"AN EARLY SNOW SAVES MUCKLE WOE."
IT was two or three days before we heard a word from the Hall.
Even my clothes were not sent to me, and I began to think I was to be
deprived of them.
Meantime a visitor arrived in the shape of Alick Graham, old Elsie's
nephew, and Lady Thornyhaugh's servant. He brought Mrs. Deborah a
present of moor game, cheeses, and fine wool for her knitting, of his
mistress' own spinning, and for Amabel and me each a large soft plaid
or mantle, such as were then worn by all classes in Scotland. He would
fain have gone at once to the Hall to see his sweet-heart, saying that
he had but little time to stay, and, in the language of the old ballad—
"He could not come ilka day to woo."
But Elsie persuaded him to "bide a wee," as she said, seeing it was
not likely that Mary would see him unless she had notice beforehand of
his coming, which she (Elsie) would try to send her. They were still
arguing the point, when who should appear but Mary herself, with my
bundles and some of her own, escorted and assisted by Harry, who, I
fancy, would gladly have cut out the handsome young borderer, had it
been in his power. I left the two glaring at each other like two dogs,
whom prudence or politeness restrains from fighting in the house, and
took Mary in to Mrs. Deborah to learn her news.
"My lady has sent me away, miss!" sobbed Mary, bursting into tears.
"And without a bit of a character, and she called me a thief to my
face, me that never touched so much as a pin that did not belong to me,
and though Mrs. Wilson herself said she wished every one in the house
was as honest as I was."
I soothed and comforted Mary as well as I could, and Mrs. Deborah told
her she would give her the best of characters, which seemed to afford
her a little consolation.
"And what of Miss Leighton?" I asked, when Mary had recovered her
composure. "How is she?"
"Well enough in health, miss, but sad enough in her spirits, as well
she may be. My lady taunts and sneers at her from morning till night,
and then, there is Lord Bulmer hanging round, and giving orders in the
house—who but he?—as though he were its master and more. It's my belief
as they mean to compel my poor young lady into a marriage whether or
no."
"But how can they?" I asked. "Mr. Lethbridge would never lend himself
to such business."
"No, miss, but there's that Mr. Trimble—chaplain as they call him—he
is none too good at the best, and when he is half seas over, as he is
about half the time, he will do any thing for more liquor. By what my
lord's man let out one day, I believe he was brought to the hall for
this very job."
I looked at Mrs. Deborah and wrung my hands with impatience and anxiety.
"Take care, Mary Lee! Say no more than you know to be true," said Mrs.
Deborah, gravely.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon, Mrs. Deborah, ma'am, if I spoke
disrespectful," said Mary. "But oh, Mrs. Deborah! Oh, ladies! Do save
my poor young lady! They will kill her among them. They have shut her
up alone in her room with no one near her, only that wicked French
woman takes her her meals, and poor meals they are. Even Mrs. Wilson
is not allowed to go to her. And, Mrs. Deborah, the wolf howled last
night! I heard him myself, and so did all of us, and Harry says it
bodes some great misfortune. And worse than that—"
Here her voice sank to a whisper, "The picture of the wolf-lady came
out of its frame and walked about the house—Ellen saw it."
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Deborah, but she looked uneasy.
I knew very well that she herself believed in the howling of the wolf
as portending some great misfortune, and that she was not entirely
incredulous on the subject of the walking picture.
"Where did Ellen see the wolf-lady?" I asked.
"In the long gallery, miss. She had been down to the kitchen to get a
warm salt-bag to put to Hannah's cheek, for the poor thing is half dead
with an income in her face, and she made bold to go through the gallery
to reach the little stairs."
"She heard a voice as if pleading as for very life in the little
saloon, and another deep voice that seemed to answer in scorn, Ellen
said, and she had just time to slip behind the great Indian screen,
when the lady came out in a long white gown, and with both hands
pressed to the sides of her head. She passed along so close that Ellen
said she could almost have touched her, and went into the great hall,
and then Ellen ran up stairs to her own room."
I glanced at Mrs. Deborah. I did not believe in the ghostly character
of Ellen's vision, neither, I saw, did she.
"When did you last see Miss Leighton, Mary?" I asked.
"Yesterday morning, Miss."
