THE CHANGED BRIDES.
BY
MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
AUTHOR OF “HOW HE WON HER,” “FAIR PLAY,” “THE BRIDES’ FATE,” “THE
DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE LOST
HEIRESS,” “THE FORTUNE SEEKER,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE FATAL MARRIAGE,”
“THE MISSING BRIDE,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “LADY OF THE
ISLE,” “GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “VIVIA,” “WIFE’S VICTORY,” “MOTHER-IN-LAW,”
“INDIA,” “THE THREE BEAUTIES,” “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE DESERTED
WIFE,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,”
“THE WIDOW’S SON,” “PRINCE OF DARKNESS.”
’TIS AN OLD TALE, AND OFTEN TOLD—
A MAIDEN TRUE, BETRAYED FOR GOLD.—SCOTT.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.
Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume.
_FAIR PLAY, OR, THE TEST OF THE LONE ISLE._
_HOW HE WON HER, A SEQUEL TO FAIR PLAY._
_THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS._
_THE MOTHER-IN-LAW._
_THE THREE BEAUTIES._
_THE WIFE’S VICTORY._
_THE CHANGED BRIDES._
_THE BRIDES’ FATE. SEQUEL TO CHANGED BRIDES._
_THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN._
_THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY._
_THE FORTUNE SEEKER._
_THE DESERTED WIFE._
_THE LOST HEIRESS._
_RETRIBUTION._
_FALLEN PRIDE; OR, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE._
_THE FATAL MARRIAGE._
_THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD._
_LOVE’S LABOR WON._
_THE MISSING BRIDE._
_LADY OF THE ISLE._
_THE TWO SISTERS._
_INDIA; OR, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER._
_VIVIA; OR, THE SECRET OF POWER._
_THE CURSE OF CLIFTON._
_THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER._
_THE WIDOW’S SON._
_ALLWORTH ABBEY._
_THE BRIDAL EVE._
Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.
Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the
above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on
receipt of their price by the Publishers,
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.
TO
MISS EDITH HENSHAW,
OF WASHINGTON CITY;
THIS
WORK IS INSCRIBED,
WITH
THE LOVE OF HER SISTER.
PROSPECT COTTAGE,
GEORGETOWN, D. C.
MAY, 1869.
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. —ON THE EVE OF A GRAND WEDDING 23
II. —AT THE OLD HALL 41
III. —THE HOUSELESS WANDERER AND THE BRIDE ELECT 53
IV. —A CHILD’S LOVE 57
V. —THE CHILD MEETS HER FATE 71
VI. —THE NEXT FEW YEARS 83
VII. —THE GIRL’S FIRST GRIEF 94
VIII. —FATAL LOVE 104
IX. —BRIDAL FAVORS 113
X. —WHAT WAS DONE WITH DRUSILLA 128
XI. —JOY FOR DRUSILLA 142
XII. —A REALLY HAPPY BRIDE 153
XIII. —THE CHILD BRIDE AT HOME 162
XIV. —THE WILD WOOD HOME BY DAY 167
XV. —CLOUDLESS JOYS 176
XVI. —A QUEEN OF FASHION 190
XVII. —MORAL MADNESS 197
XVIII. —A DARK RIDE 202
XIX. —A NEGLECTED WIFE 211
XX. —RIVALRY 217
XXI. —THE SORROWS OF THE YOUNG WIFE 222
XXII. —DIFFICULTIES OF DECEPTION 232
XXIII. —SILENT SORROW 241
XXIV. —THE SPECTRAL FACE 248
XXV. —CAUGHT 255
XXVI. —A MEMORABLE NIGHT 262
XXVII. —A GREAT DISCOVERY 270
XXVIII. —HIS LOVE 278
XXIX. —HER LOVE 284
XXX. —BREAKING 293
XXXI. —FIRST ABSENCE 303
XXXII. —BRIGHT HOPES 307
XXXIII. —A SURPRISE 316
XXXIV. —GONE FOR GOOD 326
XXXV. —CRUEL TREACHERY 334
XXXVI. —AGONY 346
XXXVII. —SUSPENSE 355
XXXVIII. —HOPING AGAINST HOPE 365
XXXIX. —DICK HAMMOND IS ASTONISHED 372
XL. —DICK’S NEWS 387
XLI. —PROOFS 403
XLII. —DRUSILLA’S DESTINATION 410
XLIII. —THE DREARY NIGHT RIDE 419
XLIV. —HOW SHE SPED 437
XLV. —DRUSILLA’S ARRIVAL 445
XLVI. —THE DESPERATE REMEDY 459
XLVII. —EXPOSURE 478
XLVIII. —BALM FOR THE BRUISED HEART 492
THE CHANGED BRIDES.
