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_The Queer Folk of Fife_:
_Tales from the Kingdom_
BY
DAVID PRYDE, M.A., LL.D.
AUTHOR OF "PLEASANT MEMORIES OF A BUSY LIFE"
"THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE"
"GREAT MEN IN EUROPEAN HISTORY," ETC.
GLASGOW
MORISON BROTHERS
52 RENFIELD STREET
1897
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE BREACH OF PROMISE, 9
HER DEAD SELF, 33
GOD'S OWN SCHOLAR, 52
THE GENTLEMAN TRAMP, 84
THE ONE FATAL MISTAKE, 123
A ROMANCE OF THE HARVEST FIELD, 167
THE BOY HERETIC, 198
HOW THE DEACON BECAME AN ABSTAINER, 240
INTRODUCTION.
Fifty years ago, the little burgh-town of Sandyriggs was a sleepy
place. The inhabitants led, what they themselves called, "an easy-osy
life." So little stir was there in the life of the small shopkeeper
or tradesman, that he might be said to "vegetate." He grew and
flourished where he had been born, and among his own schoolmates and
his parents' cronies, who still called him by the fond familiar name
of his boyhood, "Johnny," or "Jamie," or "Robby," as the case might
be. His place of business was part of his home; and during the day he
oscillated comfortably between the front shop and the back parlour.
There was little competition, and very little anxiety about his trade.
His customers were his friends, and he could rely implicitly on their
support. It happened, therefore, that even in what he called his
busiest time, he had many intervals of leisure during which he was at a
loss what to do.
Of a similar complexion was the life of the small farmers who abounded
in the neighbourhood. The farmer, or "gudeman," as he was called,
toiled, it is true, in the fields by the side of his own servants; but
he had little of the endless anxiety of the husbandmen of the present
time. In those halcyon days of Protection, he was the especial care
of the Lords and Commons of Great Britain and Ireland. They were his
guardian angels. What did it matter to him though the drought burned up
his turnips, and the drenching rains blackened his barley? The prices
rose at once to guard him against loss. Consequently, after his day's
"darg," and when he had exchanged his muddy boots for slippers, and
taken his "four hours" of tea and buttered scones, he could sit down,
snuff-box in hand and free from care, and take his ease by the side
of the blazing kitchen fire. Thus the peasantry, like the townsfolk,
had their intervals of leisure, during which they were open for any
entertainment that might come before them.
Now, the important question came to be, How were these intervals of
leisure to be filled up? There were no daily papers, few magazines, and
few books to satisfy their craving for knowledge. Their minds were,
therefore, obliged to feed upon the gossip of the country side; and so
it came about that the gift of story-telling was cultivated, and that
there were men and women who were recognised as the chroniclers of
the district. These were the public entertainers, and were constantly
called upon to use their gifts, especially for the delight of the
young.
Two of these chroniclers, a couple of the name of Steedman, I chanced
to know. Better samples of "auld-farrant Scotch bodies" could not be
imagined. In no other habitat than a quaint burgh like Sandyriggs
could they have grown up. For many years they had "gathered gear" in
a grocer's "shoppie," and had then retired on a competence. They now
lived in a cottage, crooked, grey, and time-worn like themselves.
A favourite niece waited upon them, for they preferred, after the
patriarchal fashion, to be served by their own kith and kin, and not
by the _frem'd_. Their religion, too, was of the olden type. They were
Original Seceders, would not enter an Established Church, travelled
miles to attend a Dissenting Chapel, believed every iota of the Bible
and the Confession of Faith, kept the Sabbath strictly, abhorred
novels as "parcels o' lees," and looked upon food that had not been
consecrated by a long grace as absolute poison. Yet their religion,
straight-laced though it might be called, did for them what more
fashionable religions sometimes fail to do for their adherents. It made
them far more cheerful, and far more appreciative of the blessings of
life. The snow of winter was on their head, but the warmth of summer
was in their heart. A brighter, _cantier_, and cosier pair could not
be seen. They delighted in all their surroundings: their work, their
religious exercises, their pipe of tobacco, and their nightly glass
of toddy. They were particularly fond of recalling the scenes and
incidents of the Past, and as I was an appreciative listener, I was
always a welcome guest, and in fact was invited to drop in upon them as
often as I could.
As I write, the old couple are before me, one on each side of the
hearth--he, in a brown suit with a cloth cap covering his grey hair,
and with a most intelligent countenance--she, a tidy little body, with
clean-cut features and with coloured ribbons in her cap--he, recalling
with unction some bygone event--she, interpolating occasionally to add
some little detail to complete the narrative--and both radiant with
pleasure, as if the light of other days were warming their hearts and
brightening their faces.
"What a blessing," he would say, "is a good memory--one of the most
precious gifts of God."
After the fashion of old people, they often repeated the stories which
they had told me on former occasions; but I did not object, as I was
thus enabled to realise them more thoroughly.
Some of the scenes and incidents which I acquired in this way, I now
proceed to give as truthfully and clearly as I can.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
After a long dearth of news, an event happened to revive the interest
of the gossips of Sandyriggs. That snug, substantial villa, Townhead
Lodge, which stood within a garden, large and sloping to the south, had
got at last a tenant, a Mr Callendar, whose family consisted of a wife,
a son, and two daughters. And what was most interesting, there was a
mystery about them all! Where they had come from, what was the source
of their income, and why they kept themselves apart, no one knew.
