is a warrant out against you, or at least that there will be one out
immediately; so, for God's sake, rise, and let us see whether we cannot
find a hiding-place for you." I then hastily mentioned to him the
grounds of my suspicions of such being the case. While I was speaking,
the unhappy man looked at me with an expression of extreme surprise, and
as if he did not at all comprehend what I meant. In truth, neither he
did; for he had at the moment no recollection whatever of the dreadful
deed he had perpetrated--a circumstance which left no doubt of his
having been greatly under the influence of liquor when it was done,
although I did not at the time think so. By degrees, however, the
horrible truth flashed upon him; and the painful realities of the
preceding night stood before him. His, however, was a stout heart. His
firm nerves shook not under the pressure of the dreadful circumstances
in which he was placed. He made no remarks on my communication, but
immediately rose, and put on his clothes; and this he did with a
coolness and deliberation that both amazed and irritated me; for I was
afraid that the officers of justice would be in upon us every moment.
Having at length dressed, we both sallied out, although I did not at all
know which direction I should recommend my unfortunate friend to take;
neither had he himself any idea whither he should go. We, however,
proceeded down the street in which he lived; and, just as we were about
turning the corner at the foot, happening to look round, we saw the
officers in the act of entering the street at the opposite end. At this
alarming sight, we of course quickened our pace, although we calculated
that some time would be gained by the search to which we did not doubt
the officers would subject the house in which M'Intyre lived. I could
not but admire the coolness and presence of mind which my unfortunate
friend exhibited under these trying circumstances, although I certainly
could have wished the exhibition made in a better cause, and on a more
honourable occasion. In his manner there was not the least flurry nor
agitation. He remained perfectly calm and collected, although an
ignominious death was now staring him in the face. After we had
proceeded a little way, M'Intyre suddenly stopped, and, addressing me,
remarked that my accompanying him could serve no good end, but rather
increase the difficulty of his escape, and that therefore I had better
leave him. To the propriety of this remark I could not but subscribe;
and I therefore, though reluctantly--for, notwithstanding the rash and
indefensible act he had committed, I could not forget the character
which my unfortunate friend had formerly borne, which was that of an
honest, honourable, and warmhearted man--agreed to leave him. Before we
parted, he told me that he now recollected that, previously to his
returning to his lodgings, after he had stabbed Sommerville, he had gone
down to the Clyde, and tossed the fatal weapon with which he had done
the deed as far as he could throw it into the river; but whether this
was merely a precautionary measure, to break at least one link in the
chain of evidence, or the result of a feeling of horror at what he had
done, he did not explain; but my impression was, that it was the latter.
Having agreed in the propriety of my friend's remark as to the
additional danger to which my accompanying him further would expose him,
we parted--I to return to my lodgings, and he to seek shelter where he
might, for he had not at the moment the smallest idea whither he should
direct his steps.
For about ten days after this, I heard nothing of my unhappy friend;
but, at the end of that period, I learned that he had been apprehended,
and was then in Glasgow Jail. This intelligence was subsequently
confirmed by a note from himself, which I received, intimating his
apprehension, and requesting me to call upon him. With this request I
complied, and found my unfortunate friend in the dreadful circumstances
of an imprisoned criminal. He was, however, still calm and collected;
and appeared perfectly resigned to the fate which, he had not the
smallest doubt, awaited him--namely, that he should die upon the
scaffold; and, indeed, no reasonable man could have expected any other
issue; nor could it be denied that he deserved it. Our interview was
short, as it was necessarily carried on in the presence of a turnkey,
and therefore confined to merely general topics. The unhappy man
himself, besides, showed no disposition to prolong it; and, observing
this, I withdrew, after obtaining his promise to apply to me for
anything he might want, and for any service it might be in my power to
render him.
