"Oh," replied he, "I know them, and require but small help from

divination. Nine years ago, I was commander of one of old Hasting's

vessels; and because I was a native of the Borders, forsooth, I, like

you, was a favourite with him. He entrusted me with the secret of his

having a daughter. Frequently, when I had occasion to put into Boulogne,

I carried her presents from him. He also ordered me to bring him over

her portrait, and when the old boy took it in his hands, and held it

before his face, he wept as though he had been a child. He used me

crookedly at last, however; for he accused me of dishonesty, and

attempted to bring me to punishment. I was then as honest as noonday,

and on land I am honest still, although I have done some bold business

upon the high seas. I made a vow that I would be revenged upon him, and,

but that you thwarted me, I would have been revenged. I ran my brig into

Boulogne. I pretended that I had a message to Miss Hastings from her

father, or, as I termed him, her uncle, and that she was to accompany me

to England. As I had frequently been the bearer of communications from

him before, my tale was believed. She accompanied me on board the brig;

and we sailed, not for England, but on a roving cruise, as a king of the

open sea. I was resolved that no harm should befal her; but I had also

determined that she should not again set her foot upon land, until her

father came down with a thousand pounds as a ransom. Of that thousand

pounds you deprived me. But on your marriage day--at the very

altar--payment will be demanded. It is not for myself that I desire it,"

said he, seriously, "for I am a careless fellow, and am content with

what the sea gives to me; but I have a son in Cumberland, who will now

be about seven years of age. His mother is dead, for my forsaking her

broke the poor thing's heart, and hurried her to the grave. My son, I

believe, is now the inmate of a workhouse. It is better that he should

remain there, than be trained to the gallows by his father. Yet I should

wish to see him provided for, and your wife's ransom shall be his

inheritance. Give me your bond, and when you again see this dagger, be

ready to fulfil it."

As he spoke, he exhibited a small poniard, which he carried concealed

beneath his coat. I conceived that his brain was affected, and merely to

humour him I agreed to his strange demand.

His words gave birth to wild thoughts, and with an anxious heart I

hastened to return to England. My employer received me as though I had

not been absent for a week.

"You have done well," he said; "I am satisfied with your undertaking.

You did not this time meet with pirates, nor captive damsels to rescue."

I hesitated to reply, and I mentioned that I had met and spoken with the

pirate commander at Genoa.

He glanced at me sharply for a moment, and added--"Merchants should not

converse with robbers."

He sat thoughtful for the space of half an hour, and then requested me

to accompany him into his private office. When there, he said--

"You inform me that you have again seen Belford, the pirate, and that

you have spoken with him. What said he to you? Tell me all--conceal

nothing."

I again hesitated, and sought to evade the subject. But he added, more

decisively--"Speak on--hide nothing--fear nothing."

I did tell him all, and he sat and heard me unmoved.

When I concluded, he took my hand and said--"It well you have spoken

honestly. Listen to me. Charlotte is indeed my daughter. Time has not

diminished your affection for each other, which I was afraid was too

romantic in its origin to endure. I have put your attachment to each

other to severe trials; let it now triumph. Follow me," he added, "and I

will conduct you to her."

I was blind with happiness, and almost believed that what I heard was

but a dream--the fond whispering of an excited brain. I will not

describe to you my interview with my Charlotte; I could not--words could

not. It was an hour of breathless, of measureless joy. She was more

beautiful than ever, and love and joy beamed from her eyes.

Our wedding-day came--her father placed her hands in mine, and blessed

us. We were leaving the church, when a person in the porch, whose figure

was rapt up in a cloak, approached me, and revealing the point of a

dagger, whispered--"Remember your bond!"

It was Belford, the daring pirate. I kept faith with him, and he

received the money.

I will not detain you longer with my history, with my Trials and

Triumphs. One of the first acts of my Charlotte was to purchase the

estate which had been torn from my father, and she presented it to him

as his daughter's gift. On retiring from business, I came to reside on

it, and built on it this house, which has sheltered you from the storm.

"And your name," said the listener, "is Mr Melvin?"

"It is," replied the host.

"Then startle not," continued the stranger, "when you hear that mine is

Belford! I am the son of the pirate. My father died not as he had lived.

When upon his deathbed he sent for me, and on leaving me his treasure,

which was considerable, he commanded me to repay you the thousand pounds

which he so strangely exacted from you. From the day on which he

received it, he abandoned his desperate course, and through honest

dealings became rich. I have brought you your money, with interest up to

the present time."

So saying, the stranger placed a pocketbook in the hands of his

entertainer, and hastily exclaiming "Farewell!" hurried from the house,

and was no more heard of.

THE MISER OF NEWABBEY.

In the pretty little village of Newabbey, in the south of Scotland,

there lived one of those individuals which society sometimes casts up,

as the sea does its secret monsters, formed apparently for no other

purpose than to show how curiously operose nature can be in her

productions, though mankind, ever in search for final causes, may

attempt to wrest out of such eccentricities some moral to suit their

self-love, and, by producing a contrast, elevate themselves in the scale

of moral or physical being. That strange person, Cuthbert Grandison--or,

as he was generally termed, Cubby Grindstane, by the corruptive

ingenuity of his neighbours--occupied a small mud cottage near the

centre of the village we have mentioned. He was considerably advanced in

age, and, having come to Newabbey at a late period of his life, the

people in that part of the country knew little of his history--a

circumstance they regretted in proportion to the interest excited by the

strange habits of the individual. He was in person a little man;

extremely spare; with a sharp keen, hungry look; a grey hawk's eye,

which, like the cat's, seemed to enjoy the best vision collaterally, for

the pupil was almost always at the junction of the eyelids. On his back

there was a large hump, which being the only rotundity which his spare

body presented, gave him the appearance of a skeleton carrying a lump of

beef; and, as his mode of walking was quick and hurried, a quaint fancy

could not resist the additional suggestion, that he was running home

with it in order to satisfy the hunger that shone through his fleshless

form. The extraordinary appearance of such a wild and grotesque-looking

individual, in so small a village, could not fail to produce the usual

speculation among the high-mutched gossips, who, having in vain made

inquiries and exerted their wits as to his origin, directed their

attention to his habits, and especially to the mode in which he earned

his livelihood--for no one could say he was ever seen to beg. But they

were not much more successful in these secondary inquiries and

investigations; because, (although it was certain that he had a

signboard, exhibiting the characters, "Cuthbert Grandison, Cobbler"--an

unusual and somewhat affected and gratuitous depreciation of the votary

of St Crispin--and sometimes sat at his small window, perforating soles

with his awl, and filling up the holes with "tackets,") no one in the

village employed him, and he never condescended to ask any one for work.

If his operations thus afforded no proper clue to his means of life, his

conversation was, if possible, still more sterile; for, in place of

associating with the other "snabs" of the village, or joining the

quidnunes who assembled in Widow Cruickshanks', to drink beer and "twine

political arguments"--a much harder labour than their day's work, though

they thought it a recreation--he locked himself, and another individual

now to be mentioned, into the house at an early hour of the evening, and

refused to open it again to however urgent a visiter.

The other individual who lived in Cuthbert's house, was no other than a

daughter, about eighteen years of age, called Jean, as unlike her

grotesque and mysterious parent as any of God's creatures could be;

though every effort was exerted, on his part, to make her as silent and

incommunicative as himself. She appeared to have received no education;

her dress was of the most wretched kind; and it was even alleged by the

neighbours, whose espionage extended even to the calculation of the

quantity of meal and milk purchased for the support of the father and

the daughter, that she did not get sufficient food. These circumstances

regarding the girl were the more readily remarked, that, as all

admitted, Jean, or, as she was familiarly called, Jeanie Grandison,

would, if she had been treated like other individuals of her age, have

excelled the greater number of young women of the village, not only in

personal appearance, but in the qualities of her mind and heart. She

apparently stood in great awe of her strange parent, and uniformly

rejected all solicitations, on the part of the villagers, to join them

in their sports, or partake of their little entertainments. The story of

the mysterious treatment to which she was subjected, excited the

sympathies of the neighbours; and her own amiable manners and meek

deportment, exhibiting the indications of a crushed spirit, riveted the

regard which had been first elicited by her apparent misfortunes.

The studied seclusion which Grindstane observed, and seemed determined

to vindicate against all attempts on the part of the neighbours to "draw

him out," rendered it difficult to obtain any insight into the domestic

economy of his strange domicile; but accident, at last, brought about

what might otherwise not have been easily accomplished. It was observed

that, for a considerable time, his daughter had been ailing. She made no

complaints to any one; but the quick eye of sympathy soon discovered

what was apparently attempted to be concealed. The wife of John

Monilaws, a grocer and meal-dealer, from whom Jeanie bought the small

portion of provisions her father required, observed and noticed the

change that had taken place upon her, and urged her to reveal her

complaint, and apply to the surgeon of the village for relief. She

smiled sorrowfully at the exhibition of a sympathy to which she was so

much a stranger, and which she was not permitted to avail herself of;

thanked Mrs Monilaws for her kind intentions; and assured her she was

not much out of her usual condition of health. Two days afterwards, the

good dame was astonished by the grotesque appearance of the mysterious

Cubby himself, standing by the side of her counter. It was seldom he

was to be seen, far less spoken to; and, as she looked on the man whom

report had invested with attributes of an unusual kind, a shiver came

over her, which the presence of her husband, who, having seen Cubby

enter the shop, followed him from mere curiosity, was required to

counteract.

"I want to buy some bread," said he, slowly.

"What kind?" said Mrs Monilaws.

"A kind I hae aften asked Jeanie to get," replied he; "but my een are

never blessed wi' the sight o't."

"Te may hae't, if we hae't, Cuthbert Grindstane," said John.

"Hae ye ony auld, weathered bread," said he, "that has seen the sun for

a week, and fules winna buy frae ye?"

"Ay hae we," replied the mistress--"owre muckle o that. There's some our

John is to boil up for the pigs. It's moulded as green as turf-sod. But

ye hae nae pigs, Cuthbert?"

"Pigs anew--pigs anew," replied he. "What's the price o' that?"

"It's scarce worth onything," replied the honest woman.

"It's seldom I sell whinstanes covered wi' green moss. Ye may hae't

a'thegither for a penny."

"That's owre muckle, guid woman," said Cubby. "A bawbee, eke a farthin,

is the hail value o't. I'll gie nae mair."

"I dinna deal in farthins," replied she.

"Dinna deal in farthins!" ejaculated Cubby with surprise. "Is a farthin

no the fourth part o' yer ain price o' a' that bread, sufficient to keep

a moderate man for a week?"

"He would be a very moderate man that wad eat it," said John. "I was

even dootin if I wad hurt the stamach o' my pigs wi't, though boiled in

whey."

"Whey!" ejaculated Cubby again--"do ye gie yer pigs whey? They maun hae

a routhy stye. Will ye hae my bode?"

"Ye may tak it for naething," said the mistress. "Hoo is Jeanie?--she

was complainin last time I saw her."

"Complainin!" said he, as he with the greatest avidity seized the bread,

and stuffed it into his pockets. "Did the lassie complain? What did she

complain o'? No surely that she didna get her meat." And he looked

fearfully and inquiringly into the face of Mrs Monilaws.

"She looked in an ailing way," said the mistress; "an' I thought she was

ill."

"She's owre fat--an ill complaint," replied he, apparently wishing to

get away.

"I dinna see that," said Mrs Monilaws.

"But I baith see't an' feel't," replied he with a grin. "Guid nicht."

"I pity the puir lassie," said Mrs Monilaws, after Cubby went away,

"wha's doomed to live wi' that man. That's a puir supper for the stamach

o' an unweel cratur; an' I've a' my doots if she's no at this moment

confined to her strae bed. Is there nae way o' getting her out o' his

hands? The Laird o' Cubbertscroft wants a servant, an' I promised to get

ane to him. Jeanie wad answer better than ony other lass in Newabbey,

but I canna see her to speak to her; for, though she comes here, naebody

can gae to her."

"There seemed to be something strange," replied John, "in Cubby's

manner, when ye asked him about Jeanie. If he gaes lang his ain errands,

an' she doesna make her appearance, I'll conclude, frae what I hae seen

and heard, that there's something wrang. That man has the heart to

starve ane o' God's creatures--ay, his ain dochter--to death. What

mortal could live on that meat he has taen hame wi' him this nicht? Keep

an ee on them, Marion; an', if Jeanie doesna sune shew hersel, I'll mak

sma' scruple in visitin the lion's den."