CHAPTER I.
ON THE EYE OF A GRAND WEDDING.
Blow, blow, thou wintry wind!
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Altho’ thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky!
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot;
Tho’ thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.—SHAKSPEARE.
A wild and wintry night, in a wild and wintry scene! The old turnpike
road running through the mountain pass, lonely at the best times, seemed
quite deserted now.
The old Scotch toll-gate keeper sat shivering over his blazing hickory
wood fire, and listening to the dashing rain and beating wind that
seemed to threaten the destruction of his rude dwelling.
His old wife sat near him, spinning yarn from a small wheel that she
turned with the united action of hand and foot.
“Ugh!” shuddered the old man, as a blast fiercer than ever shook the
house, “it ’ill ding down the old dwelling next, and no harm done! An it
were once blown away, the company would behoove to build us anither
strong enough to stand the storms o’ these parts. Hech! but it’s awfu’
cold.”
“Pit anither log on the fire, gudeman. Wood’s plenty enough, that’s a
blessing,” said the old woman, without ceasing to turn her wheel.
“Wha’s the use, Jenny? Ye’ll no warm sic an old place as this. Eh,
woman, but whiles my knees are roasting, my back is freezing.”
“Aweel, then gae away to bed wid ye, Andy, and I’ll tuck ye up warm, and
bring ye your hot toddy.”
“Nay, Jenny, worse luck, I maun sit up to let the bridegroom through the
gate.”
“The bridegroom? Hoot, man! He’ll no pass the road on sic a wild night
as this.”
“Will he no, and his bonny bride waiting? Jenny, woman, what like o’
wind or weather would ha’ stopt me the day we were gaun to be married?
So ye maun gie me my pipe, gudewife, for I bide here to open the gate
for the blithe bridegroom to pass through.”
“But he maun see that no tender lassie can take the road in sic a storm
as this, and they were to be married by special license at nine, and gae
away in a grand travelling carriage at ten, to meet the steamboat at
eleven. But that can no be now, for the rain is comin’ down like Noah’s
flood, and the wind blowing a hurricane, to say naething o’ the roads
all being turned into rinning rivers,” argued Jenny.
“It will be for _her_ to decide whether it can or canna be. It will be
for _him_ to take the road in the worst weather that ever fell from
heaven, if it be to keep his tryst with his troth-plighted bride. So gie
me my pipe, Jenny, for I’se stop up to let the bridegroom gae by.”
“He willna come now, and so ye’ll see, gudeman,” said the wife, as she
filled his pipe, and pressed the tobacco well down into the bowl with
her big fore finger.
“An he does na come through wind or rain or snow, or ony ither like o’
weather the Lord please to send this night, and I were Miss Anna Lyon,
I’d cast him off in the morn like old shoes,” nodded Andy, as he took
the pipe from his wife and put it into his mouth.
“But don’t ye see, gudeman, that it’ll be nae use. She _canna_ travel on
sic a night as this.”
“I’m no that sure she will be called upon to travel the night. I heard a
rumor they had changed all that. And there was to be a grand wedding at
the old Hall, and a hall and a supper, and that the bonny bride and
bridegroom wouldna gae away till the morn. And I’se believe it,” said
Andy, taking the big tongs, picking up a live coal, and beginning to
light his pipe.
“Hoot, man, that will be no decent. She’ll behoove to marry and gae away
like ither brides, but she’ll no be married and gae away the night. The
wedding maun be pit off,” said Jenny, resuming her place at the wheel.
“Pit off! It hae been pit off twice a’ready, once when the old Judge
Lyon died, then when the old lady died. An it be pit off a third time,
it ’ill never take place. But it will no be put off. He’ll keep his
tryst, and she’ll keep her word. Worse luck that I hae to bide up to let
him through.”