About three weeks after this, while I was at breakfast one morning, my
landlady came into my room, to inform me that there was a young woman at
the door who wished to speak with me. I desired her to be shown in. She
entered; and a more interesting-looking girl I have rarely seen. She
appeared to me about one-and-twenty years of age, and was extremely
graceful, both in person and manner. The latter, indeed, bespoke a much
more elevated condition than her dress--which was that of a domestic
servant--seemed to indicate. Her style of language, too, discovered the
same contradiction to appearances.
Curtseying as she entered, and blushing as she spoke--"You are, sir, I
believe," said she "a friend of poor M'Intyre's, just now in Glasgow
Jail, for--for----" And here her emotion prevented her further
utterance.
"I was," replied I, interposing to save her feelings, which I saw were
painfully excited, "and I still am, his friend. Would to God I had some
way of showing him, in his misfortune, how sincerely I am so!"
This I said with a degree of earnestness and fervour that seemed to make
a strong impression on my fair, but mysterious visiter. She became pale
and agitated, and I thought I could even discover a tear glittering in
her eye. When this momentary emotion had passed away--
"Then," she said, "I need not hesitate to trust you with a secret." And
she glanced towards the door, to see that it was shut. "This night," she
resumed, "M'Intyre will escape from prison."
"Escape!--how?--by what means?" I exclaimed, in amazement.
"By mine," she replied, calmly.
"By yours!" I said, with increased astonishment.
"Yes, sir, by mine. This night at twelve o'clock he will be without the
prison walls, and at liberty, and you must then do him the last service
he is ever likely to require at your hands. You will have a chaise
waiting at the hour I have mentioned, at the first mile-stone on the
Greenock road. Will you do this, and save the life of your unfortunate
friend?"
Although a good deal confused by the suddenness and singularity of the
whole affair, I, without a moment's hesitation or reflection, replied
that I would; and, having made this promise, I asked my visiter if she
would further confide in me, by telling me all the particulars connected
with the proposed escape of my friend.
"Not now--not now," she said, gathering a tartan plaid, which she wore,
round her, as if to depart; "but you will probably learn all afterwards.
In the meantime, farewell! and, as you would have a friend do to you in
similar circumstances, so do you to your friend. Be faithful to your
promise."
And, ere I could make any further remark, or put any other question, she
hurried out of the apartment, hastily opened the street door, rushed
out, and disappeared.
Interrupting this personal narrative for a time, we will shift the
scene, on the eventful night in question--eventful, at least, to the
unfortunate subject of our story--to the house of the jailer in whose
custody he was; and here we shall find, in the capacity of a domestic
servant, a young woman, bearing a very striking resemblance to her who
visited M'Intyre's friend, as above described. Indeed, there can be no
doubt that they are the same. It was the jailer's custom, at this time,
to make the rounds of the prison precisely at nine o'clock every night,
to see that all was secure; and when this survey was completed, to carry
all the keys with him to his own house, which was included in the
general building, and had interior communication with that portion of it
where prisoners were confined. On bringing up the keys, as usual, on the
night of which we are speaking, the jailer gave them in charge to his
wife, as he was invited out to join a party of friends on some occasion
of merry-making--a circumstance which had been previously known to his
family, and, amongst the rest, to the servant girl a short while since
alluded to. Having received the keys from her husband, the jailer's wife
carried them to her own bedroom for greater safety, and there deposited
them in a drawer. In less than two hours after, this drawer was
secretly visited by the young woman just spoken of, and a particular key
carefully selected, detached from the rest, and transferred from the
drawer in which it had lain into her pocket, when she withdrew with her
prize. Shortly after this, the jailer returned, and retired to bed. When
the whole was still, the purloiner of the key might have been seen
stealing, with cautious steps, down the staircase that led into the
principal passage of the prison, where were stationed two turnkeys--one
at the outer door, and one at the inner. Advancing to the former--
"James," said the girl, "Mr Simpson" (the name of the jailer) "desires
to see you up-stairs immediately. Go to the little parlour, and wait for
him there, and he'll come to you directly."