Some days afterwards, Cubby again made his appearance at the counter of

John Monilaws; and there being no more old bread for him, he struck a

long-contested bargain about some "fuisted" meal that had been long in

the shop, and for which he offered far beneath its real value; but Mrs

Monilaws, thinking him poor and miserable, accepted his offer, though

she had scarcely done so when she repented of her generosity, for she

immediately concluded that her kindness was a species of cruelty, in so

far as she was accessory to sending, in all likelihood to an invalid,

food that was not suited even to a robust beggar. As he greedily

grasped, and carried away like a thief, the article he had purchased,

she asked again for his daughter; but she got less satisfaction on this

occasion than even on the last, for his only answer was--"What's the

use o' speerin for weel foik?" The suspicions of Mrs Monilaws were

roused, rather than allayed, by this answer, and the manner in which it

was delivered, and she lost no time in telling her husband, that he

might get some of the neighbours to accompany him, and go and inquire

for the young girl, who, if ill, ought to be taken from the house; or,

if well, might be feed--whether old Grindstane was agreeable or not--for

the service at Cubbertscroft.

At the moment that Mrs Monilaws and her husband were engaged talking

about this strange individual and his daughter, Carey Cuthbert--the

third son of William Cuthbert of Cuthbert's, or, as it was called,

Cubbertscroft, a fine property in the neighbourhood--entered the shop,

with a message from Mrs Cuthbert, for articles for the use of the

family, and a request to know if any suitable servant had yet been

procured by Mrs Monilaws. This young man, who was about eighteen years

of age, was reputed by his parents as unfit for sustaining, even so far

as a third son might sustain, the honour and respectability of the

Cuthberts of Cubbertscroft. He was represented as being so dull that he

would learn nothing; and, at the same time, so fond of associating with

inferior people, that he could scarcely have been recognised, either

from his conversation or manners, as the son of a gentleman. His

bluntness, kindness, and humility, however, pleased all those with whom

his father did not wish him to associate. With many of the humble

inhabitants of Newabbey he was on the most familiar footing; and nothing

pleased him better than to get into the village, where, on every side,

he could find companions of the grade that suited his (as his father

termed it) depraved taste. In these humbler societies, however, Carey

learned what perhaps he would not have done from the Greek and Latin

books which, at school, were eternally in his hands, and never in his

head. Like most other individuals, whether fools or wits, he had a

genius of his own; and, as the worms on which the mole feeds are larger

and fatter than the flying insects that form the food of the swallow,

humility, and a taste for the common sense that, like water, is best and

purest the farther down you go, may be vindicated on the grand principle

of utility and interest. We do not give a young man of eighteen credit

for an _a priori_ knowledge that his interests lay in searching among

the humble for that "lear" that could not be got among the sons of the

great; but we may safely assert that nature had placed in him an

instinctive liking for the simple and the natural, and he might soon

perceive, without any spirit of divination, that, by following nature as

his guide, he might arrive at a more satisfactory termination of his

journey, than his horse-racing brothers, William and George, who were

fast flying through their father's estate. He had nearly already,

however, been given up as untractable; his speech, as his mother said,

had been Scotch from the first lisp; his ideas had been of the earth,

from the first moment he crawled upon it; and the servants his

companions, from the time he was able to escape, by the aid of his own

feet, from the nursery.

As soon as Carey had delivered his message, he conceived he had thrown

off the servitude imposed upon him by his mother, who considered him of

no other use than to carry a verbal communication to the village.

Entertaining a very different opinion of Carey's powers, John Monilaws

told him of the strange conduct of Cubby Grindstane, (whom he also well

knew, as indeed every person in the neighbourhood,) in endeavouring to

conceal the illness of his daughter, who was the individual to be

recommended to his mother as a servant. Carey confessed he thought the

conduct of Cubby very suspicious, and, with a knowing look, hinted that

it had been long his intention to endeavour to ascertain something more

of the old cobbler than the people of Newabbey yet knew.

"It is just you callants," said John, "wha are best at thae things. When

I was like ye, there wasna a house-tap in a' Newabbey I didna ken as

weel as the sparrows that biggit their nests in them. There are queerer

sights seen i' the warld, by lookin _down_ than by lookin _up_, for a

that astronomers may say on the subject. It was I that discovered Marion

Muschet killin her new-born bairn wi' a pack-thread. I saw her through

her ain skylicht; an', though I had nae power to speak, I had plenty o'

pith i' my legs; but, fule that I was, I forgot that, lang afore I could

get assistance, the pack-thread wad hae dune its wark. Sae it was--the

face o' the bairn was as blue as my bannet, when, by my means, it was

discovered."

"An' muckle ye got for yer sky-larkin," said Mrs Monilaws. "Ye hanged

the puir woman, an' got the name o' Skylicht Johnnie, whilk ye hae

carried about wi' ye ever since, and will do till the day ye dee."

"Ay, Marion," answered the good-natured husband, "I hae taen nane o'

thae flights sin' I married ye. Ye keep me weel down. I suffered weel i'

my young days for lookin down; but I fear I wad suffer mair noo for

lookin up. But the deil's no buried i' Kirkaldy, if I wadna hae a blink

through Cubby Grindstane's skylicht, were my legs as soople as Mr Carey

Cuthbert's there, an' I had nae wife on my back."

Carey looked and smiled, and said nothing; but his mind was not so

inactive as his tongue.

"Ye wad be nearer yer purpose, John," said Marion, "if ye wad tak wi' ye

our neebor, John Willison, a godly elder o' the kirk, and gae bauldly in

at the door. John will tak wi' him prayers, an' ye some o' my jellies. I

never kenned ony guid come by a skylicht--except, maybe, Widow

Gairdner's; wha was sittin ae nicht, thinkin whar she wad get her

supper; an', as she thought, an' thought, an' was nae better or fu'er

for thinkin, a man fell frae the roof at her feet, an', throwing frae

him sixteen gowd guineas wi' pure fear, flew out at the door as if

Beelzebub an' a' his angels had been after him. Widow Gairdner got her

supper that nicht. Naebody ever asked for the guineas; but it was weel

kenned frae whase hoose they were stown."

"Ah, Marion, Marion," said John, laughing; "an' sae ye forget yer ain

mither's skylicht, through whilk I used to gae to court ye."

"An' I do nae sic things, John," replied Mrs Monilaws, jocularly; "ye

never brocht sixteen gowd guineas wi' ye when ye cam doon through my

mither's skylicht, to court her dochter."

This conversation was not lost upon Carey Cuthbert, although he said

nothing. He laughed heartily at the dry humour of the honest, happy

couple, and went to visit his other friends in the village. In the

afternoon, he was seen studying like a painter the form and appearance

of old Grindstane's house, and did not leave the village till the

evening. As soon as it was sufficiently dark, he repaired again to the

old black domicile; and having during daylight taken his eye-draughts,

he tried if he could observe what was going on in the inside of the

house from the small window in the side-wall, or from a small round hole

in the gable. Both apertures were, however, completely closed, the

greatest care having apparently been taken, not only to shut the crazy

shutters, but to stuff up the holes with pieces of rags, and to cover up

all with a cloth hung from the inside so as to cover all the interior

part of the windows. Carey saw, however, enough to satisfy him that the

inmates had not retired to rest; for there was light in the cottage, and

he thought he observed that it moved as if some one were carrying a lamp

from one part of the interior to another. He heard no sounds; for the

individual who moved the light walked softly, as if he wished to avoid

making any disturbance.

"We hae nae hope upon earth," said Carey to himself, quaintly; "I maun

tak for ance my mither's counsel, an' _soar_--though, I fear, crawlin on

thatched roofs is no the kind o' ambition she wants me to flee at."

With these words, and a smile on his face, Carey went along, and, by the

aid of a tree, mounted to the top of the house adjacent to Cubby's.

Resisting a strong temptation to peep into the interior of this house,

which presented a very clear, open, and convenient skylight, through

which many secrets might have been discovered, he slipped softly along,

and laid himself on the thatch of Cubby's house, with his feet in the

spout, and his head on the small aperture, covered with one pane of

yelked glass, through which, if any light had been in the interior, he

could very easily have seen all that went on in the inside of the

cottage. All, however, was dark as pitch--a circumstance which appeared

to him somewhat strange, as he was certain he had seen light in the

house before he mounted; but to be accounted for sufficiently easily,

by supposing that the light had been extinguished during the time he had

been occupied in getting up. He had no hopes now of seeing anything that

night; but, as he was there at any rate, (so he argued,) he might as

well rest himself a little, after the fatigues of a day spent running

about in various directions, and he might perhaps hear something, if he

could see nothing; a mode of acquiring knowledge he had less objection

to than to the ocular exercises on printed paper, so much recommended by

his parents and Dominie Blackletter--a creature he hated.

Having lain quietly for some time, he heard, very distinctly, hollow

moans, coming from the lower part of the house. They were of the most

unearthly kind he had ever heard, suggesting, as they struck the pained

ear, the idea of some one suffering the last pangs of mortal agony.

These were mixed, or alternated, with, occasional harsh objurgatory

notes, coming from another person, apparently a man, and supposed, by

Carey, to be Cubby Grandison himself. These were followed by a scream,

which appeared to be stifled towards its conclusion, as if some one had

applied a cloth or other obstruction to the mouth of the individual

giving vent to the unbearable agony. The scream marked the individual as

a female, and Carey set her down as the unfortunate daughter of whom he

had heard John Monilaws and his wife talking in the fore-part of the

day. These sounds continued for a considerable time. The groans, the

objurgations, the scream stifled as before, succeeded each other; and,

then, for a time, a deep silence reigned throughout the interior, only

to be interrupted again, by a repetition of the same sounds. At last, a

louder scream than any he had yet heard, burst from the mouth of the

sufferer, and, in an instant, a noise, as of some one falling over

chairs, was heard, and then a sudden stifling of the scream, accompanied

by the objurgatory and menacing voice of a man, whose anger seemed to

increase with the necessity of an increase of his efforts to stop the

complaint of the sufferer. This scream was the last that Carey heard. A

deep silence again reigned, and a full quarter of an hour passed without

any indications being perceived of the presence of a living person in

the cottage.

Having waited for a considerable time without hearing anything further,

Carey concluded that the suffering individual had been suffocated, and

was on the eve of getting down to give an alarm. His attention was again

arrested by a new phenomenon. A light was now observable through the

chinks of an apparent partition between the skylight and the under or

main part of the house, an unusual occurrence in Scotch cottages, which

have generally no garret, or any other apartment than what extends from

roof to ceiling. A noise was now heard, as of some one trying to open a

locked door. Success attended his efforts, and, in a little time, a

small door, sufficient to let in the body of a man in a crawling

posture, opened, and discovered the face and upper part of the body of

Cuthbert Grandison, holding in his hands a small cruisie, which sent

forth a doubtful, glimmering light, scarcely sufficient to do more than

show the high bones and grey eye of the strange individual who held it.

The door being opened he placed the cruisie into the small apartment

into which it led; whereby Carey was enabled to see the nature of the

place, and its extraordinary contents. As he surveyed them, he shook

with terror, and was once afraid that his perturbation would discover

him. The apartment was a place in the form of a small garret, extending

to about half the size of the under apartment of the cottage; and seemed

to have been formed after the house was built, for the purpose to which

it was devoted. Casting his eye around and round, what struck the

fearful observer first, was a skeleton of a human being, lying extended

along the floor, and half enveloped in the darkness, which the

glimmering taper only partially illuminated. It had been the first human

skeleton Carey had ever seen; and the circumstances under which he now

beheld it, shining principally by the borrowed light of its bleached

bones, and suggesting some mysterious connection between the being whose

physical system it once supported, and the extraordinary individual who

held this strange piece of household furniture, rendered the sight

appalling and horripalant. On a chest at the other side of the apartment

lay another skeleton, apparently that of a new-born child, whose tiny

shanks, worm-like finger bones, and small head, formed a striking and

painful contrast to its full-grown companion--suggesting the probability

of some kindred blood having once warmed the sapless bones, and some

kindred fate having dried it up, leaving these dry tokens as the only

monument of their sorrows and misfortunes. Around, on all sides were

large packages cased with iron, and sitting on a small hook attached to

the wall near the ceiling was another inhabitant of this living

cemetery, which, from the singularity of its aspect, its silence, and

its locality, excited as much terror in Carey as even the skeleton. This

was no other than a large grey owl, sitting as demure as grimalkin, with

its goggle eyes at their utmost stretch, glaring in the light of the

taper like fiery balls, and rolling as if in anger at being interrupted

by the intruder in its enjoyment of eating a mouse, which, dead and

mangled, was firmly clenched in its claws. The few minutes that served

Carey to examine these extraordinary appearances, whose reality he

doubted against all the clearness of his rubbed eyes, enabled Cuthbert

Grandison to crawl into the place, through the limited aperture opening

in its side. The moment he got in, he shut the door carefully, and threw

his eyes up to the pane of glass through which Carey was looking,

without, however, observing him, as he instantly drew back his head.