"And Lord Bulmer is still at the Hall? He did not go with Sir Julius!"
"Oh, no, ma'am, Captain Dangerfield did, but he is back again to-day.
Oh, Mrs. Deborah, save my dear young lady!"
"Did you bring me no note or message, then?" I asked.
"Yes, Miss. I forgot! One from Mrs. Wilson. She has been very good
to me, has Mrs. Wilson. She said the note was about some napkins or
something!"
I took the note, and, dismissing Mary to her supper and the society of
her favored lover, I opened it. It was fairly well written, and I had
no trouble in reading it.
"Miss, if ever you loved Miss Leighton, contrive some way to help her
to-night."
The word was underscored.
"To-morrow may be too late! They will all be in the great saloon at
the other end of the house acting of plays. Miss is shut in her room.
They will not let me near her. I sign no names for fear of accidents.
Remember, to-night."
This, disentangled from her peculiar spelling, was Mrs. Wilson's note.
Mrs. Deborah looked at me in dismay.
"What can we do?" said she.
I considered a moment, and a plan darted into my head, which I
proceeded to open to Mrs. Deborah.
"That might do so far as getting Amabel away from the house is
concerned!" said Mrs. Deborah. "But what to do with her afterward? I
could not keep her here with any safety, and there are strong reasons
against her going to Newcastle!"
"I have an idea about that too!" I returned. "But we must call Elsie
and her nephew in council. I think we can depend on their fidelity."
"My life for Elsie in such a case!" said Mrs. Deborah. "I will send for
her at once."
Elsie made her appearance and I told her what I had in my head. Alick
had ridden a stout pony and Mrs. Deborah had plenty of others, for
horses were abundant and cheap in those days, in the North. Why should
not Amabel and myself return with Alick to Eskdale, and take refuge
with Lady Thornyhaugh till better times?
"And indeed mem, the lasses—I mean the young leddies—could not do
better. Alick will ken every pass among the hills by night as well as
by day, and by noon to-morrow, they may be in safety," said Elsie.
Alick being called in, laughed at the idea of pursuit, once we were
among the hills.
"It will no be very mirk after midnight, though I doubt there's a storm
brewing. I ken every path between here and Eskdale. Let us once have a
gude start and let them follow wha' can!"
"And Mary and me will just slip cannily awa' after dark to the house of
a seventh cousin of my ain, who will give us a blythe welcome!" added
Elsie. "Then if any one hears of Alick's riding home with two women,
folk may just think it was his joe * and his auld auntie."
* Sweetheart.
There was little time to lose, for it was drawing toward night already,
and by midnight we must be well on our way.
Every thing favored us. The night was dark, with a fitful wind from the
east, which I well knew would make all sorts of eerie noises about the
old hall. I made up two bundles of needful clothing, dressed myself in
a thick gray woolen gown, and wrapping my plaid about me, I stole up
through the woods to the Hall.
The east wing was brilliantly lighted, as was also the great hall, and
the sound of musical instruments told me that the revel was in full
progress. In the west wing burned only one dim light, and that I well
knew was in Amabel's room.
I do not pretend to be above fears more than other people, and I
shuddered with something besides cold when I found myself in the little
deserted court where the phantom cavalier was said to walk, and when I
applied the well-oiled key to the lock, I could almost have sworn that
a light hand was laid on my shoulder.
Nothing was to be seen, however, and in the cause of my foster-sister,
I would have faced the evil one himself.
I unlocked the door, and lighting the dark lantern I carried, I went
softly down and then up the rugged stairs, and found myself in the
ghostly room. I stayed not to look around me, but knocked gently at the
door of communication. There was no answer, and for a moment my heart
sunk at the thought that Amabel might have been forced to be present at
the play. I blew my little ivory whistle very softly at the keyhole,
and to my intense delight I heard Amabel's voice.
"Lucy, where are you?"
"In the ghost room!" was my answer. "Open the door quickly!"
"I cannot!" was the answer. "It is fastened on your side."
I found the bolt and pushed it back,—the cabinet was rolled aside, and
in a moment, Amabel was in my arms. She was but the shadow of herself,
but her lovely face was calm as ever.
"Is it really you!" said she, holding me off and looking at me. "I
almost lost hope when they took poor Mary from me. Oh, Lucy, I have
been cruelly used."