The father drove a gig of his own and was often from home. The mother
was a recluse, and rarely ventured beyond her own walls. But the
one who attracted the most notice was the elder daughter, who was
frequently seen in the streets of the town attended by her brother.
She was a mere girl of sixteen or seventeen, but she was exceedingly
beautiful. Regarding her special charms, I never could learn much,
except that she had a straight and lissome figure, dark hair, clear
blue eyes, and a modest and winning expression, and above all that she
had a sort of glamour about her which bewitched everyone who looked at
her. The family altogether seemed so distinguished, and at the same so
mysterious, that the gossips of the town were all agog to know more
about them. But how was this knowledge to be got? The newcomers were
evidently bent on keeping themselves aloof, and having as little to do
as possible with the natives. There was difficulty even in approaching
them.
The one who overcame this difficulty was the late minister's sister,
Miss MacGuffog, or, as she was familiarly called, "Miss Phemie."
During the lifetime of her brother, who was a bachelor, she had taken
a motherly interest in all the parishioners, and went out and in among
them like a blood relation. After her brother's death, she kept up
the practice. Uncharitable people sneered at her as a busybody; but
they might have spared their sneers. They might have known that a
busybody is not necessarily bad. It was not selfish curiosity, but
kindly interest that was her motive. She was not a scandalmonger, but
a sympathetic friend. Having a high idea of everything connected with
her brother's parish, she was prepared to find good everywhere, and
generally found it. As a matter of course, it had been her custom to
call upon strangers in order to give them a hearty welcome. In this
way she came to know all that was to be known about the Callendars;
and as she held it to be selfish and unneighbourly to keep anything to
herself, she freely communicated her information to the town gossips
who met over afternoon tea.
The information which she had gathered was as follows:--Mr Callendar
was a partner in a firm of English merchants who did a large business
all over the kingdom, and he had come to Scotland to establish a
connection in Fife. Mrs Callendar was somewhat of an invalid, and
passed the most of her time in reading. The elder daughter, Phoebe, was
evidently the pride of her life. "Isn't she handsome and graceful," the
mother had said as she fondly watched her going out of the room, "and
would she not look at home in the highest mansion in the land?" It was
evident that they expected her to make a great marriage.
Meanwhile Miss Callendar's transcendent loveliness was seriously
affecting the male population of the village. What was afterwards
called "the Callendar fever" broke out among the bachelors, both
old and young. And during their fits of delirium they behaved most
absurdly. One began laboriously to train a moustache; another shaved
off his beard to show the fine lines of his face; another allowed his
hair to grow till it fell in ringlets on his shoulders; while gouty
Major Mustard (half-pay) dyed the tuft on his chin, and, looking into
his mirror, said, "Begad! I don't think that she can refuse an officer
of the British Army."
But the one who had the epidemic in the most aggravated form was
Charles Raeburn, the town lawyer, and the laird of the small estate
of Cowslip Brae. Charles was nothing if not poetical; and his ravings
about Miss Callendar took the form of quotations from his favourite
bards. He compared her to Spenser's Una, to Shakespeare's Portia
drawing suitors from the four quarters of the world, to Virgil's Venus
descending upon earth to fascinate mankind. One day (oh, ecstasy!)
she came into his office to make some inquiries for the information
of her father; but (oh, horror!) he lost his head, and gave the
information in such an incoherent manner that she had some difficulty
in understanding him. He wished to appear to her as a man of genius;
but he had conducted himself like an idiot. All that he could do
after this, was to wander round her house on moonlight nights, like a
silly moth (as someone said) fluttering round a wax candle, or like a
forlorn planet (as he himself said) circling round a central luminary.
At length, his cousin, Dr Raeburn, thought to bring him to his senses
by rating him soundly and telling him plainly that he was "carrying
on like a lunatic." And, to the doctor's utter astonishment, Charles
agreed with him.
"Yes," said the poor fool, "you are quite right. I _am_ a lunatic--a
monomaniac. I'm haunted by one idea, one image. It appears in my
dreams. It fills my waking hours. Position, friends, relations, are
dross compared with her. I would rather have her than the largest
estate, than a whole county, than a continent, than a bright new planet
all to myself."
But it was in the church on Sunday where the hopeless infatuation
of the young men of the town was noticed. During the whole of the
service, their eyes were fixed upon this young girl. Her pew was the
pulpit, and she herself was both the preacher and the sermon. And one
Sunday a strange phenomenon happened. The church, which was dingy and
dark even at midsummer, appeared to be lighted up in some mysterious
way. How came this to pass? On the previous Sunday, one of the many
rivals, in order to attract the eyes of his goddess, had appeared in
white waistcoat and white necktie; and all the others had lost no time
in following suit.