When Carey again directed his eyes to the object of his curiosity and

awe, he was lying prostrate by the side of the bones of the larger

skeleton. He then rose up, threw a look of recognition to the owl, who

went on with his repast, heedless of the ceremony with which he had been

honoured. The necromantic appearance, attitude, and acts of the

hunchbacked living skeleton, who thus stood, as it were, in the midst of

the dead, communing with them by a secret and mysterious power, realized

in the mind of the neophite all the stories he had heard and read of the

wonderful and the terrific. The subsequent conduct of the performer was

not less extraordinary. His ceremonies and operations occupied a full

hour. Everything was noticed by Carey; and if what we have attempted to

describe produced wonder, what we have at present abstained from

narrating, from a regard to what is due to the importance of other

circumstances waiting for detail, was not calculated to lessen that

feeling.

Carey having got down again from the roof top, hurried away home at the

top of his speed; for he had staid too long, and was certain of a scold

from his parents, for having been seduced into low practices, by the

vulgar inhabitants of the village. A confusion in the house, produced by

a poinding having been that day executed, but removed by payment of the

debt which had been incurred by the eldest son, William, and

corroborated by the indulgent father, saved him from the abuse which

awaited him. Though young, he had sense enough to see the folly of the

proceedings of his father and brothers, and sighed as he retired to his

couch, in the anticipation of a greater evil impending over the house of

Cuthbert, than the humble-mindedness of its third son. The anticipated

misfortunes of his father, and the recollection of the extraordinary

sights he had witnessed from the roof top of Cubby Grandison, kept him

awake during the greater part of the night. His meditations took

various turns. The abuse to which he was daily exposed at the hands of

his parents and brothers, produced an ambition of shewing himself worthy

of their regard, and even of saving them from the ruin that seemed to

await them; but the schemes whereby that was to be accomplished, formed

in a youthful mind, fell far short of the wishes which produced them. In

the morning, he was duly catechised as to the cause of his being so late

in coming home; but he chose rather to be subjected to the suspicion of

having been in the company of Sandy Ferrier the smith, or Geordie

Mactubbie the cooper, or any other humble, but witty denizen of

Newabbey, whose laugh caught his ready sympathies, than divulge the

secrets of his evening's adventures, on the house top of Cubby

Grindstane the cobbler.

Next day it was absolutely necessary--so at least thought Carey

Cuthbert--that he should again see John Monilaws, about his mother's

servant, though he had no new commission from her to execute, connected

with that affair; and giving Gideon Blackletter and his Greek and Latin

books the slip, he hastened again to Newabbey, now become a much more

interesting place than Cubbertscroft.

"Ye've got nae intelligence yet, I fancy, Mrs Monilaws, aboot my

mither's servant?" he said, as he entered the shop of the gaucy dealer

in many wares.

"No yet, Mr Carey," replied she. "There's been a consultation atween

Elder Willison an' John, as to the time o' their visit to Cubby's den,

as they ca' it. They're speakin o' four o'clock. They want a stout young

chiel wi' them, for fear o' accidents. As you're a little interested i'

the affair, and fond o' sichts, maybe ye may condescend to accompany

them?"

"I've nae objections," answered Carey. "Is there ony other livin

creature supposed to be i' the house, but Cubby an' his dochter?"

"No," answered the mistress, "if indeed ane o' thae two even be livin;

but few folk can tell muckle aboot the inside o' Cubby Grindstane's

house, for he has a way o' meetin visitors at the door, an', stanin

richt i' the gap, speaks them fair, an' gets them awa as sune as he

can."

"Was he ever married, ken ye?" said Carey, "or did ye ever hear o' ony

ither body that lived wi' him?"

"I dinna ken," replied she. "He hasna had a wife sin' he cam to

Newabbey."

"Is his dochter Jeanie, wham ye intend for my mither's servant, like her

father?" said Carey.

"As unlike as ony twa creatures can be," replied Mrs Monilaws. "He's a

hunchbacked scarecraw, an' she's a bonny young lassie, whase beauty, a'

the ill usage and starvation she has suffered, hasna been able to tak

the blume frae; but, I fear, that bonny blume winna stand muckle langer,

if indeed death hasna already blawn the witherin gouch o' his breath

on't. But this day will expose a' the secrets o' the inside o' that

house."

"I see nae great reason," replied Carey, "for supposin there's ony great

secret aboot it."

"What maks him keep a'body oot, then, Mr Carey, man?" said the mistress.

"What gies him that side-look, that fearfu girn, an' his slouchin walk!

What maintains him?--for he works nane; and why winna Jeanie speak abune

her breath when she sees him, or answer, when he's awa, ony question

aboot him or his hoose?"

"A' prejudice, Mrs Monilaws," replied Carey; "auld wive's wind eggs,

hatched, nae doot, by a covey o' them, as they sit thegither till they

clock. The puir man doesna want to be fashed wi' a set o' meddlin

neebors."

At four o'clock, Elder Willison, John Monilaws, and Carey, went to the

house of Cubby Grindstane. The door was locked. They knocked, and asked

admittance.

"What want ye?" said a rough voice from within.

"We hae some shoes to get mended," said John Monilaws.

"I'm ill, an' no in a mendin way the day," replied Cubby, "Gang awa to

Jamie Goodawls."

"Jamie has owre muckle to do, and tauld us to gang to Cubby Grindstane,"

said the godly elder.

"My awl's my ain," said Cubby, in worse humour; "an' sae lang as it's no

thirled to the _soles_ o' men, I'm free frae the power o' their bodies.

Awa wi' ye!"

"You're in my district, Cubby," said the elder, "an' I hae the command

o' Mr Singer, oor minister, to ca' upon ye, and inquire for the state o'

yer soul, whilk, to reverse yer puir pun, is, we fear, owre closely

thirled to yer _all_. Yer dochter has also a soul to be saved; and Mr

Singer says he never saw you or her i' the kirk."

"Weel, if I dinna trouble him, he has nae richt to trouble me," replied

Cubby. "I say again, awa wi' ye! The law says a man's hoose is his

castle, an' it says true."

"That's an unfortunate allusion," whispered Carey to John Monilaws.

"Castles are made to be attacked."

"An' to be defended," answered Cubby, who had overheard the remark.

Carey applied his powerful back to the crazy door, and, in an instant,

threw it open, overturning at the back of it a number of pieces of old

furniture, placed as props or defences, to prevent its being opened. The

party entered, and, in an instant, were in the middle of the cottage,

which was in two divisions--one end being occupied by a small truckle

bed, on which a human body lay extended; and the other which Carey

remarked was under the small garret where he had observed the nocturnal

rites, presented nothing but a few broken stools; some straw in one

corner, over which a dirty sheet and a blanket were spread; a fire, with

about as much live coal in it as a hand might hold, as well for quantity

as activity of heat; a small cupboard, with a padlock on it of twice the

value of the articles it guarded, presenting some bones that had once,

and while another's property, been covered with roasted meat, and

seemed by their whiteness to have been four or five times boiled, with

the remnant of the fuisted meal purchased from Mrs Monilaws.

"This is a strange way," said Cubby, as he went to what might have been

called the butt end of the cottage--"this is a strange fashion o'

bringin the word o' God to folk that dinna want it."

"We are tauld," replied the elder, "to strive for the repentance o'

sinners."

"Ay, but ye're no tauld to brak open folk's doors, to force them to

repent," replied Cubby. "Besides, Mr Willison, whar's the shoon Jamie

Goodawl said he couldna mend, and sent ye to me wi'? Amang sins to be

repented o', a lee is a very guid ane to begin wi'."

"Hoo's Jeanie, yer dochter?" said the elder, who was fairly caught by

Cubby.

"What should ail her?" said Cubby, looking suspiciously, and moving

between them and the other apartment.

"That's just what we want to ken," said John Monilaws, pushing Cubby a

little to the side, and moving slowly into the other division, followed

by the elder and Carey.

The sight that here presented itself to them, as they approached the

small truckle bed, and folded down the top of the only blanket that

covered the body of a female, was of the most wretched and pitiful

character. It was with the greatest difficulty that John Monilaws could

recognise the features of Jeannie Grandison, (for such the invalid was,)

reduced, by the ill-matched pair, famine and disease, to the last stage

of existence. The bloom which Mrs Monilaws feared for was indeed

withered, and the stalk which supported the flower attenuated to a

fibre. Pale as a corpse, and emaciated beyond the lowest state of body

that keeps burning the lamp of life, it appeared doubtful, in the

absence of motion, whether she should be classed among living mortals.

The approach of strangers seemed to produce no effect upon her; for her

eyelids, which about half covered the glazed orbs, remained stationary,

and no symptoms of breathing could be discovered. At the side of the

bed, stood a three-footed stool, on which was placed a tin tankard,

containing some cold water, and a small bowl, with about an ounce of

cold porridge (made, no doubt, of part of the meal seen in the press) in

the bottom of it, no part of which seemed marked by the rusty iron spoon

that lay alongside of the dish.

"Why did ye say to my wife, Cubby, that that lassie was weel, when it's

scarcely possible to observe in her a spark o' life?"

"And what guid wad it hae dune to hae said she was ill?" replied Cubby.

"I canna pay for possets an' puddins recommended by auld wives; an' a

doctor is far ayont my degree or ability."

"Ye micht hae begged assistance, then," said John. "Naebody wad hae

refused a bite or a sup to ane o' God's creatures, lyin at the point o'

death."

"The folk hereabout," replied Cubby, "are owre proud o' their bites and

sups, no to come an' enjoy the luxury o' seem their charity applied, and

gettin their lugs lined wi' the return o' gratitude. A house fu' o'

folk, an' a pouch wi' three farthins i' the corner o't, dinna sort weel

thegither. Besides, what mair can ony sick body get than meat and

drink?"

"An' do ye ca' that meat and drink?" said John, pointing to the porridge

and water.

"What wad you ca' it?" replied Cubby, grinnin. "I wish I may get nae

waur to comfort me when I come to dee."

"If the fear of expense," said Carey, "has prevented ye frae lettin the

neebors ken o' yer daughter's illness, wadna the same cause hae

prevented ye frae tellin o' her death? A funeral costs siller--what wad

ye hae dune wi' the body?"

Cubby seemed moved by this question, and eyed the speaker suspiciously

and fearfully.

"What's that to ye, callant?" he said at last. "A man's nae great

mechanic wha canna ca' thegither four white deals; and they that carry

to the grave dinna trouble are by coming back to ask for their fare, as

other carriers do."

"She'll no be ill to carry, puir thing," said John Monilaws. "The only

weight aboot her will be that o' death, whilk they say is great even in

a bird. Whar does her mither lie?"

"Whar should she lie?" replied Cubby, again put into a state of

agitation, remarked particularly by Carey. "Think ye she's no in her

grave?"

"I hae little doot o' that, Cubby," said the other; "but I hope puir

Jeanie hears naething o' a' this."

On looking at the invalid, all parties were surprised to see her looking

up in their faces, apparently comprehending every word they said.

"Ye're better, I think, Jeanie," said John.

"I dinna ken," replied the poor maiden. "Ask my faither. I can say

naething about mysel. He'll answer for me."

"Hae ye been gettin ony meat except this crowdy an Adam's wine?" again

said the other.

"My faither kens best what kind o' wine I hae been gettin," replied she.

"Wine!" ejaculated Cubby--"God keep me an' my house frae sic

extravagance! Mair souls an' siller hae been drooned in that liquor than

in the Dead Sea, whilk hauds Sodom and Gomorrah."

