into which she had fallen, to dispel from her thoughts the gloomy, the
dead images by which they were haunted--but in vain. Sometimes she would
sit amongst her gay companions; and, whilst they laughed, chatted, and
sung, as in former happy days, a faint smile would rekindle about her
lips, so rosy once, so wan and withered now, and for a moment playing
like a mental coruscation, would suddenly expire, and then she would
droop again into the gloom of moody madness, and weep amidst all the
gaiety that surrounded her--weep even like a child. If spoken to, she
made no reply; but, lifting up her dark streaming eyes, sparkling
through the humid medium in which they were suffused, like a star in
motionless water, she would sing snatches of old songs about
disappointed love, blighted hopes, and broken hearts. And the melancholy
tones of her voice would sadden all around her, as if some powerful
spell had suddenly passed over their minds like a cold wind, and frozen
up the fount of joyous feeling; and they would weep too--weep along with
her; for she was so beloved, so good, so beautiful, so happy once, and
so wobegone and wretched now. Then would the gentle maniac start up on
a sudden, as if some one had hastily summoned her, and, rushing towards
home, would mutter, in a quick tone of voice--"I am coming--I am coming!
I knew we would be in time!--I knew we would be in time! He is
there!--he--he!----Who?" She was silent now. Many an eye was filled with
tears as she passed through the straggling village of Grassyvale.
Winter had passed away; the vernal eruption of spring had been matured
into the bloom and the promise which spring gives of autumn, when May
Darling one evening wandered forth from her father's cottage, attended
only by a little sister. Striking into that beautiful and unfrequented
path where she had last walked with him who, on the following day, was
to have become her husband, she had arrived at the very spot where lay
asleep on the grassy bank by the hedge-side the wife of Bolton. A train
of thought seemed suddenly to rush through her mind; for she sat, or
rather dropped, gently down. 'Twas the recollection of former events
which had begun to be reanimated within her; and, though faint, it was
sufficient to cause a temporary suspension of muscular energy: her sight
became dim, only vague images being presented to the eye; and she might
probably have fallen backwards, had not a person sprung through the
hedge, and, putting his arms around her slender form, maintained her in
an erect position. The individual who had thus so opportunely come to
her assistance was closely wrapped up in a greatcoat, although the
warmth of the weather rendered such a covering scarcely necessary. The
upper part of his countenance was concealed by a slouched hat drawn
pretty far down; but from what of it was visible, it was plain that
care, remorse, and dissipation, had gone far to modify its natural
expression.
May gradually revived from her partial swoon; and the stranger,
uncovering his head, and fixing his eyes upon the languid features which
began to assume the hue of life and the expression of conscious being,
said, in a low, trembling voice--
"May Darling, hear me--do not curse me--I am miserable enough without
the malison of her whom----" But his feelings, for a moment, choked his
utterance. "Through a thousand dangers and difficulties have I sought
this interview, only that I might obtain your forgiveness, and
acceptance of this small gift." Here he flung a purse down by her side.
"Say you forgive me, May--breathe but the word, and in a few days an
ocean shall roll between us."
But he spoke to ears which heard not. The moment that May recognised
Bolton, reason was restored, but animation fled, and she sank dead for a
time in his arms. He was about to take measures for her restoration,
when the rapid trampling of horses' hoofs drew his attention in another
direction; and, looking over the hedgerow, he perceived two horsemen, at
a very little distance, advancing towards the village. He seemed to be
aware of their errand, and the cause of their speed; for no sooner had
he cast his eyes on them, than his head instinctively slunk down behind
the hedge. But his precaution was too late. He had been seen; and that
night he was led, a fettered man, to the jail of H----, charged with
highway robbery. We may as well conclude his history, as well as that of
the other individuals who have been interwoven with our tale, before
returning to May Darling.