How did Miss Callendar conduct herself under all this idolatry? Most
modestly. When she appeared on the streets with her little brother by
her side, she saluted everybody with a good-natured smile. She smiled
on Major Mustard, and set his well-worn heart palpitating. She also
smiled on Peter Samuel the mercer's apprentice, when coming into the
shop unexpectedly she asked to see some gloves; and when Peter shook
all over while he was showing her the gloves, and answered confusedly,
she smiled still more sweetly.
"Bright as the sun her eyes all gazers strike,
And like the sun they shine on all alike."
One Sunday there appeared in the church a stranger, like a being from
another sphere. That he was an aristocrat was evident. He had an
elegant figure, clean-cut features, and easy manners; and, as Peter
Samuel remarked, "was dressed up to the nines, and looked as if he
had come out of a bandbox." In fact, he was a regular London-made
exquisite, "a dandy," "a swell." Nor was there any mistake about the
object of his visit. All during the service his eyes were fixed on
Phoebe Callendar, the village beauty. That evening, too, in the Orchard
Lane he was seen walking with her. Her little brother, indeed, was
there. But the exquisite, with that ease which high society gives, and
which local beaux can never acquire, was looking into her face and
talking, while she blushed and held down her head. In a few days she
disappeared. Had she eloped? Sandyriggs was in a ferment.
At last Miss Phemie MacGuffog solved the mystery. Miss Callendar's
young lover was the heir to a dukedom. Her parents, alarmed at the
intimacy, and thoroughly disapproving of it, had sent her to a
boarding-school in England; and she was never seen again in Sandyriggs.
In a few months the family gave up their house and departed southwards.
The one who was most affected by Miss Callendar's departure was
Charles Raeburn. He grew melancholy, lost his appetite and his sleep,
and wandered about like a ghost. He was like the traveller, when the
moon, which has lightened and beautified his path over hill and dale,
suddenly goes down and leaves him to stumble on in the dark. In a
short time he vanished; and when months elapsed without bringing any
intelligence regarding him, his neighbours gave him up for lost.
A few years passed, and the inhabitants had almost forgotten the
Callendars, when they were startled by a short paragraph in the county
newspaper, to the effect that Miss Phoebe Callendar was about to bring
an action for breach of promise of marriage against the Duke of----.
Here was an interesting subject to talk about! A breach of promise
against a duke by a former inhabitant of Sandyriggs, a girl whom they
all knew! The whole district was in a flutter of excitement. When the
trial came on in London, the editor of the _County Chronicle_ employed
a special correspondent to give a report of it; and when the newspaper
containing the account of the trial arrived, it was devoured with
breathless interest, and handed about from house to house.
After describing the appearance of the Court, and naming the famous
barristers and attorneys employed on both sides, the reporter went on
to say that the plaintiff, seated in a prominent place beside her legal
advisers, was "the cynosure of every eye," and her exquisite beauty,
and modest but melancholy expression, captivated at once not only the
ordinary onlookers, but even the gentlemen of the jury themselves.
"The Attorney-General stated her case with all that romantic and
touching eloquence for which he is famous. 'The plaintiff,' he said,
'was a young lady of the greatest personal attractions. When first she
drew the attention of the defendant, she was living in retirement at
the small town of Sandyriggs in Fife. She was a mere girl, attending
to her lessons under the watchful care of her mother, and thinking
of nothing but her daily duties and her innocent amusements. She
was, indeed, the life of her parents' hearts, the idol of her young
companions, and the delight and pride of the whole village. But this
golden age was not to last long; into this innocent paradise the
serpent was soon to find his way. The defendant, then the Honourable
Algernon Colenutt, an Oxford student, happened to be spending his
vacation at a mansion in the neighbourhood. He heard of this charming
young creature--this beauty of Sandyriggs, as she was called,--and he
resolved to see her. It was no mere idle curiosity. He was one of those
golden youths who think that everything is made for their amusement,
that women especially are but toys that may be played with for a time,
and then cast aside for ever.'
"'On a particular Sunday this gay Lothario attended the Sandyriggs
church. His presence there was noticed by most of the congregation; and
it was particularly remarked that his eyes were upon Miss Callendar
during the whole service, and that, in fact, he was completely
spellbound. Then in the evening he was seen talking to her in a lane
near her own house. He had waylaid her, and it was then, it seems,
that he gained her affections. By such a lover--young, handsome,
aristocratic, elegant in dress and manners, polished in speech and
adroit in flattery--was it surprising that the simple country maiden
was won? Ere they parted she plighted her troth to him; and, proud
of her conquest, the poor girl lost no time in making her mother her
confidante.'
"'Now, Gentlemen of the Jury, you will very likely be told by my
learned brother, the counsel for the defence, that Miss Callendar's
parents were artful schemers, using every device to entrap an unwary
nobleman. But what did they do as soon as they heard of this courtship?
They immediately sent their daughter away to a boarding-school in
England, and afterwards to France, to be out of the way of this
aristocratic wooer. They were too sensible not to see that such a
connection would be unequal, and likely to prove dangerous to the
happiness of both parties. But their precautions were unavailing. The
defendant was not to be denied. He contrived to find out where his
beloved was, and to continue the correspondence; and after he had
succeeded to the dukedom, and after the Callendars had settled down in
England, at Woodhurst, about sixty miles from his ducal castle, his
attentions became more assiduous. He visited her at her father's house,
and sent many letters,--some of which I now produce,--and all of which
are full of the warmest protestations and the most endearing terms of
affection. At length the wedding was fixed for July, and Miss Callendar
and her mother set themselves to make all the necessary preparations.