"An' some bodies hae been saved wi't," said John, taking out a small

bottle and a glass, and emptying some wine, which, by holding up the

poor invalid, he endeavoured to prevail upon her to taste.

Cubby turned up his eyes and his hands to heaven. Jeannie looked

fearfully at her father, and refused to taste the wine, though her lips

were as withered leaves.

"The taste o't will never leave her mouth," ejaculated Cubby. "Awa wi'

you an' your wine! Is my bairn to be corrupted, an' her father lookin

on? What can be expected o' ane wha has swallowed three hail pennies at

ae gulp? God hae mercy on us!"

"You seem to want yer dochter dead," said the elder. "The Lord has sent

us thae things to be used, and no abused. Paul says, 'Drink no longer

water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake, and thine often

infirmities.'"

"I'll no tak that," replied Cubby, "on the faith o' are wha said he cam

here wi' shune to mend, when his true errand was to corrupt the stamach

o' my dochter. Paul had mair sense than learn folk thae evil habits."

"Shew me a Bible, an' I'll point ye out the passage," said the elder.

"I may thank the Bible," replied Cubby; "for the auld ane I ance had,

an' whilk I sauld for half-a-crown to Geordie Bookless o' Dumfries, kept

me and Jeannie livin for five weeks--sae I hae naething to say against

that guid buik; but I haena been able to buy a second. Ye may noo gang

yer ways. Ye see that neither yer wine nor yer text is o' ony use in

this house."

"Will you alloo her to tak onything else, then, Cubby, if my wife sends

it to ye?" said John Monilaws.

"It's no often ye hear o' a puir penniless cratur like me refusin

onything that wad save his stock o' three guid farthins. I wad tak ony

gift but luxuries, provided the giver didna want entrance to my house;

but that's impossible. A' that gie think they hae a richt to enter yer

house as they like. Sae I dispense wi' yer gifts. Awa wi' you and them

baith!"

"Its in vain to fecht wi' him," whispered Carey into the ear of John

Monilaws. "It's clear the lassie will dee if she's no removed. I'll

hand Cubby, if you an' the elder will lift the truckle-bed bodily, an'

carry the lassie an' it thegither into yer ain house."

This communication was approved of, and conveyed to the elder. A sign

was given by Carey, who instantly seized Cubby by the shoulders; while,

the door being opened, the two others lifted with the greatest ease the

small couch, and, to the great surprise of the neighbours, who rejoiced

in the proceeding, carried it with the poor victim into John's house,

where the humane mistress, who had a liking for Jeanie, received her

with pleasure, and proceeded to contribute to her ease and recovery. The

greatest terror was evinced by Cubby on being let free from the powerful

grasp of Carey. He flew out of the cottage like one distracted, (yet

locking, even in his hurry, the door,) forced himself through the crowd

into John Monilaws' house, and, by threats, imprecations, supplications,

and even bribes, endeavoured to get possession of his daughter. His

conduct appeared to the people inexplicable. The starvation of his

daughter, and the affection (for what else could have produced his

anxiety?) that suggested such means of regaining possession of her,

appeared inconsistent; and if the sanity of the individual had not, by

his conversation, been well established, he would have been considered a

madman. His violence arose to such a pitch that it was found necessary

to guard the door; and it was only after some feigned attempt to break

into his own house, which seemed to terrify him even more than the

detention of his daughter, that he was forced home, and the poor girl

was left unmolested under the charge of Mrs Monilaws.

Meanwhile, Jeanie, being kindly treated and attended by a surgeon,

recovered with a quickness proportioned to the powers of reaction of a

youthful constitution, acting on a system once more restored to the

enjoyment of what Dr Leechman called the _non-naturals_. Her natural

beauty which had never yet got fair play, began to shew itself; and her

simple and timid manners, produced by the dreadful tyranny under which

she had lived, excited a deep interest in her protectors and preservers.

She never, however, could be prevailed upon to speak of her father, or

of anything connected with the house. A shudder passed over her when his

name was mentioned; and she expressed an anxiety either to be put beyond

his power or again restored to him, an alternative which was not well

understood by her protectors, but sufficiently explained by the dangers

to which she would be exposed if she were made accessible to him when he

was under the influence of the fits of terror, excitement, and anxiety,

he had exhibited already on more than one occasion, and, perhaps, partly

to be accounted for by some secret cause which she could not be

prevailed upon to divulge. She was quite agreeable to go to

Cubbertscroft as a servant; and it was arranged that she should

accordingly proceed there as soon as she had totally recovered. Grieved

for her want of education, Mrs Monilaws procured, for her instruction in

reading and writing, the services of the village schoolmaster, who

attended her daily after she was able for the exercise, and was much

gratified by the rapid progress she made (for she was of quick parts)

under his zealous tuition.

During all this period, Jeanie Grandison was regularly visited by Carey

Cuthbert, whose interest in her, though he had not then seen her,

commenced from the eventful evening when he made the awful discoveries

we have partly detailed, through her father's skylight; and had

increased from the moment he saw the first tint of the bloom of

returning health on her pallid cheek, and heard the sounds of her clear

melodious voice, though exercised only in the expressions of the

sentiments of a half-broken, timid, yet grateful heart. When properly

restored to health, Jeanie was sent out under the protection of John

Monilaws and Carey, (who, however, left them before he approached the

house,) to Cubbertscroft, where she entered upon her service. Nothing

was said to any one of her parentage; all that was told to Mrs Cuthbert

or the other servants, being, that she had, after having come to Mrs

Monilaws to be engaged, been seized with a fever, which prevented her

sooner from entering upon her service. This caution had been observed in

accordance with Jeanie's own wish; but her curious history reached the

ears of one of the servants, and very soon became known to the family,

who did not treat her any better, because she was reputed to be the

daughter of one already notorious in that part of the country for

squalid beggary and extraordinary and mysterious conduct. Mrs Cuthbert,

an unfeeling woman, whose contempt was measured by the humbleness of the

birth, circumstances, and education of every one around her, treated her

harshly--not hesitating, in her moods of spleen and passion, to taunt

her with her father's abject poverty, and her own origin. The protection

and kindness she received from Carey, were limited by his want of

opportunity and power; but the early interest he felt in her soon

assumed a new character, and an affection, pure and honourable as the

heart that entertained it, took possession of him, with all the energy

of a youthful passion. The opportunities he had of conversing with her,

were stolen from the watchful surveillance of his parents; who,

acquainted with his habits of humble companionship, had threatened to

turn him from the house if he did not renounce them; but, as the

mountains, piled by the daring hand of Titan, are not able to stop the

mountain stream, many devices were fallen upon by Carey, to give vent to

a passion whose course, though proverbially crooked, is also

proverbially irresistible. When Jeanie was supposed to be visiting her

friends in Newabbey--a place she dared not enter--she was along with

Carey, in the Wolf's Brake, a very retired place in the neighbourhood,

where they conceived they were perfectly safe from the disturbance of

their enemies; but they were discovered by Carey's parents, who cruelly

dismissed them both from the house. Carey was true to his love; and they

proceeded together to the village, where they were received by John

Monilaws and his wife, to whom they related their strange story, with

kindness. Some time afterwards, they were married, and Carey paid little

attention to the remarks of the neighbours, who could not see "hoo the

young gentleman, without a trade in his hand," was to support himself

and a wife. Even John Monilaws thought the match, in the meantime,

imprudent, and recommended that it should be postponed until Carey had

learned some trade or profession. Carey smiled in reply, and thought of

what he had seen from the skylight of his father-in-law's cottage.

In a short time it was currently reported, that the laird of

Cubbertscroft was over head and ears in debt, and that the property was

to be brought to the hammer. This news was soon but too well

corroborated by large printed bills, posted in various parts of the

county, advertising the sale of the property of Cubbertscroft, in the

town-hall of Dumfries, on a day and hour set forth. One of these fell

into the hands of Carey. He sallied out of the house; and it being at

the time dark, he sought, and forcibly entered the dark and dismal

habitation of Cubby Grindstane, now his father-in-law.

"Ken ye the law against hamesucken, sir?" said Cubby, recognising him.

"I do," said Carey; "but it is a subtle point wi' the lawyers hoo strong

a rap (intended to let folk hear ye, but haein the by effect o' openin

the door) amounts to forcible entry. I cam to ask hoo ye are, Cubby

Grindstane."

"A' sort o' impudence," said Cubby, "is comprehended by that cant. If

folk want to borrow frae ye, (whilk, God be praised! I'm far ayont,) if

they want to steal yer time, if they want to see what's i' yer hoose,

or what's intended to be in yer stamach, they aye cloak their intentions

wi' askin hoo ye are--the maist unmeaning o' a' questions. Gang yer ways

the way ye cam sir; an' I'll send ye a weekly bulletin o' my health."

"Bulletins hae been issued about the health o' folk o' less

consequence," said Carey, pointing his finger to the small garret.

"What mean ye, sir?" said Cubby, staring at him with his eyes at their

full stretch, and shewing signs of great agitation.

"Sit down, Cubby," said Carey--"I want to speak to ye, for a short time,

rationally an' quietly. I hae nae ill intentions towards ye; an', if

ye're discreet, ye'll find me a mair sicker freen than a safe fae."

Cubby hesitated to sit down. He had never been seen in that position

when any one was in his house; for he found he got any people who had

been lucky enough to get in, out again, more readily by keeping on his

legs.

"I'm no used sittin wi' strangers," said he.

Carey again lifted his finger to the roof of the house, and Cubby's

agitation increased. Trembling from head to foot, he at last sat down on

a three-footed stool, opposite to Carey.

"Hae ye heard ony news o' late?" began Carey.

"I'm no i' the way o' hearin news," replied Cubby, "an' care little for

the warld's clavers besides."

"But when things concern oorsels," said Carey, "we maun care aboot

them."

"What mean ye?" said Cubby.

"It's said," replied Carey, looking at him attentively, "that in a hoose

no a hunder miles frae the sma' village o' Newabbey, there lie the banes

o' a woman an' a bairn, whase coffins never saw the mortclaith o' ony

parish, or filled the graves o' ony buryin place. When deaths are

concealed, suspicions o' murder are aye rife; and I hae heard it even

said that simple concealment itsel, at least in ae case, is a guid, if

no the only proof o' wilfu' slaughter."

"What hae I to do wi' that, sir?" said Cubby, whose agitation still

increased.

"Silence!" said Carey, holding up his hand to the roof--"ye may at least

hear the gossip o' the village. The banes are in the hoose o' an auld

cobbler; and it's also said, that, in the place whar they lie, there is

an extraordinary collection o' a miser's treasure, filling nae fewer

than five big kists, strongly clasped wi' bands o' iron, to protect the

gowd guineas, nae less in amount than fifteen thousand pounds. To mak

the story mair wonderfu', the gossips hae added to the inhabitants o'

the strange hoose, a grey owl--nae doot, an invention o' their ain

brains."

"It's a' an invention thegither," ejaculated Cubby, rising from his

seat, and trying to walk through the apartment, which, however, his

trembling and agitation prevented him from doing, otherwise than by a

zig-zag motion, from one side to another.

"I think sae mysel," said Carey; "but we'll see." And he rose and

seized, in an instant, a ladder used by Cubby, for the purpose of

mounting to his Golgotha.

"Hauld, sir!" cried the frantic Cubby, as he flew and seized Carey by

the legs, falling at the same time on his knees, and turning up his grey

eyes, now, like his own owl's, darting forth fire. "What is this ye're

aboot? Wha are ye? What ken ye o' thae dark things?--I mean there is

naething there. Hauld, sir! or ye'll kill an auld man wha micht be yer

faither." And he fell on the floor, groaning and rolling about, like one

in a convulsion.

"I will lay down this ladder," said Carey, "if you will rise, an' sit

down, an' speak to me on certain subjects that concern me an' you."

"I will, I will," replied Cubby, recovering slightly; "I'll sit quietly

an' hear ye speak o' onything but thae village gossips. Nae lamb will be

mair peaceable; an'--an' ye'll hae something, too--to tak wi' ye when ye

gae awa."

"Ye mean ane o' yer three guid farthins, I suppose?" said Carey, with a

smile.

"Ay, I'll mak it a gowd guinea," said the other, with an effort like to

choke him.