Mr Henry Bolton was found guilty of the crime with which he was charged,
and condemned to perish on the scaffold, although it was only his first
offence, and, to do him justice, he had committed the crime for the
purpose of having it in his power, in some measure, to requite May
Darling for the injury which she had received at his hands. How
wonderful are the ways of Providence in punishing the guilty! Actuated
by a motive unquestionably virtuous, Bolton commits a capital crime, and
the woman whom he had wronged becomes, unconsciously to herself, the
ultimate cause of his punishment! However, by powerful intercession on
the part of his friends, the sentence was commuted to transportation for
life. But it was destined that he should end his days miserably. "Whoso
sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." Bolton was
virtually a murderer, as we shall see; and the curse could not be eluded
by the decision of any earthly tribunal. 'Twas vain to attempt to fly
from it. The vengeance of Heaven would have pursued him through all the
regions of space; and, screened by the closest envelope of darkness and
disguise, would have struck its victim down. In a skirmish with the
natives of the place to which he had been transported, he was taken
prisoner, and by them put to a cruel and lingering death.
After the painful interview with her husband in the church of
Grassyvale, Mrs Bolton returned to her father, secluding herself from
the world, and devoting her time to household duties and the education
of her son. Rumours of the death of her husband penetrated at last to
the remote part of the country where she resided, and, on its being
officially authenticated, Dr G----, who had commenced practice in a
neighbouring town, became a frequent visiter at the farmhouse. His
former courtship was renewed; and, when the days of mourning were over,
and time had done much to alleviate grief, to restore the faded charms
of Mrs Bolton, and to throw the events of the past into dimness and
distance, they were united; and are still, according to the last
accounts, living happily together, surrounded by a family of thriving
children. Nelly Gray and Janet Baird still pursue their respective
callings in Grassyvale--the latter never failing, on every possible
occasion, to boast of her sagacity in detecting the real character of Mr
Henry Wilkinson, _alias_ Bolton. But let us return to the suffering May
Darling.
She was borne to her cottage home insensible, in which state she
remained all that night, and next day revived, only to know that she was
dying. Yes, the arrow that had pierced her was poisoned; but the venom,
though fatal, worked slow. Gold is refined by fire, and the more intense
the heat applied, the purer will the metal become. So is it with the
human soul. It is made perfect through suffering; and the more it is
destined to endure, the fitter will it become for taking a part with the
choirs of saints and angels, when it shall have thrown aside the garment
of mortality, and mounted on high, like the unshadowed moon, through
parted clouds. But May was happy notwithstanding. In all her looks and
movements were disclosed the peace of mind which passeth understanding.
It was diffused, like light from heaven, over her countenance; it was
heard, like a rich chord of music, in the tones of her voice; her every
word and action betrayed its presence and all-prevailing power. Her
Bible, although always a favourite study, became now her sole one; and
by its all-hallowing influence, her mind, looking down with calm
complacency on all terrestrial things, had an early foretaste of
immortality, in many a delightful contemplation of that abode and that
felicity which shall reward the just.
"It was a delightful evening, about the middle of autumn," says the
worthy clergyman to whom we have been indebted for many of the facts of
the foregoing narrative, "that I was hastily summoned by John Darling to
visit his daughter, who, he believed, was dying. I lost no time in
proceeding to his cottage, and found that his conjecture was but too
true. In an easy-chair, placed at an open window which faced the west,
reclined the victim of a broken heart. On her pale cheek death had
impressed his seal, though there the deceitful rose-tint fluctuated,
which was not so in her days of health and hope. Her words, when she
spake (and that was seldom), seemed to come forth without her breath;
and the lightest down that ever was wafted through summer's air might
have slept unfluttered on her lips. I kneeled down, and prayed that the
gentle spirit, which was about to be released from its mortal bonds,
might receive a welcome to the realms of life and light. She understood
distinctly that she was dying; and, in token that her mind was at
perfect ease, she faintly uttered, when I had finished, 'Yes! oh yes!
Heaven! he----!' The words died unfinished on her tongue, and her spirit
rose to its native sky.
'Peace to her broken heart and virgin grave!'