"I have come to save you, but there is not a moment to lose!" said I.
"Don't take anything from the room. I have wraps in abundance. Come!"
I pulled the cabinet back to its place, drew down the tapestry and
bolted the doors. We hastened down the stairs and out into the court.
A few drops of rain were falling, and it was pitch dark. Amabel held
the lantern, while I locked the door, and barred the entrance to the
court on the outside. We then made the best of our way to the old
pavilion, where Alick was to await us with the horses. He was not in
sight.
"Can he have played us false?" was my first thought.
I whistled softly and had the satisfaction to see him emerge from a
thicket of evergreens.
"It is all well so far, Leddies!" said he. "Hasten to mount, and let us
be on our way. I believe it is going to snow, but so much the better
for us. Early snow saves muckle woe, the auld by-word has it."
I had taken the precaution to bring from home a thick gown and riding
skirt. These I hastily put on Amabel, over the silk gown she wore.
Alick put her on horseback and we set out on our dark, long ride.
"Are we not going first to Aunt Deborah's?" asked Amabel as we turned
our horses' heads away from the village.
"No!" I answered. "We must lose no time, and if you should be missed,
they would go to the little house at once to seek you. We must run no
risks that we can help."
Amabel murmured an assent and said no more.
The remembrance of that wild night's ride is like a dream to me. I only
know that it snowed till after midnight, that it was very dark, and
Alick seemed to find his way by some occult sense like a dog. We went
up hill and down dale. We forded swollen streams where the ponies could
hardly stem the current, and climbed and descended paths so steep and
slippery that it was a wonder how they kept their feet or we our seats.
Once or twice we passed camps or trains of smugglers conveying whiskey
from Scotland into England, but they took no notice of us except to
exchange a civil or surly good-night with our guide, who I fancy,
might have owed his intimate knowledge of the road to some practise in
the same profession. Once we saw a camp of Gypsies in a recess of the
hills, their bright fire looking wonderfully attractive in the cold
and darkness. The snow was now quite deep and muffled the sound of our
horses' feet, which was perhaps the reason why the Gypsies took no
notice of us.
"I'm glad we are weel past thae folk!" said Alick in a whisper. "They
are no good folk to meet in a dark night and a lonely place. Is thae
other leddy, waking, do you think, mem? Speak to her and see!"
"Are you awake, Amabel?" said I, taking her hand, which felt cold as
ice.
"Awake!" she repeated in a tone of wonder. "I do not feel as if I
should ever sleep again. Lucy, why do we not go faster? They will
follow us."
"I wad fine like to see them try it, mem!" said Alick, overhearing her
words. "Forby any trouble they might have in finding the road, they
might not pass thae gentry with the pack horses so easily as we have
done. They are no' apt to be that civil to folk they do na ken. Na, na!
Dinna be feared my bonny doo—I mean my leddy. We'll be in Scotland in
another hour. See, yonder comes the moon."
The storm had now ceased, and the waning moon shone out through the
clouds, so that we could see where we were going. We had ridden another
half hour, when Alick drew bridle on the top of a long hill we had been
climbing, and pointed out to me a dark spot in the waste of snow.
"Yonder is Tibbie Grey's cottage, mem. We shall soon be there, and then
we can rest ourselves and our horses. Tibbie is an honest woman, a far
awa' cousin of my own, and will give food, and fire, and a welcome to
boot, to any friend to Thornyhaugh."
I was thankful to hear it, for I was growing very weary, and so sleepy
that I could hardly keep myself awake. We descended a rougher path than
any we had yet passed—so rough indeed, that Alick dismounted and led
our ponies by the bridle a part of the way. The tree branches brushed
our faces in some places; in others, the rocks towered high and seemed
ready to fall down on us.
"It is turning colder!" said I, shivering.
"So much the better, mem. We'll no' have the snow wreaths sliding down
on our heads. But we'll soon be out of this den, and then the road is
good."
In effect we soon came out upon a wider valley, and presently drew up
at the door of a small cottage—the same we had seen from the top of the
hill.
Alick whistled once or twice.
The door was opened by a decent-looking woman, with a tartan screen
cast over her white mutch.
