should like you to see our uncle, if
you would be so good as take a step that length with Jane, as you will
be able to give a better account of the occurrences of last night than
she can, and may better convince him of the necessity of our leaving
this instantly. Indeed, I do not know if he would believe our story at
all of being attacked last night, unless you were to corroberate it. He
would think it was just an invention to get away, as he knows of our
anxiety to leave this."
The soldier was delighted with the proposal, and did not attempt to
conceal the satisfaction he felt at having Jane, who, as we have already
said, was a very pretty girl, for a companion into the city.
In a few minutes Jane was prepared for the journey, and in a very few
more she and the young soldier were upon the road; and, as the storm had
now entirely subsided, they got on without much difficulty. What
conversation passed between them on this occasion, we know not, and can
only conjecture from the result, which will be shortly laid before the
reader. That it was of a description, however, very agreeable to both,
there can be no doubt.
In the meantime, our business is to follow them into Glasgow, where they
arrive in little more than a couple of hours.
On reaching her uncle's with her companion, Jane was greatly
disappointed and rather surprised, to learn from one of her little
cousins--its mother being out of the way at the moment--that Davidson
was not at home, that he had gone to the country on the previous night,
and had not yet returned.
"Then where's your brother;" inquired Jane.
"He's gone to the country, too," said the child.
"Is he with your father?"
"Yes."
"Did he go last night also?"
"Yes."
"And don't you know where they went to, or when they will be home?"
The child could not tell.
At this moment the mother of the child came in, and at once accounted
for the absence of her husband and son, by saying that they had got work
at a distance of some miles from the town, naming the place, and that
she expected them home that day, although she could not say when.
As the days were short, and her uncle's return uncertain, Jane resolved
on going straight home again, and proposing to her sister that they
should, for that night, at any rate, remove, taking all their money
along with them, to the friend of their father's already alluded to,
whose name was Anderson. And this step the sisters accordingly took.
Leaving them thus disposed of for a short time, we shall return to their
uncle's house in Glasgow; and, by doing so, we shall find there some
things of a very extraordinary character occurring. Shortly after Jane
had left her uncle's that person came home, but he returned a very
different man from what he had set out. Strong, hale, and erect, though
somewhat stricken in years, when he went away he now appeared, as he
approached his own house, ghastly pale, bent nearly double, and
dreadfully weak and exhausted. He seemed, in short, to be suffering from
some excruciating pain. He could hardly get along without supporting
himself by the walls of the houses he passed. On entering his own house,
he went directly to bed, without speaking to any one, further than
telling his wife that he was very ill--that he had received a severe
injury by falling down amongst some loose timber, a pointed piece of
which, he said, had penetrated his chest. His wife, in great alarm,
proposed sending instantly for a surgeon; but this the wounded man would
by no means allow--saying that his wound, though painful, was not, he
thought, very serious, and that he had no doubt he would soon recover. A
few hours afterwards, however, finding himself getting much worse, he
not only allowed, but desired, that a surgeon should be sent for. One
was immediately procured. On examining the wound, he inquired of
Davidson how he had met with it. He was told, in reply, the same story
which we have just related.
"That cannot be true," said the surgeon. "Your wound has not been
inflicted by a splinter of wood, but by a sharp three-edged instrument.
It is a clean wound, and has all the appearance of having been inflicted
with a bayonet or some such weapon. Indeed I feel quite assured of this,
whatever may be your motives for concealing it."
Davidson repeated his asseverations of having come by his injury by
falling on a pointed piece of wood.
"Well, well, sir, my business is not how or by what means your wound has
been inflicted, but how it is to be cured," (During this time he was
examining the injury.) "But I fear," he added, "it is beyond my skill,
or that of any other human being. Your wound, I have every reason to
think, is mortal."
"Do you think so?" said the patient with great calmness and composure.
"I certainly do," replied the surgeon, "and I think it my duty to tell
you, that, if you have any worldly affairs to settle, the sooner you set
about it the better."
The patient made no reply for some time, but seemed absorbed in thought.
At length he said--
"Could you, sir, procure me a visit from a clergyman? I know none
myself, and it may be of consequence that I should see one. I have
something of importance to communicate."
The surgeon readily undertook to bring such a person as the dying man
desired to see, and immediately departed for that purpose, having
previously promised, at the earnest request of the sufferer himself,
that he would return along with him. "I wish to have you both together,"
he said, "It will be better that there are two."
In less than half-an-hour after, the surgeon returned with one of the
clergymen of the city. The moment they entered, Davidson requested the
former to shut the door, and to see that it was properly secured. This
done, he requested them to draw near him, when he began, in a low voice,
the astounding confession that it was he who had attempted to break into
the house of his nieces, and that it was he whom the soldier had stabbed
on that occasion. All this, indeed, the surgeon had previously
suspected; for he had heard of the attempted robbery, and of one of the
ruffians having been stabbed with a bayonet by a soldier; but did not,
till now, know anything of the relationship of the parties. Thus much
the dying man confessed; but he would not say, though pressed to tell,
who was his associate in the crime. This person, however, was
subsequently ascertained, beyond all doubt, to have been his son, as he
never came home, nor was ever afterwards seen or heard of by any one who
knew him. Having made this confession, the wretched man expired, and
that even before one word of intercession could be offered up in his
behalf by the attending clergyman.
Having brought this incident to a close, we return to the two sisters,
who were now residing with their father's friend, Anderson. This worthy
man now took an active interest in their affairs; and, approving of
their original intention of removing to Glasgow, did all he could to
further their views in this respect, by selling off the cattle, farming
utensils, &c., and stock of every kind.
Some days after their settlement in Glasgow, their friend Anderson
called on them, and remarked, in the course of conversation with them,
that he thought, now that they were all snug and safe, something ought
to be done for the soldier to whom they owed, not only a great part of
their little fortune, but in all probability their lives. At this moment
the young soldier entered. During the conversation that followed, Mr.
Anderson discovered that the young man would willingly be quit of the
army. This discovery he kept in recollection; and, when the soldier left
them, he proposed to the sisters to purchase his discharge, and to do so
without his knowledge. This was accordingly done on the very next day;
and in three weeks afterwards, Henry Johnston (which was the young
soldier's name), and Jane Edmonston were united in the bands of holy
wedlock. The former, whose dislike of the army, it subsequently
appeared, applied only to its subordinate situation--more definitely
speaking, to the condition of a private--soon after purchased a
lieutenant's commission with part of his wife's money, and finally died
a lieutenant-colonel, leaving behind him the reputation of a good man
and a gallant soldier.
END OF VOL. XIII