Up to this time, there had not been the slightest hitch, the slightest
misunderstanding, and the happiness of the young couple seemed to be
assured. But ere the appointed day arrived, what was the consternation
of the Callendars to read in the newspaper the announcement that the
Duke of ---- had been married to Miss Fortescue Devlin. At first they
could not believe the statement; but after inquiry they found that it
was only too true. And, Gentlemen of the Jury, I can only leave you
to imagine what a disastrous effect this sudden perfidy has had on my
client. Her loving heart has been broken, and her fair young life has
been for ever blighted.'
"'I believe that my learned brother is to take up the bold and
desperate position that these facts are not true, and that the written
correspondence is a forgery. What! a young, timid, and unsophisticated
girl sitting down deliberately to forge, not one letter, but a whole
bundle of letters, and doing it so accurately that she has deceived
those who are best acquainted with the defendant's handwriting! Why,
Gentlemen, the idea is preposterous, it is inconceivable, it is wholly
and absolutely ridiculous!' (Derisive laughter, which was immediately
suppressed.)
"The Attorney-General then proceeded to call witnesses in order to
prove his statements. The sister of the plaintiff told that she had
seen the defendant several times at her father's house, and in the
company of her sister, and mentioned one occasion particularly,
the 20th of May, which she had good cause to remember, because it
was the fair day at the neighbouring village of Woodhurst, and the
defendant presented her with a sovereign as a fairing. The mother gave
evidence as to the receiving of the defendant's letters, and about
her daughter's letters in reply being posted. An old clergyman, who
had been the defendant's tutor, swore that the handwriting of the
letters was that of his former pupil. These witnesses were severely
cross-examined, but their evidence on the whole remained unshaken.
"Then Mr Ridley, the counsel for the Duke, arose. He was famous as a
defender of abandoned criminals, and generally as a cunning handler
of the most desperate cases. It was no uncommon thing for him to
bully witnesses, and browbeat even the judge himself. Everybody,
therefore, expected strong statements from him, but few were prepared
for the merciless terms which he now used. Standing up, and looking
round with a confident, triumphant air, he began his speech. 'The
Attorney-General,' he said, 'in referring to the ground which was to
be taken up for the defence, had scouted the idea of such a young and
delicate creature perpetrating forgery. But my learned friend ought
to know that in the history of crime there have been young girls as
delicate and as refined as the plaintiff, who have been guilty of
this heinous offence. I have only to refer to the cases of Elizabeth
Canning and Mary Glen. In spite, therefore, of what the learned
Attorney-General has said, I now assert, and am prepared to prove, that
the plaintiff, guileless and modest as she looks, has perpetrated one
of the most daring and elaborate forgeries in the whole of our criminal
history.'
"At this assertion, uttered in a slow, distinct, and severe tone, Miss
Callendar burst into tears, and was so completely overcome that she
had to leave the Court. Cries of 'Shame, shame,' were hurled at the
head of the counsel. But he, nothing abashed, looked round defiantly,
and repeated the phrase with greater incisiveness; and went on in the
same remorseless way to maintain that his client had scarcely ever seen
Miss Callendar, had scarcely ever spoken to her, had scarcely ever
written to her, and had certainly never made any promise of marriage.
The audience glanced occasionally at the Attorney-General to see what
effect this flat denial of all his assertions would have upon him; but
he remained quite calm, just as if nothing unusual had been said.
"Mr Ridley then proceeded to examine his witnesses in the same
peremptory style; and ever as he drew from them some important bit of
evidence, he gave a triumphant look at the jury, as much as to say,
'What do you think of that? Wasn't what I told you true?' One was made
to confess that the defendant had never seen Miss Callendar since his
accession to the title; another, that the letters which had been read
swarmed with ridiculous errors as to matter of fact; and another,
that the handwriting was totally unlike that of the defendant.
These witnesses were cross-examined, but took care not to contradict
themselves. At all this, Miss Callendar's partisans, of whom there
were many amongst the audience, were puzzled and even confounded;
but an audible whisper, 'they are all relatives, and have got up the
story,' restored their confidence. It was evident, too, that the
Attorney-General felt that something was wrong; because he turned round
to talk with the agent. But the audience was again perplexed by what
followed.
"An innkeeper from Welldon, fifty miles from Woodhurst, was put into
the box. In answer to examination, he said, 'that he knew the Duke
of ----; that on the 20th of May, the day of Woodhurst Fair, and the
day when he was said to have been at the house of the plaintiff, the
Duke arrived in a post-chaise on his way to Market Bruton; that there
could be no mistake about this, for here were the receipts for the post
horses.' And these receipts were handed to the jury to examine.