"Eh! Wha' is this?" said the old woman, who I fancy, might not be
unused to untimely visitors. "Man Alick, is this you? And wha' are
these."
"Whist, whist, Tibbie! It's just myself, and these are two, young
leddies, that I am guiding to my auld leddy at Thornyhaugh, and you
must just give them the best you ha' for them. Best tell her the truth,
mem," he whispered to me. "She will do all the better for us."
"That will I, that will I!" said old Tibbie, cheerfully. "Come in, by
leddies! Come in by, and sit upon the fire. It is but a coorse night
for, the likes of you to be out. Eh, the bonnie doo!" she exclaimed,
as she removed Amabel's plaid. "Wha could ha' the heart to hurt such a
winsome creature? But I'll no fash you with questions. Come in by, and
sit upon the fire."
She led us into the cottage, where a great fire of turf, made on the
earthen floor, threw out a glow which seemed something miraculous to us
poor night wanderers. Tibbie set stools for us, removed our wet plaids
and riding-skirts, and in a wonderfully short time, put into our hands
basins of warm milk and generous pieces of freshly toasted oatcake.
"Eat and drink, eat and drink!" said she. "That will warm you best of
a'."
"Do try to eat something, Amabel!" said I, seeing that she held her
basin of milk in her hand, as if she hardly knew what it was. "Do try
dear, to please me."
I held the basin to her lips, and had the satisfaction to see her
drink. Then, as if roused and refreshed, she looked about her and spoke.
"Lucy, why do we not go on to my aunt's?"
"Because the horses must rest, my bonnie leddy!" said Alick, answering
the question. "The puir beasts cannot gang a fit farther, without rest
and meat, and we will be none the waur of them our ain selves."
"But they will overtake us and find us here!" said Amabel. "I am sure
they will. They will track us with the bloodhounds."
"Not they!" I answered. "They have not missed us yet, and when they do
they would not know which way to go. The snow will have covered all
trace of us."
"And that's true, mem! Believe me, there is nothing to dread; you are
as safe here as if you were at Thornyhaugh."
"I daresay you are right!" said Amabel. "But I am bewildered I think.
Oh, Lucy! It seems as though it must be a dream; I have dreamed of
getting away so often. It seems as if I must wake and find myself still
in that woman's power. But I will never go back to her!" she added
wildly. "I will kill myself first."
"You must just get her to bed, poor lamb!" said old Tibbie, answering
my look of alarm. "The poor bairn is just overdone with a' she has come
thro'! Shame on them that brought a sweet lamb to such straits."
As she spoke, she opened a door, on the farther side of the room, and
led us into a very small bedroom, in which was a decent-looking bed.
"It's but coorse accommodations for the likes of you leddies!" said
she, turning down the clothes. "But it's clean enough for the Queen
hersel'."
The bed was indeed clean and sweet, with coarse but very white sheets.
I coaxed Amabel to lie down, and placed myself beside her, taking her
in my arms. It was long before we slept, for Amabel started at every
sound, but she grew quiet at last.
When I woke, the low sun was shining through the one thick pane of
glass which formed the only window. Amabel still slept heavily, and as
I lay and looked at her wasted form and pale face, my heart swelled
with indignation against those who, having such a treasure given them,
had not known better how to use it.
A sudden trampling of horses' feet and the sound of voices roused
Amabel. She started up in an instant.
"They have come!" she exclaimed. "I knew they would. Lucy, I will never
go with them!"
"Hush, hush!" said I. "These are friends, I am sure. Do you not hear
Alick's voice? I will peep out and see."
I arranged my disordered dress as well as I could and softly opened the
door.
Alick was standing by the fire talking with an elderly man who looked
like an upper servant, while old Tibbie was arranging a meal of cold
fowl, white bread and other dainties which she took from a basket. A
little barefooted lass was busy about the fire, broiling some venison
steaks. Our faithful guide had tarried only for food and an hour's
rest, and then taking a pony belonging to the cottage, he had gone
forward to Thornyhaugh, and returned with fresh horses, dry clothes,
and a basket of provisions.
"All is well!" said I, returning to Amabel. "You must eat some
breakfast and then we will go on to your aunt's."
I must confess that now the danger was over, I was hungry enough to
find the sight and smell of breakfast very agreeable. I tried my best
to persuade Amabel to eat, but she only swallowed a few mouthfuls.