"In what a noble, what a truly grand point of view does this instance of
triumphant faith place the glorious religion in which we believe! In
what bold relief does its value to our fallen race appear! What a
luminous light does it shed in life's last agonies, opening up a radiant
vista through the clouds and darkness which settle on the soul, like the
shadows of approaching death! There is nothing better qualified to
develop the intellectual faculties, enlarge the understanding, and
strengthen and foster the latent virtues of the heart, than the love and
the study of literature. I am no advocate for the exclusive study of
Scripture--nay, I am not sure if such restricted reading would not lead
to narrowness of mind and gloomy unconcern about the affairs of life,
and the duties connected with it, if not also to selfish moroseness and
illiberal bigotry--a want of community of feeling and sympathy with
human nature in general. But what would literature _alone_ have done for
May Darling? Would the recollection of Shakspere's finest bursts of
inspiration, where the dramatist seems struggling with nature which
shall be the greatest, have buoyed her spirit up under the load which
oppressed it, or given but one, only one, faint assurance of
immortality? Alas! they could only have reminded her of what it would
have been far better to forget for ever, to bury in everlasting oblivion
beneath the waves of Lethe. How finely does the bard of Hope write, in
reference to the anticipation of eternal felicity in the hour of
dissolution!
'What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly?--
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye?
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day!'
Or what could philosophy have done for her? Science has only reference
to this life--its eagle eye has never caught a ray reflected from that
which is to come. Matter may be tortured by methods, varied with
infinite ingenuity; but every secret thus disclosed only relates to
_matter_--there is nothing of spirit brought to light in all the
experiments of the chemist, in all the observations of the astronomer,
in all the gropings and searching investigations of the geologist; for,
though he reveals past time--ay, almost a past eternity--the strata of
the earth, with their world of organic wonders, which record the
transpired history of our planet in imperishable hieroglyphics, tell
nothing of the future. The ocean, with its buried wrecks and its
countless treasures; the mountain, over which the mighty deep once
rolled its undulating expanse, and there deposited its myriads of living
creatures; the desert, which heaps its ocean of sand over entombed
cities, once the glory of the earth----But why should we go
on?--everything speaks of the past, but not a whisper comes from
creation's breast of what is to come. The Bible alone discloses the
mighty secret. May all, therefore, find it what it proved to be to May
Darling: light, when all is dark--hope, when all is despair--pleasure in
pain--life in death.
It was upon her that a nameless rustic bard, who had been an admirer,
composed the following lines:--
"She faded like a flower
That wastes by slow decay;
Not snatch'd in an untimely hour,
But wither'd day by day.
'Twas sad to see those charms,
So heavenly once, decay'd;
And oh! to blight thee in our arms,
In bridal robes array'd!
But Heaven commenced with thee
Whilst yet below the sun;
And, ere the mortal ceased to be,
The seraph had begun.
Calm, then, on Nature's breast,
In dreamless sleep, sleep on,
Till angel voices break thy rest
In music like thine own!"
I CANNA BE FASHED!
OR, WILLIE GRANT'S CONFESSIONS.
"Here's a bonny day, sir," said old Willie Grant, "and the Whitadder's
in excellent trim--will ye get your gad and your creel, and we'll awa
see what sort o' sport there is. If I'm no mistaen, the trouts will rise
as fast as ye throw the line to-day."
"Oh, I canna be fashed," said the individual to whom he spoke.
"What's that I hear ye say?" added Willie, seriously. "Ye canna be
fashed! can ye no? Do ye think ye could be fashed to read the 'Cottagers
o' Glenburnie?' Ye would there see the meaning and the effects o' 'I
canna be fashed' illustrated. But if ye can be fashed to hear, I'll gie
ye an example in my ain case; and, I assure ye, that those four words,
'I--canna--be--fashed' (he spoke them very slowly, laying emphasis on
each)--I say, sir, those four words hae cost me a thousand pounds twice
told. I got them for naething; but, certes, they proved a dear bargain
in the long run. They hae made me acquainted wi' a sair skin, a sair
heart, and an empty pocket. I hae nae remembrance wha learned me the
words, nor am I altogether certain but that they are words that just
spring out o' the laziness and indolence o' our dispositions, like weeds
out o' a neglected soil. But weel do I remember the first time when I
was made to hae a feeling remembrance o' having used them. My faither
was a bit sma' laird in East Lothian--no very far frae Dunglass--and the
property consisted o' between thirty and forty acres, so that he managed
to bring up a family o' five o' us very comfortably, and rather
respectably--and the more especially as my mother was a very thrifty
woman. I was the third o' the family; and, as I was gaun to say to ye,
there was ae day that we were a' gilravishing about the floor, and
wheeling ane anither in a little wheelbarrow that my faither had got a
cartwright in Dunbar to mak for us (for he was a man that liked to see
his bairns happy), when, says he to me--
"Willie, tie yer whings,[5] and dinna let yer shoon be shaughlin aff yer
feet in that gate, or ye maun gang barefoot. Folk shouldna hae shoon
that dinna ken hoo to wear them."