"Weel, let that alane," said Carey; "we'll maybe mak it mair. Ye now see

that I ken a' the secret that lies i' that garret. I hae seen it wi' my

ain een, an heard it frae yer dochter, wha is noo my lawfu married

wife--a guid match to her, seein I am the third son o' William Cuthbert

o' Cubbertscroft."

"My dochter married to ane o' the Cubberts o' Cubbertscroft!" ejaculated

Cubby. "Then hae the twa stocks at last joined? Heaven be praised!"

"It is clear, then," continued Carey, "that you are completely in my

power. On going to Gilbert Sleuthie, the fiscal o' the county, an' layin

my statement afore him, his first step will be to seize the banes an'

the gowd. Ye will be tried for the murder o' the unhappy beings whase

bodies they ance supported; an', whether ye be guilty or innocent, ye'll

hae some difficulty o' gettin oot o' the hands o' the law the fifteen

thousand guineas I saw ye count wi' my ain een; an', even were ye to get

it back, it will spread throughout the country that Cubby Grindstane has

L15,000, an' a' the stouthrievers o' the country will be on ye like

bluidhounds, to ease ye o' the burden o' keepin't."

"But ye'll no gang to Gilbert Sleuthie, the fiscal?" cried Cubby, rising

again into one of his paroxysms of terror, and seizing Carey by the

knees. "It's no in the heart o' ane wi' that face o' yours to ruin a

puir auld man wha you say is your faither-in-law. I ken ye winna do't.

The guinea I'll mak twa, an' maybe a half mair. Say ye winua gang an'

I'll mak it three. Mercy! mercy!"

With the greatest difficulty, Carey got him to let go the firm grasp he

had of his legs; and which he seemed inclined to hold till he got his

request granted.

"It isna by ony sic bribes as thae, Cuthbert Grandison, that I will be

diverted from my purpose."

"What will please ye then?" cried Cubby, earnestly.

"A condition for yer ain benefit," replied Carey. "Have ye no sense

enough to see that the money ye hoard in thae kists yields ye nae

interest, and, besides, rins the risk o' bein taen frae ye the very

moment it's kenned (an' its already suspected) ye hae't."

A groan was all the answer Cubby could give; for denying the money was

now out of the question.

"Now I am to put you on a plan," continued Carey, "wharby ye may get a

guid return for yer money, an' nae man can tak it frae ye."

Another groan evinced the agony of the sufferer.

"Hear," continued Carey, taking from his pocket the advertisement of

Cubbertscroft. "Here is my father's property for sale on Wednesday next.

It will, in all likelihood, be thrown awa. Tak yer siller to the bank o'

Dumfries, an' lodge it there, then gang to the Hall, an' buy

Cubbertscroft; an' wha will venture to rin awa wi' that frae ye?"

"But ye are wrang aboot the siller," cried Cubby--"there's no sae muckle

o't as ye say."

"I will count it mysel," cried Carey, pointing to the ladder. "I heard

ye count it before."

"Weel, weel," replied Cubby, "I'll think o' what ye've said."

"I'll wait yer answer the morn," said Carey. "If ye dinna agree, I write

instantly to Sleuthie."

Carey then left him; but, with the determination of watching the house

during the night, to prevent any attempt at removing the chests.

"Mercy on me!" said Cubby to himself, when Carey went out, "what am I to

do? I canna remove thae kists, an' whar can I tak them. My secret's oot;

an', whether that callant tells Sleuthie or no, it's clear I canna keep

langer this siller in a thatched cottage. Let me see--buy Cubbertscroft,

the property o' the freens o' my mither, whase name I bear? Aften hae I

heard her say, puir cratur! that she couldna live an' see Cubbertscroft

sauld and gien awa to strangers; and noo that is aboot to be--at a time,

too, when, strange to say! my dochter is married to a Cubbert--the

callant's no far wrang. The banes o' my wife an' bairn, wham I couldna

find in my heart to bury, hae kept my gowd lang safe frae the ee o' my

dochter; but they may noo lead Sleuthie to my coffers. What's to be

done? My gowd! my gowd! I canna part wi' ye; for ye are dearer to me

than my heart's blude! But, if it wad pain me to gie ye awa for land

whilk has nae king's face on't, what wad I feel to hae ye taen frae me

by force! I canna bear that thought. Buy Cubbertscroft! Cubby Grindstane

gie awa his gowd for Cubbertscroft!--awfu thought! But it was my

mither's wish--an' better land than naething. I maun think mair on't."

Carey called next day, and again laid before the old man the danger of

not complying with his request. Cubby himself had been shaken fearfully

during the night with the terror of losing altogether his wealth; and

the arguments of Carey almost decided him. He said he would consider

again of it, and if he came to the conclusion of buying Cubbertscroft,

he would be at the place of sale on the day and hour appointed. Carey

left him, and continued his watch at night. About twelve o'clock he

observed a cart and a horse standing at the door of the cottage; and

when all the inhabitants of the village were at rest, he observed the

miser carrying out his coffers and placing them on the cart. He allowed

him to proceed. The cart was loaded; and, in a short time, he saw it

take the road to Dumfries. He followed close behind, and was surprised

to find that Cubby drove straight up to the house of the cashier of the

principal bank of the town. By knocking hard, he roused the servants; in

a little time the banker came out, the cart was unloaded, and a

transaction finished.

The day arrived on which the sale of Cubbertscroft was to take place. A

great number of people was collected. Carey was there, and he was

surprised to find his father; who, however, had attended with the hope

of getting some friend to buy in the property on his account. The two

looked at each other without speaking. John Monilaws was also present,

as well as some others of the inhabitants of Newabbey. The auctioneer

mounted into his desk; and L12,000 had been offered for the property by

a neighbouring laird, who wished to incorporate it with his own land.

Some other individuals bade, and the bodes had arrived at L14,000--no

one being inclined to go beyond it. At this moment the door of the room

opened, with a harsh noise, and the people looked around, to observe the

cause of the interruption. Cubby Grindstane entered. A feeling of

surprise ran through the crowd. John Monilaws stared, and Carey smiled.

Stepping forward, Cubby watched the voice of the auctioneer. The latter

called out L14,000.

"Five shillings mair!" cried Cubby.

"You must make it five pounds, sir," said the auctioneer.

"Aweel, aweel, then," said Cubby--"let it be five pounds."

The surprise of the people increased to wonder. Every one whispered to

his neighbour--"Is he mad? Why does the auctioneer take his bode?" No

one bade higher, and the hammer fell.

"Are you able to find caution, sir?" said the auctioneer.

"No," replied Cubby.

"Why did you bid for the land, then?" rejoined the other.

"Because I wanted it," replied Cubby. "Will ye no tak' the siller in

place o' caution."

"Assuredly," replied the auctioneer, smiling--"where is it?"

"There," said Cubby, "is the banker's check for L14,000. The moment I

get a complete right to the land, ye may hae the siller."

The bargain was, accordingly, soon arranged; and, to the surprise of all

that part of the country, Cuthbert Grandison became the laird of

Cubbertscroft. His feelings subsequently underwent some change for the

better, and he took home his daughter Jeanie and her husband, to live

with him in the mansion-house, where, however, he still exhibited a

great portion of his original avarice. He soon died, and the property

was left to Jeanie. Carey Cuthbert had, by the right of courtesy, all

the power of the property. He received with welcome his father and

mother, and maintained them during their lives in the mansion-house from

which they had formerly expelled him, and from which their own

extravagance had driven themselves.

THE SEA SKIRMISH.

"The boatswain, piping, loudly thunders--

To your quarters fore and aft!

The great guns sponge, prepare for wonders,

While, my lads, the wind's abaft.

With grape we can nine-pounders rattle--

Naval heroes, fight and sing--

He that bravely falls in battle,

Nobly serves his prince or king."

_Sea Song._

The days of war are now gone by, and the events consequent upon them

have now become but as "the tales of other years;" while those who were

then the principal agents in carrying on hostile operations, have either

gone the way of all the earth, or remain as the connecting links between

the last race and the present. But the time will never come when the

naval history of Great Britain shall not be that on which Britons look

with the greatest interest; and certainly if there is one page in our

history more than another calculated to afford pleasure, and, we may

add, profit to the reader, it is that which records the matchless

achievements of our daring tars during the last French war. How many are

the accounts of storms and battles, of hardships and perils undergone,

which, in the days of our boyhood, we were accustomed to hear from the

mouths of old tars, now no more, and whose memories are preserved only

in the recollections of a few of their old associates! There still

stands on the east side of the village of T----, a whitewashed house, at

the door of which hangs a huge ship, indicating that this is the village

ale-house. This house, in our early days, was the resort of some

half-dozen old sailors, who had retired, after their best years had been

spent in their country's service, to spend their days in their native

village. At the door of "The Ship," as the ale-house was called, stood

an immense ash-tree, the wide-spreading branches of which, covered with

foliage, afforded, in summer, an agreeable shade from the heat of the

sun. Under this tree, a long seat was placed, in front of which stood a

white fir-table, upon which rested the jugs of foaming ale with which

those who chose were wont to regale themselves. That seat is still

there, and we hope it will remain for ages. It was the constant resort

of the old tars already mentioned; and there, with their jug of ale, and

their never-failing pipe, were they wont to fight all their battles o'er

again. Many of the yarns which we then heard, we have since forgotten;

some of them, however, still survive in our recollection. One of these

we shall communicate, if not in the very words in which it was

delivered, yet in substance, to the reader.

If a spectator were to stand on almost any part of the seacoast of Great

Britain, and cast his eyes over the sea, he would behold numerous white

specks upon the ocean, passing in every direction; these specks he knows

to be vessels, freighted with stores of various descriptions, and

destined to various ports, to supply the deficiency in certain articles

existing in one place, from the superabundance of another. These

vessels, in our day, creep along their respective ways, without fear of

molestation. The case was different, however, at the time in which our

story begins. Then it was necessary for several vessels bound for the

same port, to be armed for defence, and to sail in company, for the sake

of mutual protection from the assaults of French privateers, who

frequently attacked and captured merchantmen, consigning their crews to

the horrors of a French prison.

It was on a beautiful morning in June, that three of the smacks which

ply between London and Berwick, were lying in the Thames, with the

signal for sailing at their topmast heads. The sails were all loosed

from the lashings which had bound them down whilst in harbour, whilst

the sailors were all busily employed in preparations for hoisting them

to the breeze. At the command of the masters, the mainsails rose slowly

from the large folds into which they had been compressed; the gaffs were

alternately elevated and depressed, as the strength of the seamen was

applied to the peak or main haulyards, whilst the tars, employed in such

operations, bellowed out, in guttural sounds, their favourite song of "O

cheerily." At length, the command to "belay" was given, and the

mainsails were stretched to their full dimensions; whilst the cry of

"Clear away the gaff topsail there!" was responded to by the cheerful

"Ay, ay, sir!" of the sailors. A couple of younkers flew up the rigging

of each smack, with the agility of monkeys, to execute the order.

"All clear!" shouted out a voice from the crosstrees.

"Then, hoist away, my lads!" cried the master. And the long, tapering

sails rose up to their places.

"Sheet them home! and belay all!" bawled out the captain. And the

topsailsheet was fastened to the belaying pins.

"Clap on the jib-out-haul!" was the next order, which was as speedily

obeyed. And the ample jib was also extended to the breeze, whilst some

of the sailors were, at the same time, employed in bousing down the

bobstay, which secured the bowsprit from yielding too far to the

influence of the jib.

All now seemed ready for starting; the ropes were coiled up out of the

way, and the smacks held to the wharf by a single rope; the pilot was

also on board; and the sailors were wondering what could be the reason

why the word was not given to cast off. Minute after minute, however,

rolled on, and still no order, whilst the sailors, leaning against the

bulwarks, were whiling away the time in trying to divine the cause of

delay. At last, voices were heard from the two sternmost smacks, hailing

the one a-head--"_Tweed_, ahoy!"

"Hillo!" sung out the master of the _Tweed_, a fine, hard-a-weather

looking old seaman, who was pacing up and down his deck, and ever and

anon casting an impatient glance at the corner of the wharf.

"Aren't your passengers coming yet, Mr Jones? We are losing this fine

air of wind down the river."

"They promised to be down at half-past three," responded the old tar;

"and you see it is scarcely that yet; but we must wait no longer. Tom,"

continued he, addressing his son, a fine young man of five-and-twenty,

"run up, my boy, and see if they aren't coming yet."