"Lassie," said the man, "I canna leave the door richtly; but if he wants
me, I suppose I maun gang."
"I'll keep the key till you return," said the former, "and tell Andrew"
(meaning the inner turnkey) "to look after the door till you return,
James."
"Ay, do, like a dear," replied the unsuspecting turnkey, handing her the
key, and hastening away to attend the call of his superior.
On his departure, the girl went, as she had promised, to the other
turnkey; but it was to deliver a very different message from that she
had undertaken. To him, in truth, she made precisely the same
communication as she had done to his neighbour, with a difference of
destination--him she directed to wait his master in the kitchen. This
guardian, trusting in the vigilance of him of the outer door, of whose
absence he was unaware, made no difficulty whatever of obeying, but
instantly ascended to the jailer's kitchen, where he patiently awaited
the appearance of his superior. Having thus disposed of the two
turnkeys, the girl now, with a beating heart, flew to the door of the
apartment in which M'Intyre was confined, applied the key to the lock,
turned its huge bolt, and the way was clear.
"Angus M'Intyre," she said, on flinging up the door, "come forth, come
forth, and fly instantly for your life! There are none to oppose you."
"In the name of God, who are you?" said M'Intyre, instinctively obeying
the call to liberty and freedom. "I should know that voice," he added,
endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of the face of his deliverer, but in
vain, as she was carefully hooded, and the place profoundly dark.
"Hush! hush!--not a word!" said the latter. "What does it signify to you
who I am? Off, off instantly!--you have not a moment to lose. This way,
this way." And she hurried the astonished prisoner, though now no longer
so, through the deserted passage of the jail, till they reached the
outer door, to which she applied the key with which its simple guardian
had intrusted her, and in the next instant M'Intyre and his deliverer
were in the street. On gaining it--
"Now, fly, Angus," said the latter, thrusting, at the same time, a purse
of money into his hand. "At the first mile-stone on the Greenock road,
you will find a chaise waiting you. In that you will proceed to
Greenock, where you will find a ship to sail to-morrow for New York.
Embark on board of her; and you will then, I trust, escape the vengeance
of man--it must be your own business, Angus, to deprecate that of your
God." And without waiting for any reply, or permitting herself to be
known to her companion, she hastened away in the opposite direction to
that she had pointed out to M'Intyre, and disappeared. The latter,
bewildered with the suddenness and strangeness of the proceeding which
had thus so mysteriously led to his liberation, stood for a second
confused, irresolute, and undetermined. His first idea was to pursue
this deliverer, and to insist on ascertaining who she was; but even the
moment he took to deliberate had put this out of his power, for the
night was dark, and she was already out of sight; and where there were
so many ready places of concealment, the pursuit was a hopeless one.
M'Intyre perceived this; and aware, at the same time, how necessary it
was that he should instantly quit the vicinity of the jail, he hastened
to the place where he had been told a chaise would be waiting him. The
chaise was there; M'Intyre flung himself into it, reached Greenock in
about four hours afterwards, and, before another sun had sunk in the
west, he was sailing down the Frith of Clyde, on his way to the opposite
shores of the Atlantic.
Three years after the occurrence of the events just related (continued
the narrator whom we have already quoted), during which time I had heard
nothing more of M'Intyre than that he had effected his escape, nor
anything whatever of his deliverer, I was removed, by order of the Board
of Excise, to the Island of Skye, where I was settled, perhaps, about a
year, when, one day, as I was crossing the country from Portree to
Meystead--a place celebrated in the wanderings of Prince Charles--I met
a party of ladies and gentlemen coming in the opposite direction. They
were a merry squad, with the exception of one of the ladies, who seemed
to take but little share in the obstreperous mirth of her companions;
and it was owing to this circumstance, perhaps, that I found her
engrossing a greater share of my attention than the others; for, in that
hospitable country, we were friends the moment we met, although we had
never seen each other before; and the party, having some provisions with
them, I was requested to favour them with my company to a dejeune,
which, they informed me, they had been on the eve of making before I
joined them. Readily accepting their kind invitation, I accompanied my
new friends in search of a suitable spot for the proposed entertainment.