“An he maun come, pity he could na ha’ come sooner.”
“Hoot, gudewife, how could he? The steamer does na stop at the Stormy
Petrel Landing until nigh noon, and it will be a good fifty miles from
here. And he travelling in his ain carriage without a change of horses
all the way over sic roads, and in sic weather as this? How will he come
sooner?”
“Eh! but I wish he were here!” cried the old woman.
“There he’ll be now!” exclaimed the old man, rising and listening, as in
a temporary lull of the tempest the sound of carriage wheels was heard
dashing, rumbling and tumbling along the road.
“Take your big shawl about you,” said Jenny, rising and reaching down a
heavy gray “maud” from its peg, and throwing it over Andy’s shoulders,
as, with a lighted candle in his hand, he went to open the door.
“Hech, sirs! what a night to take the road in! Naething but a waiting
bride should fetch a man forth in sic weather!” exclaimed the old
toll-taker, as a blast of wind and rain blew out his candle, and whirled
his shawl up over his head.
“Shut the door, gudeman, or we’ll both be drowned in our ain house, and
bide a we till I bring ye the lantern. Ye’ll no be able to take a
lighted candle out there,” said Jenny, as she ran to a corner cupboard
and brought forth an old horn machine big enough for a lighthouse or a
watch tower. She lit the candle end that was in it, and handed it to
Andy.
He having meanwhile, fastened his great shawl with several strong pins
and skewers, once more opened the door, and went forth into the pitch
dark night and raging storm.
A spacious travelling carriage stood at the toll-gate, with two crimson
lamps glowing luridly through the dark, driving tempest.
Holding down his hat with one hand and carrying the lantern with the
other, old Andy pushed on towards the carriage, and saw that its door
stood open, and a young man in a heavy travelling cloak was leaning out.
“Be gude to us, sir! is it yoursel’, sure enough? Troth, I said ye would
come,” said Andy, with a welcoming smile.
“Come! why, to be sure I would come. Did you think that any sort of
weather would have stopped me on such an occasion as this? Why, Birney,
I would have come if it had rained pitchforks, points downward, or wild
cats and mad dogs,” laughed the young man.
“Sae I said, sir; sae I said!”
“But, Birney, my friend, I must get out and stretch my limbs a little. I
want to be able to stand when I get to the Hall; but really, I have been
cramped up in this close carriage so many hours, riding over this beast
of a country so many miles, without seeing a single place where I could
stop for refreshment, that—that—in short, Birney, you must let me out
and let me in,” said the traveller.
“Surely, Mr. Alexander! surely, sir! and much honor to my humble home,”
said the old toll-taker, smiling, and bowing respectfully.
The young man, notwithstanding his “cramped” condition, leaped lightly
from his carriage, drew his travelling cloak closely around him, hoisted
a large umbrella, and unceremoniously preceded his host to the house,
where he burst suddenly in upon Jenny, who was in the act of taking a
kettle of boiling water from the fire.
“Gude save us! Mr. Alick, is it yoursel’? I could hardly believe ony
gentleman in his sober sinses would take the road on sic a night!”
“It is myself, Mistress Birney—that I know; but as to being in my sober
senses, I am not quite so sure. I see you’ve got some hot water there. I
hope you have also got a sample of that fine old Scotch whiskey your
husband used to drink in remembrance of your old country. If so,
Mistress Birney, I’ll thank you to make me a tumbler of hot toddy. It
would be very acceptable in such weather as this,” said “Mr. Alick,” as
he threw off his cloak and his cap, and dropped himself down into old
Andy’s own arm-chair, in the warm chimney corner.
“Surely, sir! surely, Mr. Alick! I’se make it directly. I’se e’en now
just gaun to mix the gude man’s night drink for himsel’,” smiled Jenny,
hospitably.
“All right! mix mine at the same time,” said the young man, stretching
out his feet to the fire, and indulging in a great yawn.
“And mix it in the big stone pitcher with the zinc cover, so it will
keep hot while we sit and drink the bonny bride, Miss Anna Lyon’s
health,” said old Andy as he came in and closed the door to keep out the
driving rain.
“Oh, look here! You know I’ve no time for health-drinking; I’m due at
the Hall these three hours; only this horrid weather, and these beastly
roads have delayed me,” exclaimed Mr. Alick, rising impatiently and
standing before the blazing fire.