"I would eat to please you if I could!" said she with her usual
sweetness. "But indeed I cannot. Perhaps when we are once at
Thornyhaugh, I shall be better."
I was in as much of a hurry as herself, for I feared she was going
to be ill. We mounted our fresh horses, and in about half an hour,
Alick pointed out the house. It was a tolerably large one with various
ornaments of pepper-box turrets, "crow-stepped" gables, and an addition
of more modern date than the rest. It stood on a knoll two thirds
surrounded by a brawling stream which here comes down to join the Esk,
and must once have been a place of strength. Near by, but partly in
ruins, stood a very old and massive tower, almost overgrown with ivy.
"That is the house!" said Alick. "And these are the lands of
Thornyhaugh. It's very auld, some part of it. Folk say the tower was
built by some of the Beattisons lang syne before the Scots drove them
out, and took the land themselves, but a scholar gentleman who was here
from Edinbro' last year would have us believe that it was far older
even than that, and was built in the time of the Picts. Onyhow it's a
very old work and a famous place for bird's nests, only my old Leddy
will not let them be harried if she kens. See, there she stands in the
porch. What would think that she was past her fourscore and four?"
No one, I thought, as I marked her erect figure and the light step with
which she came to meet us. She clasped Amabel in her arms, calling her
a poor motherless lammie and I know not what other endearing Scotch
names. She led us into her sitting-room and busied herself in undoing
Amabel's wraps while Mrs. Alice, her old bower-woman, performed the
same office for me. Amabel sank down in a chair and looked round her
with an expression of relief.
"It is not a dream," said she. "I am really at Thornyhaugh and not at
Highbeck, and I am out of that woman's reach. Oh aunt, do not let her
come near me! Indeed, I will be dutiful to my father, but I cannot
marry that wicked man."
"And you shall not marry him!" said the old lady. "Fear nothing, my
child, you are safe here. But how was it?"
"They shut me up in my room," said Amabel. "They would not let even
Wilson come near me, and they took Mary away from me. That French woman
brought me my meals, and, scanty as they were, I hardly dared eat them.
I believe that they tried to give me opium. My lady came to me the last
day—when was it, Lucy?"
"Yesterday, I presume."
"Yesterday," repeated Amabel. "Was it only yesterday? She came to
me yesterday morning and told me that she had waited on my humors
long enough, and would do so no longer; that I must make up my mind
to be married in the morning, and if I would not come to the chapel
willingly, I should be dragged thither. I appealed to my father, and
she laughed at me, and told me he had gone on purpose to be out of the
way."
"But Lord Bulmer!" said I. "Surely no man with a spark of manhood about
him would take an unwilling bride, let alone one who hated him."
"He would have done it," answered Amabel. "I tried to appeal to his
manhood—to his sense of justice. I might as well have appealed to the
wolf-lady's picture. He gave me only empty compliments, and coaxed me
as one might a wayward child at first. He even tried to kiss my cheek,
and when I repulsed him with more force than you would think I could
use, he grew white with rage, and swore that he would bend me to his
will, and humble me in the dust. He would make me sue for his pardon
and be thankful for a word."
"The villain!" said the old lady. "But how did you escape?"
"It was Lucy who set me free. She came alone in the dark through that
dreadful room, and took me out of their power. Oh Lucy, I shall never
hear music so sweet as the sound of that little whistle."
"Nay, we owe all to poor Wilson, who sent me word of your extremity by
Mary," said I, "and to faithful Alick, who guided us through the hills
to this place of safety. As to myself, what less could I have done for
my foster-sister?"
"Aweel, we will thank the good Lord above all, my children," said the
old lady, solemnly. "You have gone through fire and water, and He hath
brought you out into a safe place if not a wealthy one. But you have
had a hard journey."
"We have," said Amabel, leaning back in her chair; "but I would go
through ten times more to be safe as I feel now. But oh my poor father!"
And she burst into a flood of hysterical tears.
"Let us hope his eyes may be opened," said the old lady. "But you were
best go to your bed, and here comes Alice to say that it is ready."
We were led up a somewhat steep staircase in one of the turrets—what
in Scotland is called a turnpike stair—to two small but pleasant and
convenient rooms opening together, with a neat white bed in each.