This was soon found; and we all sat down on the grass to partake of the
good things provided for the occasion. During the repast, I could not
keep my eyes off the lady whose melancholy had first attracted my
attention; for I felt an impression that I had seen the face somewhere
before; but when, where, or under what circumstances, I could not at all
recollect. She seemed also to recognise me; for there was a marked
confusion and agitation, both in her countenance and manner, from the
moment I joined the party to which she belonged. Guessing, from these
expressions, that it would not be agreeable to her that I should make
any attempt at renewing our acquaintance, of whatever nature that might
have been, in the presence of her friends, I forbore; but determined, if
an opportunity was afforded me, of doing so before we parted, as I felt
all that curiosity and uneasiness which such vague and imperfect
recognition of a person's identity is so apt to create. The opportunity
I desired, the lady, of her own accord, subsequently afforded me.
When our repast was concluded, she said, addressing me--
"We are going, sir, to see the falls of Lubdearg, about a mile from
this. It is a very magnificent one; and, if you have never seen it
before, and are in no great hurry to prosecute your journey, you will
perhaps accompany us. My friends here, I am sure, will be glad of such
an addition to their party."
The falls she alluded to I had never seen; and for this reason, but
still more for that before hinted at, I gladly accepted the proposal of
becoming one of the party to Lubdearg. While we were proceeding thither,
my inviter contrived to drop a little way behind her friends; which
perceiving, and conjecturing that she did so for the especial purpose of
affording me an opportunity of speaking with her, I availed myself of
it, with a degree of caution that prevented all appearance of
connivance, and joined her. Being considerably apart from the others,
she said, smiling--
"You have recognised me, I rather think, sir; but do you recollect where
and under what circumstances it was that you saw me?"
"I do not indeed; I have not the most distant idea," I said; "but I
certainly do recollect having seen you before."
"And I, too, recollect well of having seen you. It is impossible I
should ever forget either you or the occasion that introduced me to you.
Do you," she added, "recollect of a young woman calling on you one
morning at your lodgings, to request of you to have a chaise in
readiness, on the Greenock road, to aid"--and here she paused a moment,
and betrayed great emotion--"the escape," she resumed, "of Angus
M'Intyre."
I need hardly say that, short as this sentence was, I knew ere it was
half concluded that it was the deliverer of my unhappy friend who stood
before me.
"I do, I do, perfectly," I replied--"you are the very person. This is,
indeed, strange--most singular--our meeting here again, and in this way.
But who, in Heaven's name, are you?" I added; "that I have never yet
known."
The lady smiled sadly. "Did you ever hear your unfortunate friend speak
of one Miss Eliza Stewart?" she said.
"Often, often," I replied; "to that lady I always understood he was to
have been married, had not that deplorable occurrence taken place, which
so miserably changed his destiny, and marred all his prospects in life."
"It was so," said my fair companion, with increased emotion. "I am that
person."
"Impossible!"
"It is true; I am Eliza Stewart."
"Then, here is more perplexity and mystery," said I. "How, in all the
world, came you to appear to me in the dress and character of a servant
girl--you, who are a lady both by birth and education?" (this I knew
from M'Intyre) "and how, above all, did you effect the escape of our
unfortunate friend?"
The lady again smiled with a melancholy air. "I will inform you of all,"
she said, "in a very few words. At the time of Angus' misfortune, I
lived, as you may probably know, with my father at ----, in Skye here.