He was a very good-looking young fellow, as he stood there. He had a
tall, well-proportioned form, fine regular features, a fair, roseate
complexion, light yellow hair, and bright blue eyes—smiling eyes that
seemed to love all they looked upon.
Quickly and skilfully Jenny Birney made the toddy and poured it into
large tumblers that she had previously heated by scalding them out with
boiling water.
Once more Mr. Alick dropped himself into old Andy’s chair, while he
received one of the glasses from his host.
“Eh, there sir; it’s as hot as love!” said the old man, as he passed the
pitcher that his guest might replenish his glass at his pleasure.
“It is very good,” admitted the young man when he had finished his
second tumbler. “Many thanks to you, Mistress Birney for the aid and
comfort you have given me. I feel as if you had saved my life. I can now
do the distance between this and the Hall without breaking down. And now
I must be off. Good evening to you, Mistress Birney.”
And the traveller put on his cloak and cap, took up his umbrella, and
escorted by Andy, left the cottage.
“Oh, by the way, Birney, you may bring out some of that hot stuff to my
coachman. Poor devil! it will do him no harm after he has been perched
up there so long in the rain. But hark ye, Birney! don’t let it be too
stiff; I don’t want the fellow to see more mists before his eyes than
the night and the storm make,” said Mr. Alick as he got into the
carriage.
Old Andy toddled back to his house, and after a few minutes reappeared
at the carriage with a mug of the same restorative for the man as he had
lately administered to the master.
The chilled and wearied coachman turned it down his throat almost at a
gulp, returned the mug, and thanked the donor.
Then he gathered up his reins, cracked his whip, and started his horses
at as brisk a trot as might be deemed safe on that dark night over that
rough road.
The old turnpike-keeper hurried out of the storm into the shelter of his
own cottage.
“Hech! it’s an awfu’ night! I’m glad he’s come and gone. We may pit up
the shutters now, gudewife; we’ll no be troubled wi’ ony more travellers
the night,” said old Andy, as he shook his shawl free from the clinging
rain drops, and hung it up in its place.
“Now sit ye down in your own comfortable chair, gudeman, and I’ll brew
ye a bowl o’ hot punch. Eh, hinney, ye’ll be needing it after sic’ an
exposure to the elements,” said Jenny, as she replaced the kettle over
the blaze, and drew Andy’s old arm-chair before the fire.
With a sigh of infinite relief, he let himself sink into the inviting
seat, kicked off his heavy shoes, and stretched his stockinged feet to
the genial warmth of the hearth. Andy did not rejoice in the luxury of a
pair of slippers.
“Eh, Jenny, woman, it’s good to feel oneself at ease at one’s own
fireside at last,” said the old man, as he took from the hand of his
wife a smoking tumbler of punch.
“‘It’s hot as love,’ as you say,” she nodded.
“Eh, so it is; what’s the hour, gudewife?”
“It’s gone weel on to ten,” she answered, glancing at the tall old clock
that stood in the corner, and reached from floor to ceiling.
“And I’se gaun to bed immediately, no to be bothered wi’ any more
travellers the night,” said Andy, blowing and sipping his punch.
But Andy reckoned without his host, as many of his betters do.
Just at that moment there came a rap at the door, so low, however, that
it could scarcely be heard amid the roaring of the storm.
Yet both husband and wife turned and listened.
It was repeated.
“What’s that?” asked Andy.
“There’s some one outside,” said Jenny.
The rap was reiterated.
“Who the de’il can it be, at this unlawful hour o’ the night? Gae see,
Jenny, woman. And if it’s ony vagrants bang the door in their faces.
I’se no be troubled wi’ ony more callers the night!” cried the old man,
impatiently.
Before he had well done grumbling, the old woman had gone to the door
and opened it, letting in a furious blast of wind and rain.
“Gude guide us!” she exclaimed, starting back, aghast, at what she saw
without.
“What the de’il is it then, gude wife?” nervously demanded Andy,
starting up and seizing his old musket from its hooks above the
chimney-piece. Andy was thinking only of thieves, as is usual with many
who have little to lose.
“Pit up your gun, gude man, it’s no what ye think,” said Jenny, once
more approaching the door to peep out at the wretch that stood dripping
and shivering outside.