[Footnote 5: Shoe-ties.]
"I canna be fashed, faither," said I, and continued running after the
wheelbarrow; but, before ever I wist, and before I thought that I had
done ill, he gied me a cuff i' the haffits that made me birl half
donnert by the cheek o' the lum.[6]
[Footnote 6: Chimney.]
"Ay, man!" says he, "what's that I hear ye say--'_ye canna be fashed_!'
Let me hear the words come out o' your lips again if ye daur, and I'll
knock the life out o' ye."
That was the first time that I particularly remember o' having made use
o' the phrase, and I am only sorry that the clout which my faither gied
me didna drive it out o' my head frae that day henceforth, and for ever;
though, truly, it had nae such effect, as ye shall hear, and as I
experienced to my sorrow. I sat down whinging till my faither gaed out
o' the house, and, as soon as his back was turned, I dried my een, and
began to drive about the barrow again wi' my brothers and sisters; but I
hadna ran aboon ten minutes, till my mother, wha was tired wi' the noise
we were making, cried--
"Willie, laddie, gie me aff your stockings instantly. Preserve us! the
callant has holes in their heels ye micht put yer nieve
through!--There's what ye've dune wi' your running about without yer
whings tied."
"Hoot, mother," cried I, "I canna be fashed--darn them again' nicht."
"I'll '_canna be fashed_' ye--ye lazy monkey, ye. Did your faither no
gie ye aneugh for that no ten minutes syne, and ye'll tell me ony
siccan a story!"
She grippit me by the neck, and for my faither's ae clout she gied me
ten, at every cuff saying, "I'll _canna be fashed_ ye!" And at last she
threw aff my shoon, and pulled the stockings aff my legs, and pushed me
awa frae her wi' a great drive, crying, "Now, only let me hear ye making
use o' thae words again, and ye'll maybe see what I can be fashed to
do."
"Oh dear me!" thought I, "what ill have I done?" And I sat down, and I
grat and I roared most heartily, and I kicked my bare feet upon the
floor.
"Kick awa there, my man," said my mother--for she was a woman that never
got into what ye could call a passion in her family, as I have seen some
mothers do--"kick awa there," says she; "and if ye drive a hole in the
heels o' the stockings you've on now, ye'll darn them yoursel."
But this, sir, was only the first thrashing that I got for "I canna be
fashed"--it wasna the last, by a score o' times. My faither was a man
that never liked to lay out a shilling where it could be saved; and he
always grudged to employ other people to do anything when he thought it
could be done within his own house--that is, by the members o' his own
family--therefore, about the back end o' spring, or the fore end o'
summer, he would have said to us--
"Now, bairns, haud awa to your beds, and before school-time the morn,
gang and howe the potatoes, or weed the corn."
I never durst say onything then, but slipped awa to bed very
unwillingly--just feeling as if I felt it a trouble to put aff my claes.
But before sunrise in the morning, when my brothers would have wakened
me, I used to rub my een, and gaunt, and say--
"What!--what!--hoots!--I canna be fashed!"
And my father, frae the ben-a-house, would have cried out, wi' a voice
that made the very nails on my fingers shake, "What's that he's
saying?--I'll _be fashed_ him!"
Then up I would have got, shrugging my shoulders, and wriggling them
frae side to side, and cried peevishly to one, "Where's my stockings?"
and to another, "Where's my jacket?"
Then my faither would have cried out again, "_I'll seek_ it for ye!"
Then I soon found it, and got out o' the house wi' the rest o' them.
It was precisely the same thing when my brothers used to shake me in a
morning, and say--
"Get up, Willie--ye haena your task yet."