Tom, obeying his father, sprung over the ship's side; and, in a few

minutes, returned, accompanied by an old gentleman dressed in black, on

whose arm leaned a young lady, closely wrapped up in a cloak, which

defended her from the morning air. The old man seemed worn down by years

and infirmities; but, though over his head more than seventy winters had

shed their snows, yet in his eye, at times, there shone a slight spark

of animation, shewing the fire which had lightened up his face in other

days. His daughter seemed to lean on his arm for support; but she, in

reality, afforded him assistance. Under the guidance of old Jones, they

proceeded to the cabin of the _Tweed_, which was fitted up in a style of

neatness, and what, in those days, might be reckoned splendour. After

seeing them seated, old Jones mounted the companion, and proceeded on

deck, to get his vessel under way. On reaching the deck, he overheard

two of the seamen and his son Tom, who was also his mate, in close

conversation.

"I tell you what it is, Tom," said one of them, hitching up his

trowsers--"I tell you what it is, the leddy may be as bonny as Molly

Jackson, but the old man is a priest; and there is never luck when a

priest is on board."

"I have sailed the salt sea," said the other sailor--a fine-looking,

upright figure--"for thirty years now, man and boy, and never yet sailed

with a priest without some misfortune or other happening--I suppose,

'cause the ould fellow's so spiteful at sight of them holy men, that he

tries to do all the mischief he can; but we, poor devils! are sure to

bear it all."

"That's all in my eye and Betty Martin," replied Tom. "There was no

later than the voyage before last, we took up half-a-dozen priests; and

the only thing which happened was, that, when they came on board, a

fresh hand was sent to the bellows, to blow more wind; but it was fair;

so, instead of doing us ill, the ould fellow only cheated himself, as we

made our passage in forty-eight hours. But what significates talking?

Didn't you see his pretty little daughter?"

"I couldn't get a right look at her," replied Bill Mossman, the seaman

who spoke last; "but as she was stepping over the hauser, I got a squint

at a prettty little foot--that was all I could see."

"Oh, Bill," interrupted Tom, "had you seen her as I did, last night,

when I went, with old dad, to call at their lodgings. My eye, what a

beautiful run!--a pair of cheeks fit for the bow of a frigate--a waist

as fine and tapering as the royal of a gun brig--and a quarter fit for a

man-of-war. But her eyes"----

"Have burned a hole in your heart," interrupted Mossman.

"Well, it's of no use denying it," replied Tom. "I will defy any one, to

see her and not fall in love with her; but what struck me more than her

beauty, was her kindness and attention to her old father, who, poor man,

seems to need it all. The tears trickled down the old man's face as he

related all his sufferings and trials, and his daughter's affection;

and, shiver my timbers, if I could help piping my eye to keep him

company!"

"That's always the way with you," replied Jem Ward, the other sailor;

"you're always taken in tow by some girl or other; but you can never be

true to one. I had never but one sweetheart--Peggy Dawson, the prettiest

girl in Berwick."

"Your Peggy Dawson," replied Tom, "is no more to be compared to Miss

Keveley, than a keelman's barge is fit to be compared with the _Royal

George_."

"Well, well," said Bill Mossman, "the girl is well enough; but I wish,

as the priest is aboard, that the voyage were well over. But, let me

see--this is Friday too--worse and worse!"

"Keep yourself easy," replied Tom. "As long as Miss Keveley's on board,

you needn't fear. Such a kind creature as she is, will be in the place

of 'the sweet little cherub which,' as the song says, 'sits up aloft,

and takes care of the life of poor Jack.'"

"But," asked Bill Mossman, "do you know anything of their history?"

"Very little," answered Tom, "except what the old gentleman himself told

us last night: That he has been a missionary abroad for many years, and

that his wife has died in a foreign country, leaving him and his only

daughter, who accompanies him; and that, worn out with the fatigues

which he has undergone, and his constitution broken down by an unhealthy

climate, he is returning to his native village, to lay his bones, as he

expressed it, beside the ashes of his fathers."

Their conversation was here interrupted by old Jones, who gave the word

to cast off the warp which held them to the quay--an order which was

speedily obeyed by the seamen; and the vessel soon _paid off_, under the

influence of the jib. The same orders were given on board of the

_Princess Charlotte_ and the _Olive_, the other two smacks; and, in a

few minutes more, all the three vessels were holding their course,

smoothly and peaceably, down the river. It was a beautiful morning. A

slight breath of wind was stirring, just sufficient to fill the sails of

the vessels: light, however, as it was, it was fresh and invigorating.

The sun was just rising; and his upper limb only was as yet visible,

peering above the cloud with which his body was enveloped, as if to take

a peep at the ocean and the land before rising from his couch.

Gradually, however, the king of day emerged from the cloud, and again

his upper limb was concealed in another cloud higher up in the heavens,

leaving a broad band of light alone visible. These alternations of light

and shade continued for a short time, till the sun ascended higher in

the sky, and then the middle of his body was covered by a dark vapour,

which was passed round him like a ribbon. This also passed off; and the

"father of ten thousand days" burst forth in a flood of glory--of

bright, effulgent light--making the gentle undulations of the waves to

glitter as if studded with millions of gems; whilst the dewdrops of the

morning, hanging from the sails and cordage of the vessels, glistening

in the sun, assumed various fantastic forms, as the head of the vessel

dipped and rose at intervals, upon the gentle waves. Miss Keveley had

left her father reclining upon a sofa in the cabin of the _Tweed_, and

had come upon deck to enjoy the beauty of the scene; and, as she gazed

upon the rising luminary and the silent waters of the Thames, the queen

of rivers, she felt that elevation of spirits, and that devotion, which

such a scene is calculated to inspire. Catherine Keveley had been

peculiarly the child of misfortune. Her mother was of a noble family,

and her alliance had been sought by many rich and noble youths.

Preferring, however, the hand of a man, who, though much her inferior in

birth, yet in high and lofty feeling was, at least, her equal, she

chose Mr Keveley as her companion for life--a licensed minister of the

Church of Scotland, and at that time appointed as superintendent of a

missionary station in a distant country. Happy in each other's love,

they lived in a foreign land till the birth of Catherine; which event

was succeeded by her mother's death.

Catherine, though from childhood a delicate flower, and though deprived

of the fostering care of a mother's love, yet, under the tender

management of her doting father, rose up to be the prop and staff of his

declining years. Her form was of the slightest kind; her eyes, of that

light, heavenly blue, which is the sure index of deep feeling, were

protected by high, arched eyebrows; her forehead was broad rather than

lofty, but of an alabaster whiteness; her clear brown hair was parted

over her brow in graceful curls, whilst her long tresses hung in flowing

ringlets down her shoulders. Her air was usually of that pensive cast

which never fails to interest the beholder; but, of late, a shade of

deeper melancholy had been seated on her features, called up by anxiety

for her father's declining health, and the sad prospect which then lay

before her, an unprotected orphan.

It was impossible to look upon that lovely creature without emotion, as

she stood leaning against the bulwark of the vessel, and beholding the

glories of the rising sun, and the places upon the river, as the vessel

passed them, one after another, in its course. Nor was she unobserved;

for Tom Jones, seated upon the windlass, with his hands crossed upon his

breast, was silently beholding her. She was here joined by her father,

who had come upon deck, and without speaking, took her hand. Catherine

silently pointed to the sun.--"This, indeed," said her father, breaking

silence, "is a glorious spectacle. I have travelled in many lands, and

beheld many splendid sights--I have seen the most gorgeous spectacles

of eastern magnificence, where everything was combined that could please

the eye or captivate the fancy--but all of these fall short, very far

short, of this display. How many people," continued the old gentleman,

"travel into other countries, for the sake of seeing fine sights, who

are ignorant that they might behold, at home, a sight grander than the

finest of these!"

"I don't wonder," said Catherine, "that the Persians, and many other

Eastern nations, worship the sun--contributing, as he does, so much to

our comfort and happiness; in so doing, they are thankful for the

blessings conferred, and only mistake the secondary, for the first cause

of their enjoyment."

They continued thus talking to each other for some time, while Tom Jones

was devouring every word which was uttered. After enjoying the coolness

of the morning breeze, they again descended to the cabin, where they

continued till breakfast-time, when they were joined by the old captain

and his son Tom. The old tar was full of spirits--told them some of his

best yarns--and, by his kindness, endeavoured to make his guests as

comfortable as possible. Tom was engaged in the same labour of love;

and, by several little acts of attention to the old gentleman, he gained

what, to him, was the sweetest reward on earth--an approving smile from

Catherine.

"Are we your only passengers?" asked Mr Keveley.

"Yes," replied Tom. "People now-a-days prefer going by land, to running

the risk of being taken by the French privateers, which swarm along the

coast."

"I hope there is no danger of being attacked?" asked Catherine, turning

pale with alarm.

"Why, as to that," replied old Bill, "one can't say for sartin--I have

seed such sights as that before now; but never fear, my bonny Miss--if

they were to attack three smacks armed as we are, they might mayhap

catch a Tar-tar--that's all."

"I am not afraid for myself," said Catherine, casting an affectionate

look at her father--"but my father"----

"Is now under that protecting Power which has preserved his life in the

midst of so many perils by land."

When they again ascended to the deck, the vessels were going with a fine

breeze, which was taking them quickly down the river. After passing the

Nore, they stood out to the open sea; and, the wind continuing fair,

they proceeded speedily on their voyage, which promised to be pleasant

and expeditious. On the second morning after sailing, the _Tweed_ was

passing Yarmouth Roads. In the roadstead was lying a large vessel, whose

taunt, raking masts, and square, lightly-rigged yards, proved her to be

a man-of-war. The seamen of the _Tweed_ were pointing out to each other

the various fair properties of the vessel as they passed; and Tom,

thinking that Miss Keveley would be pleased with the sight, went below,

to ask her if she wished to see a man-of-war.

Catherine thanked him for his attention, and followed him upon deck.

"What a beautiful vessel!" exclaimed Catherine, unable to contain her

delight--"what exquisite symmetry!--what neatness in the arrangements of

the various ropes, which appear as complicated as the gossamer's web,

and, at this distance, almost as fine! What an intricate maze do all

these appear to an ignorant spectator!--and yet, I dare say," continued

she, addressing Tom, "there is not one amongst the number which has not

its use."

"Not one," said Tom; "and, however confused they may appear to your eye,

yet there is not one which, at a moment's notice, may not be laid hold

of by the seamen."

During this conversation, Tom asked the name of the village in which

Miss Keveley was going to reside. She informed him that they proposed

settling, for some time at least, in Norham.

"That's lucky," replied Tom; "my old aunt, Mrs Burton, lives there, who

may be of service to you in settling, and who will be the most pleasant

companion in the world. Her husband was the curate of the village, but

he has been dead this many a day; she is, however, in most comfortable

circumstances, and can afford you accommodation for a short time, till

you get settled."

"You are very kind, indeed," said Catherine, with emotion, "and I trust

that my father and I will both feel grateful for the offer. However, we

shall be guided by circumstances."

Tom lost no time in informing his father of the destination of his

passengers, and of the offer which he had made them.

"That's right, my boy," said the old tar--"it's our duty to assist our

fellow-men as much as is in our power--and never have I seed two persons

whom I would be inclined to assist so much as that old man and his

daughter."

The wind, which had been favourable for them hitherto, now chopped

about, by degrees, till at last it blew in a direction exactly opposite

to their course.

"This is unfortunate," said old Bill, as he gave his reluctant orders to

alter the vessel's course, and to take in the studding-sails, which were

hanging flapping in wild disorder, as the wind headed them. These,

however, were speedily taken in, and the other evolutions performed, so

as to enable the vessel to ply to windward. On the morning of the third

day, the _Tweed_ was abreast of Boston Deeps, with the wind still at

north-east. To leeward of her, about five miles, were the _Olive_ and

the _Princess Charlotte_, the other two smacks. Tom had the watch on

deck, and was steering the vessel--whilst the sailors were sitting

forward on the windlass, with their hands across their breasts, and

uttering, at intervals, a few words to each other. One man alone stood

apart from the rest, upon the starboard quarter, who seemed, by his

intense gaze, to be trying to make out some vessel at a distance. After

gazing for a few moments, he took two or three hasty steps along the

deck, and again came back to his place, and gave another look. At

length, apparently not able to satisfy himself as to the object of his

scrutiny, he came up to the companion, and took from thence the glass,

which, having adjusted, he made a sweep across the horizon, till it bore

upon the object of his search.