“For the love of Heaven, let me in a little while. I will not stay many
minutes,” pleaded a plaintive voice from the darkness.
“Who is it?” inquired Andy, coming cautiously forward in his stocking
feet.
“It’s some poor lassie, as far as I can make out. Come in wi’ ye then,”
said Jenny, stretching the door wide open, though the wind and the rain
rushed in, flooding the floor where they stood.
“Ay, come in, and ye maun, and dinna stand there like a lunatic keeping
the door open and letting in the weather,” growled Andy, as he toddled
back to his comfortable chair and dropped into it.
Before he had half uttered his churlish invitation, the stranger had
entered, and now stood in the room, with the rain running from her dark
raiment, while Jenny shut and bolted the door.
“Now then, who are ye? and what brings ye tramping on sic a night as
this?” sternly demanded Andy, as he turned and stared at the stranger.
She wore a long dark gray cloak with a hood; the cloak completely
concealed her form and its hood overshadowed her face. That was all that
Andy could make of her appearance then.
“Who are ye, I ask, and where are ye gaun the night,” he angrily
repeated.
The stranger did not answer except by dropping her face upon her open
hands.
“Andy, dinna ye see she canna speak? For the sake of our own poor lost
Katie, we maun have pity. Come away to the fire, my poor lass, and dry
your clothes, whiles I get ye something warm to take the chill out o’
your poor shivering body,” said Jenny, kindly placing her hand upon the
girl’s shoulder and gently urging her towards the fire-place.
“I’m of opinion that ye’d better find out who she is, and where she came
from, and where she’s gaun, before ye press upon her the hospitalities
of an honest house,” grumbled Mr. Birney.
“Whist, gude man! I might speer a dizzen questions, but dinna ye see for
yoursel’ that she’s in na condition to answer ane?” said Jenny, in a low
voice.
Andy growled something in which the words “tramping hizzy” were the only
ones audible.
“Come, let me hae your cloak, hinny, to hang it up to dry. See, it’s
wringing wet. Nay, nay, dinna resist gude offices,” said Mrs. Birney,
with kind persistence, as she saw that the girl made some little, mute,
pathetic resistance to the removal of her outer garment.
Jenny gently took it off her and hung it on the back of a chair to dry
by the fire.
And the young stranger stood revealed in all her loveliness and sorrow.
She was a young, slight, graceful creature, with a thin, pale face, dark
hair and dark eyebrows, long, black eye-lashes, and large, soft, gray
eyes, so full of pleading sadness that their glances went straight to
the heart of Jenny Birney. It was a child’s face; but ah, woe! it was a
matron’s form revealed there.
“Wae-sooks!” exclaimed the good wife in consternation, as she gazed upon
the young thing, and saw that, child-like as she looked, she had been
married, or——ought to have been.
Again the little, pale hands went up and covered the little, woe-forn
face.
“Sit ye down,” said Mrs. Birney, kindly. “Ye are no able to stand.”
And she drew her own low, cushioned chair to the chimney corner, and
with gentle force pushed the poor child into it. And then she took down
her little black tea-pot from the corner cupboard and began to make tea.
Mr. Birney watched the process in strong disapprobation.
His wife raised a deprecating glance to his face, murmuring, in a low
tone:
“We maun be pitiful, Andy! for our poor lost Katy’s sake, we maun be
pitiful.”
He answered that appeal by growling forth the words:
“Aweel, aweel, Jenny woman, hae your ain way! hae your ain way! Eh! but
ye’ve had it these forty years and mair! And it’s no likely that ye’ll
gie it up now!”
And so saying, the old man put his pipe in his mouth and resigned
himself to circumstances.
Mrs. Birney made a cup of tea and a round of toast, and set them on a
little stand beside her guest.
“Now eat and drink and ye’ll be better. Nay, nay, dinna shake your poor
little head! do as I bid ye. I had a child o’ my ain once. She has been
in heaven, I hope, these twenty years. Sae ye see I hae a soft place in
my heart for children, especially for lassies; sae eat and drink, and be
comforted and strengthened, and then maybe ye’ll tell me how ye came to
be out in the weather, and what I can do for ye besides giving you a bit
and sup and a bed to lie on,” coaxed the good woman.