"But the most startling bit of evidence was yet to come. A young
lady entered the witness-box, kissed the Book, and was subjected to
the following questioning:--(_Q._) You are Miss Ironside? (_A._)
Yes. (_Q._) You live at Woodhurst? (_A._) I do. (_Q._) You know the
plaintiff? (_A._) I do. (_Q._) You remember a ball taking place at
Lyndcaster? (_A._) I do. (_Q._) What was the date? (_A._) Last year, in
the month of April. (_Q._) Who went with you to the ball? (_A._) Miss
Phoebe Callendar. (_Q._) How was she dressed? (_A._) In white, with
one red rose in her hair. (_Q._) Was there any person that she wished
particularly to see at the ball? (_A._) The Duke of ----. (_Q._) How
did you know that? (_A._) She told me. (_Q._) Look at that letter. Do
you know the handwriting? (_A._) Yes. (_Q._) Whose is it? (_A._) Miss
Callendar's. (_Q._) You are sure? (_A._) Quite sure. Then Mr Ridley,
turning to the jury, said he would read the letter, which was as
follows:--
"'_April 18._
"'MY DEAR LORD DUKE,--I hope that you will excuse a stranger giving
you a bit of information which may be for your advantage. You are, I
understand, going to the public ball at Lyndcaster. Well, you will see
there a young lady to whom you lost your heart some years ago, and
who has remained constant to you ever since. She is more graceful and
beautiful than ever, and fit to be the bride of a prince. You will
recognise her at once, for she will be dressed in white, with a red
rose stuck in her raven hair.--I am, my dear Lord Duke, your sincere
well-wisher.
C'
"This letter fell upon the audience like a bombshell, and created the
greatest excitement and consternation. But it was evident from the
whispers of 'got up,' and 'bribed by the relations,' that the audience
had not even yet given up Miss Callendar. And they were very much
relieved when they saw the Attorney-General rise. He was evidently
going to put a stop to this wholesale slander and forgery. Alas,
however, for their hopes! Instead of hearing him expose the evidence
that was being given, they heard him make an admission that has very
seldom been made in a court of law. In a perfectly calm voice and
manner he said that this letter had come upon them as a surprise, that
they had neither the time nor the means of throwing any light upon it,
and that, therefore, with the concurrence of his learned friends, the
attorneys for the plaintiff, he now begged leave to withdraw from the
contest. Under these circumstances the plaintiff would be non-suited.
Accordingly the case was dismissed; the letter was impounded in order
that Miss Callendar might be indicted for conspiracy; and the audience
dispersed amid murmurs of astonishment. But it was noted that while
the elder members of the crowd muttered their detestation of Miss
Callendar's shameless forgery, the young men were louder than ever in
their admiration."
"What a fascinating girl she must be," said one, "to be able to take in
the sharpest attorneys and the most learned counsel at the bar! what a
clever little witch!"
"By Jove," cried another, in a strong Irish accent, "she's too good for
a duke's wife. She ought to be a queen. She _is_ a queen, the queen of
love and beauty, and should be classed with Helen of Troy, Cleopatra,
and Mary Queen of Scots; and, bedad, it's meself that should loike to
be Paris or Antony or Bothwell."
Next morning a note appeared in one of the London newspapers stating
that Miss Callendar had been apprehended on a charge of forgery; but it
was not true. She had vanished, and no one knew where she was.
Imagine the excitement now in Sandyriggs after this report had been
read! The town became a fermenting vat of scandal. Whispers swarmed
as fast as gnats in August, and, like gnats, they flew abroad and
buzzed in the ears of the public. The case was discussed at every
shop-counter, at every tea-table, at every street corner, in every
public-house, on every turnip field. People who had never spoken to
each other before, exclaimed as they passed each other, "Isn't this
a dreadful affair?" And it was astonishing to find that everyone had
foreseen, nay, had hinted such a catastrophe. So many people pose as
true prophets after the fact!
Even Miss Phemie MacGuffog was forced to forego her usual charitable
views, and to confess that the poor unfortunate girl had been ruined by
her training. Every circumstance, she said, was against her. Her father
was a worldly man, engrossed with money-making, and seldom at home. Her
mother, a silly woman, was abandoned to romance reading, and neglected
her everyday duties, and lived in a world of unreality. The poor girl
herself got no solid education. She had no need, her mother told her,
to be clever or accomplished. She was lovely, which was far better,
and would undoubtedly make a grand match and be a titled lady. To look
handsome, and graceful, and fascinating, therefore, was all that she
required to do. And the despatching of her to a boarding-school, and
then to the Continent, in order to escape her aristocratic admirer,
was a mere device. She was sent to a boarding establishment near Oxford
because _he_ was a student there, and she afterwards went to France to
continue her education because _he_ had gone there. And Miss Phemie was
told that the education which she received at both these places was of
the flimsiest kind, being limited to the singing of one or two songs,
the hammering out on the piano of one or two classical pieces, and
the copying of one or two drawings. The most of the pupils' time and
attention was devoted to talking about fine dresses, equipages, balls,
and aristocratic admirers. "In fact," concluded Miss Phemie, "they were
evidently taught to look upon the world, not as a sphere of duty and
labour, but as a big _cookie shine_."