"What do you see there?" asked Tom, of the sailor.

"Something that I doesn't like," replied Bill Mossman; "I am much

mistaken if there isn't a ship shaping a course to cut us off from the

other smacks."

The other sailors, hearing the conversation, now came aft, and took part

in it.

"Here," said Tom, "take the helm a moment, and give me the glass."

Tom accordingly, seizing the glass, took a look at the vessel, and

continued, for a few moments, silently scanning her, in spite of the

interrogatories which were poured in upon him by the sailors, as to the

appearance of the stranger.

"Call up my father," were the first words of Tom; "I don't like the look

of that vessel. Although she is at a great distance, yet I can make her

out not to be a merchantman; and, besides, what does she mean by

steering direct for us? Her movements are, at all events, suspicious."

At this moment, old Bill came upon deck, and, after a scrutinizing

glance through the glass, he ascended the rigging. There he had not

continued long, when he bawled down to the deck, in a voice of

thunder--"That he might be blowed if he didn't think that she was one of

the rascally French privateers."

This announcement threw the whole of the seamen into the utmost dismay,

and then ensued a scene of confusion which would baffle all description.

Half-a-dozen voices were heard at once, recommending different things,

whilst each appeared too fond of delivering his own opinion, to listen

to that of his neighbour. The voice of old Bill, however, who had again

descended, soon restored order.

"This is most unlucky," said he. "This blackguard means to cut us off

from our comrades; he has got the weather gage of them, and for us to

run down to them would be to run ourselves into the lion's mouth. But

never fear, my lads," continued the old tar, in a more cheerful tone;

"we may contrive to give the Frenchman the slip, for all that."

"Had we not better make the signal for the other smacks to join as fast

as possible?" asked Tom.

"That's right," said his father. "Bend the signal haulyards, and send up

the ensign, with the union down."

"Ay, ay, sir," responded the men, in whose minds the assured tone of

their captain had inspired confidence; and, in a minute, the British

ensign was unfurled to the breeze; but, as the captain had ordered, with

the union downwards, which had been the preconcerted signal for joining.

The signal was immediately answered by the smacks; but they were too far

astern to afford any reasonable hope of immediate assistance.

Nevertheless, old Bill proceeded, with his accustomed coolness, to give

his order for clearing his ship for action.

The _Tweed_ was a large, powerful smack; and although, of course, not

fitted out for war, yet, on her deck were displayed half-a-dozen

twelve-pound carronades, which, however unfitted for an engagement at a

great distance, yet, in a running fight, and at a short stretch, were

capable of doing, what brother Jonathan would call, "pretty considerable

execution." They were also well provided with ammunition of all sorts;

and, although not a match in the number of men for the Frenchmen--which

would, if a privateer, in all probability be crowded--yet old Bill, as

he glanced his eye over his thirteen hardy fellows, who were looking to

him for orders, felt assured that, if not victory, at least escape might

be possible.

"Get the ship clear, my lads," shouted he; "take in the jibtopsail--it

will do more harm than good--slue round the guns, and get the lashings

off them."

These orders were speedily executed; and everything which was not

absolutely necessary was removed off the deck. The ropes were all coiled

out of the way, and the men took off their upper jackets, and remained

in their trowsers and shirts. The ammunition was now handed upon deck,

and the guns were soon loaded with a full dose of grape and canister.

"Now, my lads, keep the ports closed, till I give you the word. I want

to make the privateer think we are not armed, or that we have not made

him out."

Two of the sailors, at this moment, came from below, bringing, each of

them, a couple of muskets, which old Bill immediately ordered again to

be taken below, adding, that they could only be useful in case of close

quarters, in which they could never hope to cope with the Frenchman, so

that they would only be an encumbrance. Every arrangement seemed now

made, which prudence could suggest. Two men were ordered forward, to

work the head-sails, and one to stand aft by the main sheet, to assist

the vessel in stays; the rest he stationed at the guns; the steering he

took upon himself. The excitement attendant upon the clearing of the

vessel for action, had driven the remembrance of his passengers from old

Bill's mind. The case, however, was different with Tom; for his anxiety

for the safety of the sweet pensive girl who had been committed to their

care, had completely banished from his mind all thoughts of himself. As

soon as the arrangements for engaging had been made, Tom entered the

cabin, and acquainted Mr Keveley and his daughter, as delicately as

possible, how matters went. Catherine stood for some moments like one

stupified; at last her grief found utterance in a flood of tears, and

she sobbed convulsively on the bosom of her father.

"Oh, my father!" she exclaimed, "was it for this that you left the

swamps of the Ganges? Better that you had died there in peace, than be

made the captive of lawless and abandoned men, and be subjected to all

the horrors of a French prison!"

Mr Keveley strove to comfort her.

"Be patient, my daughter!" he exclaimed; "the same Being who has

protected as in times that are past, is still watching over us."

Tom also strove to comfort her with the hopes of escape.

"But are you sure it is a French vessel?" asked Mr Keveley.

"I am sorry to say," replied Tom, "there is not the least doubt of that,

as she is approaching us rapidly, and we can plainly discern her

colours."

"I will go upon deck," said Mr Keveley; "and do you, Catherine, remain

here." But Catherine resolved to accompany him; and, in spite of Tom's

solicitations to the contrary, they both ascended.

"I had completely forgot them," exclaimed old Bill to himself, when he

saw them ascend. "Poor things! I wish they were well on shore." Mr

Keveley cast his eyes on the hostile vessel. Her hull was fast rising,

for the breeze was fresh, and the French tri-coloured flag was plainly

distinguishable at her _fore-royal_ mast-head. Tom endeavoured to

persuade them to go again below, and he was joined in his entreaty by

old Bill, who told him that they were only exposing themselves to

needless danger--"Besides," added the tar in his rough way, "you are

only live lumber here. So you had better go below, and get the Bible

under way as fast as possible." They allowed themselves to be prevailed

upon--and Tom again took leave of them.

"Good-by!" said Catherine, stretching out her hand. "We may never meet

again. May God bless you, for all your kindness to us! Take care and

don't expose yourself, to unnecessary danger."--Tom took her proffered

hand; and, as he looked upon her mild, beautiful eyes, suffused with

tears, he vowed that the last drop of his blood should be spilt before

harm should come upon that lovely creature.

When Tom again came upon deck, the Frenchman was within half a mile's

distance. She appeared to be a long, black brig; and her guns were

pointing onward on each side, shewing, as the sailors term it, two

beautiful rows of teeth. The seamen of the _Tweed_, as they stood

looking at her, counted seven guns on each side; and, from their size,

they appeared twelve-pounders.

"If we can only keep her off," said Bill to his son Tom, "we shall do

capitally; but, if she once gets alongside of us, it's all up."

"Hadn't we better, sir," said Bill Mossman, coming aft, "cut away the

boat from the davits? The vessel is too much by the stern already."

"That's a good idea," said old Bill; and the order was executed

accordingly.

"Now, my lads," shouted the old tar, "be ready with your ports; and,

when I give you the word, burst them open, and fire away; but keep out

of sight, in the meantime, except one or two of you."

The deck of the Frenchman was now plainly visible to those an board the

_Tweed_--a dense mass of men were seen--but they seemed clustered

thickest near the fore-chains; from which place old Bill thought they

intended to board.

"I'll cut you out of that, anyhow," exclaimed he, with glee. "I'll show

you that a smack can be fought as well as a cursed French privateer, any

day." So saying, he gave orders to ease off the sheets; and, keeping the

vessel _away_, he made it appear to the Frenchman as if he had

discovered him for the first time to be an enemy, and was endeavouring

to escape. The Frenchman took the bait, and, making more sail, pursued

him, under a press of canvass; and, as old Bill expected, came rapidly

up with him, and was now within pistol-shot, when Bill suddenly shifted

his helm, and hauled his wind right across the privateer's bows.

"Now, my boys," shouted the old tar, "blaze away!" when the men, who

were eager for the order, burst open the ports, and poured a rattling

broadside into her. The smoke which ensued hid everything from the

sight; but the horrid shriek which arose on board the Frenchman, and the

crashing of wood splintered by the shot, gave indications how fearfully

the "twelves" had told. The sailors on board the _Tweed_, were

themselves, for a moment, awed by the sight of the work of destruction

which they had made; but the voice of their old commander quickly

recalled them to their duty; and they again, without a moment's delay,

proceeded to load their instruments of death. The smoke had cleared

away; but the distance was too great to allow them to perceive the

extent of the Frenchman's loss. Escape now appeared possible; but old

Bill's blood was up; and though, by carrying on a press of sail, he

might have got off, he resolved to give the Frenchman another smell of

his powder.

"Cheerily, my lads!" sung out the old man; "keep steady, and we'll give

Mr Monseer a hearty breakfast, different from what he expected." So

saying, he sung out a few lines of a forecastle ditty, at the top of his

voice:--

"They sailed from the Bay of St Peter,

Five hundred and fifty on board;

And we were all ready to meet her--

Conquer or die was the word."

The spirit of their captain seemed contagious; and the crew, one and

all, took up the two last lines, and bellowed it out a second time, in

full chorus.

"All ready, 'bout ship there?" sung out Bill.

"All ready, sir," shouted the men.

"'Bout there, then!" And, in one moment, the helm was put hard a

starboard, and the vessel's head came round to the wind in fine style.

"All's about, there, my boys!--let go the fore-bowline!"

And this order being executed, the _Tweed_ was bowling along on the

other tack, standing towards the Frenchman, who, having now recovered

from his confusion, was again coming up rapidly. The privateer again

attempted to board, but was again defeated, by the skill and dexterity

of old Bill in working his vessel. Again they passed each other, and the

Frenchman's broadside of seven guns told heavily on the _Tweed_'s sides

and rigging; but the men had so well obeyed Bill's orders of keeping out

of sight till the fire of the Frenchman was received, that none of them

was hurt, save old Bill himself, who was severely wounded. The old tar,

nothing daunted at the accident, again gave his orders to fire. A dense

mass of smoke immediately rose up in huge columns to the sky as the

order was obeyed, and the deadly instruments again belched forth their

contents into the hull of the Frenchman. When the smoke cleared away,

the crew of the _Tweed_ were dismayed to behold their gallant old

commander standing at the helm, pale and bleeding, but still keeping his

post. Tom rushed aft to support him, and asked him if he was much hurt.

"I fear," replied the old tar, "that your poor old father has received a

shot between wind and water; but never mind, my boy; while I can stand

I'll never flinch; it shall never be said that ould Bill Jones flinched

from his post in the hour of danger; and mind, my boy, Tom, if I fall,

never surrender to a rascally Frenchman, but fight it out; be sure to

keep him off, and there is no fear. Never yield, Tom!"

The old tar, quite exhausted by his exertions and by loss of blood,

dropped down upon the deck; but, notwithstanding the solicitations of

his son and the crew, he persisted in not being carried below. They,

therefore, wrapped a boat cloak around him, and laid him along the deck,

with his head supported against a coil of rope.

Tom now took the command, and it required all his exertions and skill to

save him from the privateer; for the crew of the _Tweed_, regardless of

everything else, had been looking at their commander like persons

stupified, allowing the vessel to go as she pleased. The Frenchman had

perceived their confusion, and was pressing on to take advantage of it;

and the crew of the _Tweed_ could perceive the men clustering along the

yards as thick as bees. Tom, however, again passed him without allowing

the Frenchman to board; but, unfortunately, the broadside which was

poured into the _Tweed_ shot away the jib-hal-yards, and the large sail

came down into the water. Three cheers from the Frenchmen followed this

accident, which promised them a certain victory; for not only was the

smack deprived of the assistance of the jib in sailing, but the dragging

of the sail through the water impeded materially her progress.

All now seemed lost, when Tom, resigning the helm to one of the men,

sprung forward; and, seizing hold of the end of the halyards, mounted

the rigging, and, in spite of the showers of shot fired at him from the

Frenchman's tops, succeeded in again reeving it through the block; and,

by the assistance of the wynch, the jib again rose to its former place.