“Thanks, thanks,” murmured the girl, as she raised the cup, and with a
feverish thirst eagerly drank the tea.
“Try some of the toast. It is done with milk; it will nourish ye,”
hospitably urged Jenny.
“Please—I cannot eat a morsel, and—I must go now,” answered the young
stranger, rising.
“Go now! Are ye daft?” exclaimed Mrs. Birney, in dismay; while Mr.
Birney took the pipe from his mouth and stared.
“No, I am not ‘daft,’ though I know how mad my purpose must seem,”
calmly answered the girl, taking her cloak from the chair upon which it
was drying by the fire.
“But—I thought ye came here for a night’s lodging, and——”
“Oh, no; I had no such design,” sighed the girl.
“But—an ye didna come for a night’s lodging, what _did_ ye come for?”
“I was nearly spent with struggling on in the face of the tempest. I was
so beaten by the wind and the rain that I thought I should have dropped
and died; I almost wish I had. But I saw the light in your window and I
tried to reach it, and I did. I came in only to rest and breathe a
little while, and get strength to go on again.”
“But where did ye come from, my poor child?” inquired the pitying woman.
“I came from Washington by the stage-coach. It put me down at the Cross
Roads, ten miles from this place.”
“Gude save us! and ye walked all that way through the storm?”
“Yes, and was nearly exhausted; but now, thanks to your charity, I feel
refreshed, and able to pursue my journey,” said the young girl, as she
tied her cloak, and drew its hood over her head.
“Indeed, then, and ye’ll no do onything o’ the sort. Eh, sirs, are we
heathen to let a wee bit lassie gae forth alane on sic a stormy
winter-night as this, when we wouldna turn an enemy’s dog from the door?
Sit ye down, my lass, and dinna ye mind the gudeman’s growling. His bark
is aye worse than his bite,” said Mrs. Birney.
And here Mr. Birney took his pipe from his mouth, and spoke these
gracious words:
“Bide ye here for the present, an’ ye will. I dinna like tramps as a
permanent institution in the house, but I’ll no turn ye out into the
storm, sae bide where ye be.”
And having uttered this oracle, old Andy replaced his pipe between his
lips, and smoked vigorously to make up for lost time.
“Ye hear what the gudeman says? Hark ye now to the wisdom of age, and
bide ye quiet till I make ye a bed, and I’ll wrap ye weel and pit ye
warm to sleep the night, and in the morn ye may gae where ye like.”
“Thanks—a thousand thanks for your dear mercy! but in the morning it
will be too late. Ah, heaven, yes!” exclaimed the girl, as a sudden
terror wildly dilated her large gray eyes. “I must go on to-night, or
fail, where failure would be despair and death!”
“Gae on to-night! Gude save us! gae on where?” exclaimed the wondering
woman.
“To Old Lyon Hall,” answered the stranger, moving towards the door.
“Stay—come back! Ye are stark daft! To the Hall?” cried Jenny, following
her guest.
“Yes, to the old Hall,” said the stranger, pausing courteously.
“Why, that’s where the grand wedding will be the night.”
“I know it,” said the girl.
“But—ye’ll surely no be one o’ the invited guests?” exclaimed Jenny in
bewilderment.
“Oh, no,” replied the girl, with a strange smile.
“Look ye, lass. Who be ye? What be your name, an ye have no objection to
tell it?” gravely inquired Mrs. Birney.
“I have no objection to tell my name; it has never been sullied by
dishonor; it is Anna Lyon,” replied the girl, with her hand upon the
door-latch.
“ANNA LYON! Sign us, and save us! that is the name of the bride that is
to be married to-night!” cried Jenny Birney, aghast.
“I know it is,” quietly replied the girl.
“And ye hae the same name?”
“The very same,” said the stranger.
“Gude save us! then ye’ll be kin to the family?”
“No, no kin,” answered the girl, calmly. Then to herself she murmured,
“_I_—‘a little more than kin,’ _he_ ‘a little less than kind.’”
“What are ye muttering to yoursel’? Ye say ye’re no kin to the family,
and if ye are no, what will be taking you to the old Hall the night?”
“Something more than a matter of life and death! And oh, I must be
gone!” said the girl, with the same look of terror that she had shown
once before, now smiting all the remaining color from her pale face, and
leaving it white as marble.