The worthy people of Sandyriggs were still discussing this strange
catastrophe, when a new surprise claimed their notice. Intelligence
came regarding the long-lost Charles Raeburn. His cousin, the doctor,
received a letter from him, bearing the postmark of a town in Spain,
and empowering him to sell Cowslip Brae and transmit the price. Before
the gossips had ceased to puzzle their brains over this extraordinary
sacrifice, another letter arrived and explained the whole mystery. In
the frankest and most straight-forward language, Charles Raeburn told
his cousin the following romantic tale:--
"I felt that I could not remain in Sandyriggs after the object of my
adoration had gone. So I followed her to Oxford and to France, and back
again to England, and was present at the trial. From my professional
experience I very soon saw how judgment was likely to go, and what a
terrible fate was hanging over the head of the unfortunate girl. So,
when stung by Ridley's merciless language, she left the Court abruptly,
I followed her, and in presence of her mother told her that the verdict
was almost certain to be against her, and that, if it were so, she
would be apprehended for forgery. While she stood aghast and dumb at
this intelligence, I offered my assistance, and they accepted it. I
went with them at once to their hotel, paid their bill, packed their
luggage, and had everything ready for flight. As soon as the result
which I had anticipated was announced, we were off, and by next morning
were on the Continent. I took rooms for them in this town, and a
lodging for myself not far off, and here we remained till we could see
what ought to be done.
"One morning, Miss Callendar sent to say that she wanted to see me.
When I went to her, she told me with tears in her lovely eyes that her
mother must go back to her husband in England, but that she herself
must remain abroad; and what could she do to earn her bread? Would I,
the only friend she now had, advise her? What could I do but offer, as
her husband, to protect and cherish her for the rest of her life. She
started back in horror, declared that she was a criminal, a felon, a
forger who ought to be in prison, and utterly unworthy to be the wife
of an honest man, and that she would not bring disgrace on one whom she
esteemed so much, whom--and here she gave way and cried most bitterly.
Then there flashed through my brain and heart Spenser's exquisite
lines:--
"'Nought is there under heav'n's wide hollownesse
That moves more deare compassion of mind
Than beautie brought t' unworthy wretchednesse
Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks unkind.
I, whether lately through her brightnesse blind,
Or through alleageance and fast fealtie,
Which I do owe unto all womankind,
Feele my hart perst with so great agony,
When such I see, that all for pity I could die.'
"These were the very feelings that were thrilling through me. I lost
control of myself. Dropping down on my knees and seizing her hand, I
poured out my whole soul. What I said I cannot recall; but at last
she reluctantly consented to marry me, on condition that I would do
my very best to teach her to be a good woman and a dutiful wife. Poor
broken-hearted darling, she was more sinned against than sinning. The
persons really to blame were her mercenary father and her novel-reading
mother, who neglected her education, and that hollow-hearted aristocrat
who trifled with her innocence. And most touching it is to see how
humble and yet how loving she is, and how her face is still 'combating
with tears and smiles.' If she is not to be forgiven, there can be no
such thing as forgiveness on earth. I am sure that I have done what is
right. Away from her, I would have been in outer darkness. Beside her,
I am in Paradise."
HER DEAD SELF.
The narrative which I am about to give was a prime favourite at the
winter firesides of the parish. Its chief incident is so extraordinary,
that it has often been scouted as an improbability. But it is literally
true, as may be ascertained by those who will take the trouble to
investigate the chronicles of the period.
In the early years of the present century, the principal baker
in Sandyriggs was Alister Gow. He had one son, Donald, and five
daughters. The four elder girls, Flora, Ellen, Marjory, and Nora, were
good-looking, with bright complexions and red cheeks; the youngest,
Mysie, was plain, with irregular features and dingy colour. The four
soon found husbands, thriving tradesmen in the place, who gave them
what was called "a good setting down"; but no one came to court Mysie,
and she remained at home to attend to the comfort of her parents, and
specially to take charge of the shop.
"And when are you gaun aff, Mysie," said old Wull Spears, the most
impudent man in the parish, "when are you gaun to be knocked doon to
the highest bidder?"
"Oh!" said Mysie, in the bright manner peculiar to her, "I'm no in the
market; there's nae demand for gudes like me."
"I wadna wonder," continued Wull, "that ye're gaun to be an auld maid."
"And what for no?" replied Mysie. "Maids, like Scotch whisky, improve
by growin' auld."
The years rolled by and brought changes. While Mysie's married sisters,
harassed by the ceaseless worries of housekeeping and child-rearing,
became more and more careworn, Mysie herself, able and willing for
all her duties, grew cantier and cantier every day. While they began
to lose their good looks, she began to lose her plainness. The truth
is, that she was, though probably she did not know it, a practical
philosopher; and in a business-like manner she weighed the advantages
and disadvantages of her lot.
"What have I kept," she said to herself, "by remaining single? Good
health, good spirits, home comforts, congenial employment, pleasant
friends and neighbours. And what have I lost? A husband! And what is a
husband? A pig in a poke, a lottery ticket that may take a prize but is
far more likely to get a blank. If I'm not happy now, I never deserve
to be."