On hearing of what had taken place, and of Angus' apprehension, I
hastened to Glasgow on pretence of visiting a friend, and got into the
house of the jailer in the character of a domestic servant. I will not
say by whose means I effected this, as it might still bring ruin on
their heads." And here my fair informant gave me the details which are
already before the reader. "On effecting his escape," she went on, "I
immediately resumed my own dress, and returned to my father's house,
where it was next to impossible to detect, in his daughter, the servant
girl of the Glasgow jailer. Our remote situation, besides, further
secured me from the chance of discovery; and I have not yet been
discovered, nor do I suppose I ever will now."
"And why," said I, laughingly, "did you not share the fortunes of the
man in whom you thus took so deep an interest?"
"No, no," said the heroic girl, with an expression of deep feeling; "I
loved M'Intyre, I confess it, with the most sincere and devoted
affection--what I did for him proves it; but I could not think of
uniting myself to a man whose hand was red with the blood of a
fellow-creature; for it cannot be denied that our unfortunate friend,
notwithstanding all his good qualities, was--there is no disguising
it--a----" Here her emotions prevented her finishing the sentence--nor
did she afterwards finish it; but I had no doubt the word she would have
supplied was "murderer."
"Now, sir, you know all," she continued, on recovering from her
perturbation; "but you will make no allusion, I beg of you, to anything
I have told you, to my friends here, amongst whom are my father, mother,
and a sister, who know nothing whatever of the part I acted in effecting
M'Intyre's escape."
With this request I promised compliance. We reached the falls of
Lubdearg. I parted with Eliza Stewart; and we never met again, as, in a
few days afterwards, I left the island; and with this event terminated
all connecting circumstances on my part with "The Skean Dhu."
THE SEVEN YEARS' DEARTH.
It was a good many years before the accession of King William III. to
the throne of Britain, that a farmer of the name of William Kerr rented
a farm in the parish of Minniegaff, in the county of Wigton, on the
great road to Port-Patrick. The farm lay at some distance from the road,
at the foot of the hills--a wild and secluded spot, possessing few
beauties, save to a person who had been reared in the neighbourhood,
whose earliest associations were blended with the scenes of his youth.
This farm of Kerr's was of far greater extent than importance, only a
few acres of it being in cultivation; but his flock of sheep was pretty
extensive, and his black cattle numerous. He was looked upon as a
wealthy man at the period of which we speak, had been married for many
years, but had no children to enjoy that wealth which increased from
year to year. This was the only drawback to his earthly happiness; but
he never repined, or let a word escape his lips, to betray the wish of
his heart. Even the rude taunts of his more fortunate neighbours he bore
with unruffled countenance, though he felt them keenly; and he still
loved Grizzel his wife with all the fervour of his first affection--an
affection that was returned with usury.
Such was the situation of the worthy farmer, when, one morning in
harvest, he went out with the earliest dawn to look after some sheep he
had upon a hill in a distant part of the farm. He had counted them, and
was returning to join the reapers, accompanied by Colin, his faithful
dog, who, in devious excursions, circled round the large grey stones
that lay scattered about. He had proceeded for some way without missing
the animal, when he stopped and whistled for him. Colin, contrary to his
usual custom, did not come bounding to his side, but answered by a loud
barking--a circumstance which a little surprised him; but he proceeded
homeward, thinking that he was amusing himself with some animal he had
discovered; and being in haste to join his reapers, paid no further
attention to this act of disobedience in his favourite. Breakfast
passed, and mid-day came, and still Colin did not make his appearance.
His master was both angry and uneasy at his absence; but, in the bustle
and laughter of the harvest field, again forgot the occasional thoughts
of his useful dog that obtruded themselves on his mind. It drew towards
evening, and still no Colin came. The circumstance was becoming
unaccountable; none had seen the dog; and uneasiness succeeded to anger.