“Good-bye—good-bye, and a thousand heart-felt thanks for all your
kindness,” she added.
While she spoke she deftly slid the bolts of the door, and as she ceased
she quickly slipped through it, and ran away like one who feared to be
hindered or pursued.
“Stop! stop!” screamed Jenny, rushing after her, and looking out into
the night.
But her strange visitor had vanished in the darkness.
“Hech! she’s clean daft, and she’ll perish in the storm!” cried Jenny in
consternation, as she drew in her head.
“Come away, gudewife, and shut the door!” bawled old Andy, provoked past
his patience.
“Eh, gude man, rin—rin after her. Ye may catch her an ye start now,”
prayed Jenny, pulling down her husband’s shawl from its peg, and
throwing it over his shoulders—“rin, rin for your life, Andy!”
“De’il be in my legs, then, if I budge a foot from the fire! I’m in a
condition to rin, am I no? wi’ both my shoes off and mysel’ soaking wi’
sweat! I’ll no rin for ony daft lass or lad in Christendom!” grumbled
the old man.
“But for the Lord’s sake, Andy!” pleaded the woman.
“I would do onything in reason for the Lord’s sake, an’ He distinctly
called me, but I’m no conscious of any special call to pit myself
forward in this work. Sae just shut up the house, Jenny, woman, and come
away to bed. And I’ll no open again this night to man or woman, saint or
devil, so there, now!” growled old Andy.
“I’se shut the door, but I’se nae shut the window. And I’se no gaun to
bed this night, I’se sit up and show a light, if the poor wandering
lassie behooves to come back,” said Mrs. Birney, firmly, as she fastened
the door, and sat the lantern on the little stand under the window, with
the light turned towards the road.
“The more fool you,” observed Mr. Birney, as he began to draw off his
stockings, and prepare himself for his bed, that stood conveniently
near, in a recess curtained off from the other portion of the room.
Mrs. Birney drew her spinning wheel to the chimney corner nearest the
window, where she had placed the light, and she sat down and began to
spin.
“Ye’ll no be whirling that machine and keeping me awake, Jenny, woman!”
expostulated the old man as he got into bed.
“But if I maun sit up, I maun na lose my time.”
“Then knit or sew.”
She good-humoredly put aside her wheel and took from the top of the
corner cupboard her work-basket half filled with woolen socks, which she
sat down to darn.
Old Andy was soon snoring under his blankets.
Jenny sat darning and sighing, and occasionally peering through the
window into the darkness without. The violence of the storm seemed to be
subsiding, though still it rained heavily.
“It’s like murder,” she murmured. “And, if she be found cold and dead in
the morn I shall never forgi’e mysel’. I shall never be able to sleep
again. Eh! but I wish I had rin out after her mysel.’ But then the
gudeman would na hae let me. Hech! but they get hard and selfish wi’ age
and infirmities, these men. Eh! how he sleeps and snores, as if there
was no misery in the world,” she added, glancing at the bed.
But the old curmudgeon’s rest was destined to be broken.
There came the sound of horse’s hoofs dashing along the flooded road.
The toll-gate bar was cleared at a bound. Jenny heard the spring and
splash, and she started to her feet, dropping her work-basket.
The next moment there came a loud rapping at the door. It aroused the
old man from his sleep.
“What the de’il is that?” he exclaimed, angrily.
“There’s ane without,” whispered Jenny, in a scared tone, trembling in
spite of herself.
“Worse luck! Is it a Witch’s Sabbath and are all the warlocks and
witches riding to it by this road the night?” he growled.
The knocking grew louder.
“Who is it, Jenny?” he cried.
“I dinna know,” whispered the woman.
“Canna ye gae and see?”
The knocking became vociferous, the horseman seemed to be hammering at
the door with the loaded end of his riding-whip.
“Haud your noise out there, will you then!” bawled the old man, bouncing
out of bed, throwing a blanket around him and seizing his blunderbus,
while Jenny crept to the door and cautiously opened it, keeping herself
behind it.
The rain had nearly ceased and the sky was clearing.
A tall, stout, dark man, in a dark riding-coat, stood outside. With one
hand he held the bridle of his horse, and with the other the handle of
his riding-whip, with which he had just rapped.
So much Jenny, cautiously peeping around the edge of the door, could
make out.