So she resolved to keep a contented mind, to dwell on the blessings
she had, and not on those which she had not, to make the most of her
life, and to find something good in everything. She was cheerful
under all circumstances, and had a smile and a kind word for all her
fellow-creatures. As the old people expressed it, "she was everybody's
body." However dull and cheerless the weather might be in the streets
of the town, there was always sunshine in the baker's shop at the
corner of Water Lane. And this genial, kindly disposition soon began
to tell upon her own appearance. It actually cleared her complexion,
brightened her eyes, and made her look (as an old woman remarked)
"halesome, wicelike, and bonny." She became a walking proof of the
truth of the proverb that "a kindly disposition is the best cosmetic."
And thus it happened, that not only old people and children were
attracted by her, but even wooers; and among them came (wonderful to
relate) the dandy draper, the woman-killer, the gay Lothario of the
town.
This was Bob Dallas. The worship of his mother and sisters had
convinced him that he was an Adonis; and the bright smiles of the
village maidens had confirmed this belief. "A' the lasses," his sisters
would remark to a friend, "are in love wi' oor Bob;" and his mother,
in her strong idiomatic Scotch, would add--"Toots, ye ken, they'll no
lie aff 'im." Accordingly, he wore on his countenance a constant smirk
of satisfaction, and he entered a company as if to the tune, "See
the Conquering Hero comes." He sought female society to captivate,
not to sue, to receive admiration, not to give it. A pretty girl was
a plaything to be taken up for a short time, and then changed for
something else. Some people called this conduct cruelty; but he thought
it kindness. A smile from him, he believed, was a favour which every
woman would prize.
It was this notorious flirt that now fixed his eye upon Mysie. She
was different from the pink-and-white damsels with whom he had been
accustomed to trifle; but it was this very difference that fascinated
him. He began to "show her attention" at every opportunity, to walk
home with her from church, and to go frequently to her shop in the
evening. At first, Mysie was surprised and not a little amused. She
joked with him, telling him that if he was often seen with her his
many admirers would hate her, and, what would be more dreadful, his
reputation as a judge of female beauty would be gone. And when, one
evening after the shop was closed, he actually went the length of
asking her to be his wife, she laughed outright in his face, and told
him that he didn't know his own mind, that he would tire of her plain
features in a fortnight, and that she could never be any more to him
than a sincere well-wisher.
But when, like a spoilt child unaccustomed to be balked, he sulked and
mooned about the streets with a pale and miserable face, and at the end
of a few weeks sent her a frenzied letter, vowing that if he could not
win her he would drown himself in the loch, she relented. She was too
charitable to believe that he was not in dead earnest, and what could
she do but ask him to call upon her? And when, dropping on his knees,
he shed tears and vowed that she was the only one he had ever loved,
the only one he would ever love, she yielded and promised to be his
wife.
Mysie was now happier than ever. Though she had been quite content to
remain single, she was delighted to have gained the exclusive devotion
of a man. Though well able by herself to fight the battle of life, she
felt that her happiness would be made more sure by having constantly
by her side one whom she could call her own, her other self. There was
also a special _éclat_ in having won the prize which so many had in
vain competed for.
"My certie," said Mrs Patullo, the minister's wife, when she looked in
at the shop, along with her husband and her son Tom, to congratulate
her, "my certie! it's something to have killed the Lady-killer."
"Yes! Mysie," said the minister, "you have caught and tamed the roving
zebra of the desert, who has hitherto been thought untamable."
"Ay," added Master Tom, who had contracted the abominable habit of
punning, "and you are now going to lead him to the _halter_."
Mysie set about preparing for her marriage in a business-like way.
Very little time was spent in billing and cooing. An early day was
fixed for the ceremony. A small house was taken, and suitable furniture
ordered. And that she might have her trousseau ready in time, she
called in her cousin, Bessie Gayley, to assist her. Bessie was a
good-looking, bright damsel, ready with her tongue, with her wits,
and with her hands,--up to anything, equal to any emergency. She made
herself generally useful and agreeable, helped in the house and in the
shop, and when Mysie was specially occupied of an evening, entertained
Bob with her chit-chat.
It was just two days before the date fixed for the wedding. Mysie had
closed the shop, and was sitting in the back parlour. She was alone,
for her father and mother were in the kitchen, and Bessie and Bob had
gone out on some errand of their own. She felt rather depressed,--a
state which was very unusual with her, and which she could not account
for. In a short time she heard Bob and Bessie come in. Then there
occurred a few awful moments which she never forgot for the rest of
her life, and which made her heart throb. First, there was an earnest
whispering in the passage, then a strange silence, and at last the door
opened. She rose instinctively to her feet, for she saw by their faces
that some calamity had happened.
"What is it?" she exclaimed. "Why don't you tell me?"
Bessie looked at Bob as if urging him to speak, and Bob, blushing and
stammering, said, "I'm very sorry, Mysie; but I can't help it. I like
you very much, but I don't feel towards you as a husband should do. The
fact is that Bessie and I have discovered that we were made for each
other."
Mysie stared at them for a moment, thinking that it might possibly be
a joke; but their guilty looks showed that it was a stern reality.
Clutching the back of her chair, and mustering all her natural strength
of character, she said, in a voice preternaturally calm:
"So, Mr Dallas, you have found out that you can't give me the affection
of a husband! Well, I'll manage to do without it; and at any rate I'm
glad that you have told me in time. As for you, you serpent in the form
of a woman, I'll leave you to the punishment of your own conscience.