I had invariably the same answer for them on such occasions also. I
appeared as if naething could drive it out o' me. I have heard auld
wives say, if ye were taking infants to ony part o' the globe ye like,
and keeping them where they never would hear a human voice, nor speech
o' one kind nor anither, that they would speak Hebrew! Now, I verily
believe that, if ye had done the same by me--if ye had taken me, when a
week auld, into the deserts o' Arawbia, wi' naething but dummies round
about me, and not a living soul nor a living thing endowed wi' the power
o' speech allowed to see me or come near me--I say, that I verily
believe the first words I would have spoken would have been, "_I canna
be fashed_!" in guid braid Scotch. The words literally seemed born wi'
me. And, as I was telling ye about getting up to learn my tasks in the
morning, many, many is the time, in the cauldest day o' winter, that my
favourite phrase has caused the tawse to warm my hands, when the fingers
o' a' the rest o' the scholars were dinnlin wi' cauld, and they were
holding them at their mouths, and blowing their hot breath on them to
take out the frost. My faither should have paid no coal-money for me.
And more than this, the four insignificant and carelessly-uttered words
which I allude to, while I was at school, always kept me near the bottom
o' the class; or, if I rose one or two towards the top, it was purely on
account o' others having been awa from the school for a day, or
half-a-day, and having to take the foot o' the class, on account o'
their absence, as a matter o' course. Often and often I could have
tripped their heels, and taken my place aboon them--and the teacher
kenned it as weel, and many a weary time has he said to me, "Oh, ye
stupid stirk! why do ye stand there? why didna ye trap him?"
And once, in particular, I remember I answered him, "I couldna be
fashed, sir!"
"Fashed!" he cried, in a perfect fury, and he raised the tawse to his
teeth--"fashed, sirrah!" he cried again; "then I'll learn ye to be
fashed!"
But o' a' the belabourings I ever got frae either faither or mother, for
the same cause, they were naething to the schoolmaster's. It's a miracle
to me that there was a tail left on his tawse; for he loundered me round
the school and round the school; and, aye as he loundered, he ground his
teeth together, and he cried, "Heard ever onybody the like o' that!
Canna be fashed, truly!--I'll fash ye, my man!--I'll learn ye to gie me
an answer o' that kind again!"
But a' the thrashings that faither, and mother, and master could thrash
at me, on every occasion the confounded words were aye uppermost--they
were perpetually at my tongue end. I was just an easy, indolent
being--one that seemed disposed to steal through the world wi' my hands
in pocket, as smoothly as possible. When I grew to be a lad, I daresay
those that kenned me best were surprised that I could be fashed to gang
a-courting, like other youngsters. But even then, when others would
brush themselves up, and put on their half-best coat, and the like o'
that, in order that they might look as smart as possible, I have thought
to mysel, I wonder if I should shave and wash my face, and gie mysel a
redd-up before I gang to see _her_ the nicht; but perpetually I used to
say to mysel--"Ou, I carena; I canna be fashed--I'll do very weel as I
am." And there wasna less than three or four young lasses that I had a
particular liking for--and each o' them, I daresay, would made an
excellent wife, and I could been very happy wi' ony o' them--but they
all broke off acquaintance wi' me, "just," as they said to their
friends, "because I was o' such a slovenly disposition, that I couldna
even be fashed to mak mysel purpose-like when I gaed to see a body."
The like o' this was very galling to me; but it hadna the effect o'
making a better o' me. I couldna be fashed to be ony better, let come
what might. "Losh-a-day," thought I, "I wonder what folk would hae me to
be at, or how they can gie themsels sae meikle trouble, and be sae
particular?"
But, beyond all others, there was one young woman that I had an
affection for in a very extraordinary degree. She was as dear to me as
the apple o' my ee; and I am sure she could hae done onything wi'
me--save to break me o' my habit o' saying "I canna be fashed." That was
beyond her power. It was my fixed intention to marry her; and, indeed,
not only was the wedding-day set, but her wedding-gown and my coat were
made, and the ring was bought, and she had spoken to her bridesmaid;
and, besides buying a' sort o' things hersel, she had got her mother to
have her providing packed up, and everything was in readiness just to be
lifted to our new house--that is, the house we were to occupy. Now, when
all this had taken place, there was one bonny starlight nicht that we
were walking together, just as happy as twa wood-pigeons, and talking
owre the settlements o' every thing, that she said to me--
"What did the joiner say last nicht, Willie?--will he be sure no to
disappoint us wi' the furniture?--for I would like everything richt at
the very first."
"Eh! weel-minded, my dear," says I; "I really forgot to gang and see
him, for I was sae tired when I got hame last nicht, that--I couldna be
fashed."