Mrs. Alice brought up our bundles, and I undressed Amabel, got her to
bed, and sat by her till she fell asleep.
Then, not feeling sleepy, I dressed myself as well as I could and went
down to the parlor, where I found Lady Thornyhaugh sitting with her
wheel on one side of the fire, while Mrs. Alice occupied a similar
position on the other, only that she spun with a distaff, or, as she
would have said, with a rock and reel. The spindle danced in eccentric
circles on the floor, watched by an elfish kitten, and a still more
elfish-looking terrier pup, who now and then made a simultaneous dash
at it, and falling foul of each other, engaged in a rough-and-tumble
game of romps.
"Bairn, why are you not in your bed?" was the greeting I received.
"I was not tired, madam, and as Amabel was asleep, I thought I would
come down."
"And is she asleep, poor young thing! So much the better. I fear she
will pay dearly for this night's work. I fear she will be ill."
"So do I, madam," I answered. "She seems so shaken, and unlike herself."
"I'm thinking Lucy Corbet, you may as well say 'auntie,'" said the old
lady. "You are but a faraway kinswoman is true, but you have been more
than a sister to my niece, and 'better kind fremit than fremit kind.' *
But if you are not tired, sit down and tell me something more of this
strange tale. How did Amabel see this other lad, the young minister?"
* That is, "Better kind strangers than strange kindred."
I told her of our coming to Newcastle, of our meeting with Mr. Wesley
and Mr. Cheriton, and the way in which he had rescued the poor
preacher's wife from the mob.
"That was bravely done," said the old lady, her eyes kindling. "He will
be a fine lad, yon."
"'Tis a pity he is a prelatist, though," said Mrs. Alice; "and abune a'
that he should take up with these Methodists—a wheen sectaries I doubt
they are."
"What is a prelatist?" I asked.
"A prelatist? Oh, just ane that believes in bishops, and printed
prayers, and written discourses, and surplices, and such like rags of
Babylon," answered Mrs. Alice. "They're all prelatists the other side
the border, except a few of the chosen seed scattered here and there."
"A weel Alice, they are brought up that way; you cannot blame the poor
lad for preaching what he was taught to believe, and may be even the
rags of Babylon may be better than no clothes at all!" said the old
lady with a smile. "At all events, this Mr. Cheriton is a brave man and
a gentleman, and comes of a good stock, you say."
"Oh yes, madam—aunt I mean. His friends live not very far from
Highbeck, and his father is heir to a title in the South."
"And are they Jacobites like the rest of the Northumbrian gentry?"
"No, old Mr. Cheriton is loyal to the present government."
"That is well. Titles and the like are but empty breath, compared to
the root of the matter, but yet one cannot but value good family and
a long descent. If Sir Julius had objected to the match at first, it
would have behooved Amabel to pleasure her father; but I cannot think
he had a right to withdraw his consent, once given, or to match his
child against her will to a wicked man and one whom she detests. You
are quite sure that this Mr. Cheriton is faithful to Amabel, and that
these tales about him are not true?"
"I have the best evidence!" said I.
And I told her of Mrs. Thorpe's letter, which by the way I had found in
Amabel's bosom when I undressed her.
The old lady asked me several questions about Mrs. Thorpe, and set down
her address in her pocketbook.
"And my nephew, you say, has had no more sense than to cast in his
fortunes with that unlucky lad at Edinbro'!" said she.
"So I suppose, aunt!"
"The senseless haverell. What good does he think that will do him or
any one else?"
"He believes that King James will be reigning in London before the next
mid-summer."
"Aye, that he will, when the sky turns pea-green!" ejaculated the old
lady.
"However, I do not believe Sir Julius would have gone to Edinburgh, but
for his wife!" I added. "She is a violent Jacobite."
"Aye, I daresay she would like well enough to go to Edinbro' herself.
How does my niece Deborah like such a partisan to her cause?"
"Not very well, aunt. I can't but fancy her zeal for the prince has
cooled a good deal, since my lady came to the Hall."
"She should remember that loyalty, like poverty, makes us acquainted
with strange bed-fellows!" said the old lady smiling. "Well, bairn, you
are safe for the present, and the future is in better hands than ours."
[Illustration]