And if you have not got such an article, as seems very likely, it will
be punishment enough to be tethered for life to that fickle fool that
stands beside you." So saying, she passed out of the room, leaving the
pair standing with guilt-stricken countenances.
It is well known that the lower animals often attack and even torment
one of their own kind when he is sick or wounded. A good deal of this
bestial habit still lingers among men. When distress falls upon us,
our friends often aggravate that distress. They do not know, perhaps,
that they are doing it, but still they do it. Had Mysie been left to
herself, her own good sense and courage would have buoyed her up,
and enabled her to trample her sorrow under foot. But when she went
abroad, people would not allow her to forget that sorrow. Those who
were her friends condoled with her. Those who were not her friends
stared at her. She felt that the town was in a buzz about her affairs.
And at home the tormenting process was even worse. Her mother bemoaned
the slight that had fallen on the family. Her brother breathed forth
threatenings against the features and limbs of the culprit. Her father
talked incessantly about raising an action for breach of promise. In
vain she told her mother and brother that they would best keep up the
family honour, not by bewailings and threatenings, but by looking as
if they thought the rupture of the engagement a blessed release. In
vain she told her father that legal proceedings were not to be thought
of, and that while they might be a punishment to Dallas, they would
be a far greater punishment to herself. Morning, noon, and night, the
worrying went on.
At length her highly-strung nervous system, which had buoyed her up
above all her other troubles, fairly broke down. She lost the power
of sleeping. She lost her appetite. A strange nausea took possession
of her, and everything grew distasteful, and life itself became
an intolerable burden. From having been the embodiment of happy
good-nature, she changed into a woe-begone hypochondriac. And people
unknowingly aggravated her disease by expressing astonishment at her
altered appearance, by telling her that she looked very ill, and by
bursting forth afresh into recriminations against the man that had
jilted her. Then there came a morning when her room was found empty,
and a note upon the dressing-table told her parents that she could bear
the atmosphere of Sandyriggs no longer, and that she was off to a place
where no one knew her, and where she would have perfect peace.
Blank consternation fell upon the family. When they recovered a little,
the brother swore that he would go and smash Dallas, the author of all
their woe; and the mother's impulse was to run abroad and get sympathy
and advice from her neighbours. But the father, with far more tact and
knowledge of the world, insisted that the first thing to be done at all
hazards, was to prevent any scandal. They must not of their own accord
say anything about the matter, and if any question should be asked,
they must answer that she had gone to a friend's for a complete rest.
Meanwhile they must try to find her.
This was no easy task. The very fact that they could not talk about
it prevented them from getting any assistance from the outside world.
For two or three days the brother, Donald, under pretence of paying
ceremonious calls, made the round of all their intimate friends and
relatives in the neighbouring farm towns and villages; but every night
he returned worn-out, and with a despairing shake of the head intimated
that he had got no trace of the lost one.
Then there flashed into the father's mind the thought that she would
likely be in Edinburgh; and he wondered that it had never occurred to
him before. Why, a large town was the very place where a person, sick
of being stared at and worried by inquisitive neighbours, would find
rest; and they had a cousin there in whose house she would very likely
get a lodging. Accordingly, the father and son set out at once, crossed
the Firth in the ferry-boat from Pettycur to Leith, and then walked up
Leith Walk to Edinburgh. They went to the cousin's address in Broughton
Street, but found that she had moved at the last term, and none of the
neighbours could tell where she had gone. Wearied out and disheartened,
they put up at a hotel at Greenside, where they both passed an anxious
and a restless night.
Next morning, for want of a better plan, they resolved to look for
Mysie in the thoroughfares, the father taking the New Town and the
brother taking the Old Town. The unhappy old man spent most of the day
in wandering up and down the streets, looking in vain amid the throng
of strange and unsympathetic faces for those familiar kindly eyes that
had been the light of his home. Jaded and perplexed, he had returned
to his hotel in the early afternoon, when the landlord, whom he had
taken into his confidence the night before, laid the advertisement
sheet of a newspaper before him, and pointed to a paragraph headed
"Found Drowned." He glanced rapidly over it, and to his horror saw that
it was a description of his lost daughter. There could be no mistake.
The age, the complexion, the features, the hair, all corresponded.
Like one stunned by a heavy blow on the head, the old man sat still
for a moment. Then, driven by a feeling made up of hope and fear, he
hurried to the police office in the High Street, all unconscious of the
traffic that rumbled and buzzed around him. In a short time he found
himself in the death-chamber, in presence of a prostrate and shrouded
form, lying so terribly still and quiet; and in another second the
facecloth was removed, and his worst fears were realised. Yes! in the
stiff waxen mask he recognised that countenance which had so lately
been the joy of everyone who looked upon it. He stood gazing at it like
a man in a trance, till his pent-up feelings found vent in tears. Then
it was that there occurred a most extraordinary circumstance--what
would be deemed incredible, were it not vouched for by the chroniclers
of the time. The door opened, and, in company with his son, there
appeared the very woman whose fate he was bewailing and whose dead form
he was gazing upon. She came forward, and her face took on a look of
intense surprise at what she saw.