The Frenchman, thus baffled in all his attempts, resolved to make a last

effort; and, crowding all sail, came rapidly upon the weather or

starboard quarter. "Ready about!" sung out Tom; and, as the smack shot

up head to the wind, he gave the order to fire--which order was no

sooner obeyed than a dreadful shriek rose from the privateer; and the

first sight which greeted the eyes of the _Tweed_'s crew after the smoke

had cleared, was their enemy, standing away before the wind under a

press of sail. Simultaneous cheers burst from the lips of the men, as

they beheld this not less pleasing than unexpected sight, and they were

joined by old Bill, who, weak and faint as he was, raised his hand, and

cheered with his crew.

"We've given him a parting salute," said Bill Mossman, grinning with

delight, through a face all begrimed with powder and smoke. "My eye,

only look there!--he seems to be in as great a hurry as a dog with a

kettle at his tail."

"Ay, we have peppered his cannister for him," said Jem Ward--"the lousy

rascal that he is! I am only sorry that we did not take him."

The crew being now free from danger, crowded round old Bill, who was

still lying on the deck, with Tom at his side; and, in their own,

hearty, honest, though blunt manner, inquired how he felt.

"Better than ever I did in my life," answered the old sailor. "No doubt,

I have got a shot which may compel me to lay up in ordinary a sheer hulk

for the rest of my life, if it don't make me kick the bucket altogether;

but haven't we beat a French privateer nearly three times our size, and

with ten times our men? I tell you, my brave fellows, that this is the

proudest and happiest day of my life. And you, Tom," said he, addressing

his son, "have behaved like your father's son--and that's saying

something."

The sailors now proceeded to remove Bill below; and Tom, whose eagerness

to inform Catherine and her father of their success, had only been

restrained by his filial affection, rushed down to the cabin to tell

them the joyful news. When he entered, he found Mr Keveley and his

daughter seated, with their hands locked together; and, as he entered,

they clung closer to each other, as if preparing for the worst.

It would be impossible to describe the joy which animated Catherine's

face when Tom told them the happy tidings--joy danced in her blue eyes,

which were alternately fixed upon him or her father. Surprise, at first,

prevented her speech, till her emotion found vent in a flood of tears.

Mr Keveley bore the news more composedly than his daughter. He first

embraced her, then came and shook Tom heartily by the hand.

"And has the Frenchman really run off?" asked Catherine, when she had

recovered her speech. "You must have had warm work of it, if we may

judge from your appearance," added she, with a playful smile. Tom turned

his head for an instant to a mirror, which was hanging up on one side of

the cabin, and in it beheld his countenance, so soiled with powder and

perspiration, that he scarcely recognised his own features.

After wiping away the drops of sweat, which were coursing each other

down his cheeks, and ploughing up large furrows on the indented soot,

Tom took his departure to attend his father, whom he found pretty well,

though much exhausted from loss of blood. After the old man's wound had

been dressed, as well as circumstances would admit, a warm soothing

potion, administered by Mr Keveley, who understood something of

medicine, was given, which, having drunk, he fell into a comfortable

sleep.

A consultation was now held upon deck, as to the course to be pursued.

Some advised that they should proceed on their voyage, whilst some were

for running back to Yarmouth Roads, to see if the frigate, which they

had passed on the previous morning, still remained, in order that they

might give intelligence as to the route of the Frenchman.

The last plan was adopted, and the vessel was put before the wind--only

stopping, as she passed, to inform each of her consorts of the

particulars of the engagement. The crews of the vessels cheered the

_Tweed_, as she passed with her flag at her gaff, and with the union now

upwards, instead of being inverted as formerly. The wind being fair,

they soon reached the Roads, and to their great joy beheld the frigate

still lying in the same situation as when they had passed her. Tom

immediately bore down upon her; and the watch on board the frigate

hailed--"What ship, ahoy?"--"The _Tweed_, from London to Leith and

Berwick--have been engaged for two hours with a large French privateer,

and have beaten him off."

"What direction did he steer?" was the next question asked.

"Direct S.E.," was the answer, "and, if you look sharp, you may still

catch her--she is a large black brig, low in the water, with her

main-mast raking over her stern." The boatswain's whistle was now heard

on board the frigate, calling all hands to weigh anchor; in an instant,

the ship was all life and animation; and such is the effect of strict

discipline, that, in a few minutes, the frigate was under way, with

every inch of canvass set which could be crowded upon her spars, in

pursuit of the privateer.

Tom, seeing that everything had been done as he wished, again made sail

to the northward. After a short time, he arrived at Leith, where his

consorts had already conveyed the news of the engagement. As the _Tweed_

entered the harbour, crowds of people, attracted by the news of the

victory, lined the shore; whilst the crews of every vessel cheered her

as she passed. Old Bill, whose wound was not at all dangerous, was able

to come upon deck; and the old man's gratification was complete, on

observing the joy which their arrival diffused amongst all classes.

After the _Tweed_ had been moored alongside of the wharf, a coach was

provided, into which old Bill, with Mr Keveley and his daughter,

entered, and proceeded to the old man's house; but the populace, who

observed what was going forward, took out the horses, and drew the coach

along the streets, with the loudest acclamations.

During the whole time that the _Tweed_ lay at Leith, her decks were

never free from people, who, most of them, brought brandy and whisky to

regale the sailors. In such abundance were these articles supplied, that

they not only were sufficient for the _Tweed_'s own crew, but served for

a jollification to every sailor in the harbour; and such a scene of

feasting, dancing, and merriment went on, as was never witnessed by

Leith either before or since. The same reception awaited the _Tweed_ on

her arrival at London, where they found the privateer with whom they had

been engaged, lying alongside of the frigate, who had taken her, after a

long chase. On making inquiries, they learned that the Frenchman had

lost twenty-five men, with nine wounded--their last broadside having

killed the lieutenant.

Old Bill rapidly recovered from his wound, which was not dangerous; and

he was soon enabled to take command of his vessel, which had made two or

three voyages to London under the command of Tom.

Mr and Miss Keveley had retired to the village of Norham, beautifully

situated on the banks of the Tweed, where they continued for some time

with Tom's aunt, Mrs Burton. The old gentleman, finding that his native

air was beneficial to his wasted constitution, resolved to settle there

for the remainder of his days; and he accordingly rented a neat cottage

at the extremity of the village.

Here Tom had frequent opportunities of becoming better acquainted with

Catherine; and every time he beheld her, she improved in his regard. It

was on the second voyage, after old Bill had again taken possession of

his vessel, that he and his son Tom were conversing together on deck.

After a few preliminary hems, the old man began:--

"Tom, my boy, I have been thinking that it is now time you had a wife--a

sailor is never comfortable till he gets married."

Tom replied, that he thought it time enough.

"What would you think of Miss Keveley for a wife?" asked Bill, without

attending to his son's reply.

"The only fault I could find with her is, that she is too good for me.

Do you think," continued he, "that Miss Keveley would ever marry a

sailor?"

"As unlikely ships as that have come to land before now," replied Bill;

"and wherefore should Miss Keveley not marry you? Haven't you seventy

pounds a-year left you by your grandmother? and an't you my only son?

And you know I've several shares in the company's vessels, besides

something else that you know of; and when the old woman and myself are

brought up in the next world, sha'nt you have it all?"

Tom assented to all this, but shook his head.

"Try her, my boy," said Bill--"faint heart never won fair lady, as they

say at the fairs, when they wish you to try your luck at the

'rouly-pouly.' I was talking about it myself to the old gentleman not

long ago; he highly approves of the match, provided you and his daughter

could agree; and Mr Keveley added, that he believed you would not meet a

refusal, as his daughter seemed never tired of talking about your

exploits, or of hearing of them; so that you see it all depends upon

yourself."

Tom, encouraged by these words, resolved, when the vessel should reach

Berwick, to set out for Norham; which design he put in execution, a few

days after, setting out from Berwick about six in the evening.

After reaching the village, he quickly passed through it to where Mr

Keveley's cottage stood. It was a sweet summer evening; and when Tom

approached the house, the setting sun was illuminating the windows with

his departing rays. A little garden fronted the cottage; and the

honeysuckle and jessamine, which had crept up its front, were spreading

their fragrance all around. The window of the little parlour looked to

the west; it was opened, and Tom heard the sound of a musical

instrument, accompanied by a low female voice. He listened for a moment

to catch if possible the air, but it seemed a foreign song which the

musician was playing. At last, he went up to the door and knocked,

whilst his heart went pit-a-pat with emotion. Mr Keveley had gone out,

and he found Catherine alone in the parlour. She received him with her

usual sweet smile of welcome, and bade him be seated. Tom strove to

appear at ease, but his anxiety prevented him, and his confusion was

such as to attract the notice of Catherine, who asked him if he was

unwell.

"Not exactly that," said Tom; "but"----Here he made a full pause.

"But what?" asked Catherine, unable to divine the cause of his

uneasiness.

"Well," said Tom, at length taking courage, "I may as well out with it

at once. The truth is, Miss Keveley, I love you dearly; but could never

have had the courage to make this declaration, had your father not

approved of it."

It was now Catherine's turn to blush, and be silent; at length,

regaining the use of her tongue, she replied--"It would not only be

affectation, but ingratitude in me, to affect indifference, where my

heart is really interested; and, as you say my father sanctions your

addresses, there is my hand;--if you think it worth your acceptance, it

is at your service."

Tom, unable to contain himself, took her hand, and pressed it to his

lips. "I leave you to yourself," said he "for a few minutes, to recover

from your confusion"--so saying, he went out for a little; and met Mr

Keveley, just returning from a visit to a friend at a little distance,

to whom he communicated the pleasing intelligence of his happiness. Mr

Keveley took Tom by the hand, and, having embraced him--

"I shall now leave this world," said he, "without a wish unsatisfied. It

was the only desire of my heart, before bidding a final adieu to all

sublunary things, to see my daughter with a protector for life; and I am

glad she has made choice of an honest man, and one every way so

deserving of her." So saying, he led Tom back to the parlour, where

Catherine still remained seated. After joining their hands, the old

gentleman uttered a benediction over them, and embraced them both with

much tenderness.

After a short time, Tom took his leave, but not before Catherine had

promised that their marriage should take place on an early day.

About a fortnight after, on a fine forenoon, the village grocer at

Norham was standing at his door, and gazing after a crowd which had

passed; as he stood looking, a man dressed like a grazier came up, and,

after the accustomed salutation of "How's a' wi' ye the day?" asked him

what he was "glowrin" at.

"I have just been lookin at the weddin which has passed," answered the

grocer; "an' sic a braw sicht hasna been seen in the village for mony a

day."

"Wha's weddin is it?" asked the grazier.

"It's the daughter of ane Mr Keveley, who has settled in this place for

some time--and a bonny lassie she is; and they say, she's as guid as

she's bonny. She's married to ane Jones, son o' auld Bill Jones, maister

o' the smack which beat the Frenchman no very lang syne yet. Every one

o' the smack's crew are at the weddin; an' sic a set o' merry jovial

blades were never thegither in this place afore. The folks are like to

stifle them wi' kindness. But what's the queerest thing of a' is, that

they a' cam oot here, this mornin, in a boat."

"In a boat!" exclaimed the grazier, in amazement--"on dry land?"

"Ay, in a boat," replied the grocer--"a lang boat, mounted upon a lang

cart; an' there were they a' seated in it, wi' ribbons fleein; an' wi'

the Union, as they ca' the flag which hung at the ship's mast when they

beat the Frenchman; an' the folks a' shoutin, an' the bairns skirling. I

declare, thae sailors are a wheen born deevils for fun and frolic; but

they are sic canty chiels, that ane canna help likin them the better for

a' their nonsense. They ca' the lang boat the _Whim_; an', faith, she's

weel named--for it's a whimsical idea."

The grocer and the grazier stood talking thus to each other, till the

cavalcade returned from the church--Tom and his bride in an open,

four-wheeled carriage, whilst the rest all followed in the boat already

mentioned.

Little of our story now remains to be told. After his marriage, Tom went

to sea for a few years, in command of the _Tweed_; but, on the death of

Mr Keveley, he retired to Norham, where he took the cottage which the

old gentleman had inhabited.

Passing lately through the churchyard of T----, we went up to the grave

of old Bill Jones. A neat, marble tombstone had been raised to his

memory, by his son and daughter. At the bottom was the following

epitaph:--

"Though Neptune's waves and Boreas' storms

Have tossed me to and fro,

In spite of all, by God's decree,

I anchor here below."