The old toll-taker came forward, wrapped in his blanket like a North
American Indian, and carrying his musket in his hand, and growling:
“Am I no to have ony peace or quiet the night? I’d as weel be keeper o’
one o’ these new-fangled railway stations where the trains are aye
coming and going day and night, instead o’ this once quiet toll-gate.
Who be ye, sir, and what’s your will?” he growled at this second
stranger.
“I am a traveller going to Old Lyon Hall; and I wish to know the nearest
road,” answered the horseman. But a sudden parting blast of wind drowned
half his words.
“And by the way, how came ye on this side of the road, when the great
bar is up for the night?” angrily demanded the toll-taker.
“Oh, my horse took it at a bound.”
“An he had broken your neck it might hae been a gude job and saved the
hangman trouble,” growled old Andy.
“Thanks,” laughed the stranger, “but there was not a chance of it; my
horse is a famous hunter. Will you direct me on my road?”
“_Where_ did you say you were going?”
“To Old Lyon Hall.”
“To Old Lyon Hall!—Jenny, woman, here is anither one! It’s _there_ they
are holding the witches’ dance and no wedding, for the warlocks and
witches that flit by this way are no wedding guests,” said the old man,
turning to his wife.
“Will you be so good as to direct me to the Hall?” courteously persisted
the traveller.
“Oh, ay, I’ll direct ye fast enough; but be ye’ one o’ the wedding
guests?”
“No, not exactly,” laughed the man.
“Hark to him Jenny! how much he talks like the ither one! Then what’s
your business at the Hall the night? It’s unco late to make a visit, and
varry oncivil to go oninvited where they’re handing a bridal. Wouldna
the morn serve your turn just as weel?” mockingly inquired Andy.
“No; the morning would be too late for my purpose. It is of the utmost
importance that I should reach the Hall to-night!” said the horseman,
beginning to grow restive under the influence of some hidden anxiety
that he could not entirely conceal.
“Is it an affair of ‘life and death?’” inquired Andy, with a touch of
sarcasm in his tone, as he repeated the words that had been used by the
unhappy girl who had preceded this stranger on this road.
“More—much more than life and death is involved,” muttered the
traveller, in a voice vibrating with the agitation that he could no
longer control.
“Hark to him again, Jenny!” grinned the old man. “Just the way the ither
one talked. The de’il maun be holding a levee at the Hall!”
“I beg you will not detain me; pray put me on my road,” impatiently
urged the stranger.
“Oh, ay! ye see the road before ye. Ye’ll just face it and follow your
nose, and it will lead to the old Hall. Ye canna miss it. It stands off
about a quarter mile from the road, on the right. There’s woods before
it, and the Porcupine Mountains behind it. It will be the first grand
like mansion ye’ll come to, and the only one, an’ ye were to ride a
hunder miles in that direction.”
“Thanks,” said the stranger, lifting his cap and remounting his horse.
“And oh, kind gentleman,” said Jenny, coming forward, “an’ ye should
meet wi’ a poor daft lassie who gaed before on the same road, ye’ll no
let her perish for the want of a helping hand. For the love of the Lord,
ye’ll get her under shelter or bring her back here.”
“‘A poor daft lassie,’” repeated the stranger, bewildered by the woman’s
words and manner.
“Ay, sir; a poor bit child wha canna guide hersel’ to ony gude end.”
“A young tramp, sir,” explained the old man. “A young tramp who passed
this way an hour ago; and ye should get her pit into a House of
Correction, ye might be doing her good service.”
“I have no time to stop, but if I should see the young woman I will do
what I can for her. Good night,” said the traveller, putting spurs to
his horse, and galloping away as if determined not to be detained
another moment.
“I’ll tell you what, Jenny, there’s something unco wrong up at the old
Hall! And now shut up the house and come away to bed,” said old Andy,
turning from the door, and dragging his blanket behind him like a court
train.
“I couldna sleep a wink wi’out hearing what becomes o’ that poor
houseless child. I’ll sit up and sew, and show a light i’ the window, in
case she behooves to come back again,” replied Mrs. Birney, replacing
the lantern on the stand before the window, resuming her seat on her low
chair in the chimney corner, and taking up her work, while the old man,
for the last time that night, shut up the house and went to bed.