He now left his reapers, and went to the house to inquire of Grizzel if
the animal had been in the house; but she answered that she had only
seen him once in the early part of the day, for a minute or two, when,
after receiving a piece of cake, he had ran off with it in his mouth,
nor stopped to eat it, contrary to his usual custom. This, with the
circumstance of his leaving him in the morning, and his unaccountable
absence, confirmed William Kerr in his opinion that something uncommon
must have happened to him. As he could ill do without his assistance to
gather his sheep for the night, without returning to his reapers, he set
out for the spot where the dog had left him, ever and anon calling him
by his well-known whistle and name. The large grey stones and barren
muir echoed the call; but no Colin appeared. At length he came to the
place, and was surprised and overtaken with fear, as he observed the
animal stretched upon the ground, with something close beside him, which
he seemed to watch.
"Colin, Colin!" he called; "poor Colin!"
The dog did not rise: he gave every mute token of joy and pleasure at
the sight of his master, looking over his bushy shoulder, and wagging
his tail; but he made no effort to stir--fearful, apparently, of
disturbing the object that lay beside him.
"Surely," said his master, "my poor dog is bewitched. Colin, you rascal,
what have you there? Come with me to the sheep." But Colin moved not.
The farmer stood rooted to the spot; he had neither the power to advance
nor retreat; a superstitious fear took possession of him; his hair moved
upon his head; a tingling feeling seemed to excite every muscle of his
body, and deprive it of voluntary motion. The fear, in fact, of the
fairies was upon him; he conceived himself the victim of fascination--a
conception well justified by his own conduct, for he could not, for a
time, withdraw his eyes from the object of his alarm. When the subject
was considered, there was ground for his fear. Before him, under the
shadow of a large grey boulder stone, within a few yards, lay his
faithful dog--a creature that had never before required a second call
from him--now deaf to that voice it was his former pleasure to obey at
every hazard. He was supporting something that had the appearance of a
lovely child sound asleep, nestled close into his bosom, the head
resting upon his shaggy side, and its curly, golden hair appearing like
rays of light on the pillow upon which it rested. The face appeared more
beauteous than anything of this earth he had ever seen--so delicate, so
clear, so beautifully blended was rose and lily; but the eyes were
swollen and red with weeping, pearly drops stole in slow succession from
its dark eyelashes, while a heavy sob swelled its little bosom as if it
would awaken it. The farmer, with his eyes almost starting from their
sockets, incapable of motion or cool reflection, stood gazing upon the
pair as they lay before him--the one unconscious, the other, while
showing every symptom of joy he could silently express at sight of his
master, yet seemingly fearful as an anxious mother of disturbing his
sleeping charge. As William Kerr's surprise began to abate, his fears,
if possible, increased.
"Surely," he said to himself, "this is one of the children of the
fairies. God protect me! I am bewitched as well as my poor dog. I never
felt thus before in the presence of mere earthly being. I cannot
move--my knees can scarce support me--I cannot withdraw my eyes from
that fearful object. God deliver me from the power of the enemy!" And he
shut his eyelids by a convulsive effort.
He then attempted to pray, but memory had fled; nor psalm nor prayer
could he call up to his aid, the palsy of fear had so completely
unhinged him. The very beauty of the object increased his alarm; for he
had heard that Satan is never more to be feared than when he appears as
an angel of light. With his eyes shut by a nervous effort, he turned
himself round, and ran to his reapers.
As he approached them, and the distance increased between him and the
object of his fears, his natural firmness returned; but his countenance
still betrayed the agitation of his mind. The reapers were just quitting
the field, having accomplished the labours of the day; and, seeing him
running towards them, crowded round him, eagerly inquiring the cause of
his alarm. It was some time before he could recover his breath (so
swiftly had he run), to give them an account of what he had seen, and
express his regret for the loss of Colin, whom he never more expected to
see. The whole group were struck with fear and amazement, gazing
alternately at the farmer and each other--not knowing what to think of
the strange case; but all agreed that some effort ought to be made for
the recovery of the dog. John Bell, an elder of the church, and a
neighbour farmer, spoke and said--