his employer--his salary was liberal--he still sent thirty pounds a-year
to his mother; and Mary Douglas yet held a place in his heart, though he
was changed--fatally changed. He had been about four years in his
situation, when he obtained leave for a few weeks to visit his native
village. It was on a summer afternoon, when a chaise from Jedburgh drove
up to the door of the only public-house in the village. A
fashionably-dressed young man alighted, and, in an affected voice,
desired the landlord to send a _porter_ with his luggage to Mrs Brown's.
"A porter, sir?" said the innkeeper--"there's naething o' the kind in
the toun; but I'll get twa callants to tak it alang."
He hastened to his mother's. "Ah! how d'ye do?" said he, slightly
shaking the hands of his younger brothers; but a tear gathered in his
eye as his mother kissed his cheek. She, good soul, when the first
surprise was over, said "she hardly kenned her bairn in sic a fine
gentleman." He proceeded to the manse, and Mary marvelled at the change
in his appearance and his manner; yet she loved him not the less: but
her father beheld the affectation and levity of his young friend, and
grieved over them.
He had not been a month in the village when Mary gave him her hand, and
they set out for London together. For a few weeks after their arrival,
he spent his evenings at their own fireside, and they were blessed in
the society of each other. But it was not long until company again
spread its seductive snares around him. Again he listened to the
words--"_We'll have another_"--again he yielded to their temptation, and
again the _force of habit_ made him its slave. Night followed night, and
he was irritable and unhappy, unless in the midst of his boon
companions. Poor Mary felt the bitterness and anguish of a deserted
wife; but she upbraided him not--she spoke not of her sorrows. Health
forsook her cheeks, and gladness had fled from her spirit; yet as she
nightly sat hour after hour waiting his return, as he entered, she
welcomed him with a smile, which not unfrequently was met with an
imprecation or a frown. They had been married about two years. Mary was
a mother, and oft at midnight she would sit weeping over the cradle of
her child, mourning in secret for its thoughtless father.
It was her birth-day, her father had come to London to visit them; she
had not told him of her sorrows, and she had invited a few friends to
dine with them. They had assembled; but Adam was still absent. He had
been unkind to her; but this was an unkindness she did not expect from
him. They were yet waiting, when a police-officer entered. His errand
was soon told. Adam Brown had become a gambler, as well as a
drunkard--he had been guilty of fraud and embezzlement--his guilt had
been discovered, and the police were in quest of him. Mr Douglas wrung
his hands and groaned. Mary bore the dreadful blow with more than human
fortitude. She uttered no scream--she shed no tears; for a moment she
sat motionless--speechless. It was the dumbness of agony. With her child
at her breast, and in the midst of her guests, she flung herself at her
father's feet. "Father!" she exclaimed, "for my sake!--for my helpless
child's sake--save! oh, save my poor husband!"
"For your sake, what I can do I will do, dearest," groaned the old man.
A coach was ordered to the door, and the miserable wife and her father
hastened to the office of her husband's employer.
When Adam Brown received intelligence that his guilt was discovered from
a companion, he was carousing with others in a low gambling-house.
Horror seized him, and he hurried from the room; but he returned in a
few minutes. "_We'll have another_!" he exclaimed, in atone of frenzy;
and another was brought. He half-filled a glass--he raised it to his
lips--he dashed into it a deadly poison, and, ere they could stay his
hand, the fatal draught was swallowed. He had purchased a quantity of
arsenic when he rushed from the house.
His fellow-gamblers were thronging around him, when his injured wife and
her grey-haired father entered the room. "Away, tormentors!" he
exclaimed, as his glazed eyes fell upon them, and he dashed his hand
before his face.
"My husband! my dear husband!" cried Mary, flinging her arms around his
neck; "look on me--speak to me! All is well!"
He gazed on her face--he grasped her hand. "Mary--my injured Mary!" he
exclaimed, convulsively, "can _you_ forgive me--_you_--_you_? O God! I
was once innocent! Forgive me, dearest!--for our child's sake, curse not
its guilty father!"
"Husband!--Adam!" she cried, wringing his hand--"come with me, love,
come--leave this horrid place--you have nothing to fear--your debt is
paid."
"Paid!" he exclaimed, wildly. "Ha! ha! Paid!"
They were his last words. Convulsions came upon him; the film of death
passed over his eyes, and his troubled spirit fled.
She clung round his neck--she yet cried, "Speak to me!"--she refused to
believe that he was dead, and her reason seemed to have fled with his
spirit.
She was taken from his body and conveyed home. The agony of grief
subsided into a stupor approaching imbecility. She was unconscious of
all around; and within three weeks from the death of her husband, the
broken spirit of Mary Douglas found rest, and her father returned in
sorrow with her helpless orphan to Teviotdale.
THE SCOTTISH VETERAN.
It was upon one of those clear, chill, but not unpleasant days, that so
often occur towards the latter end of November, that an aged female, and
one much younger, in all the bloom of maiden beauty, overcast by a
tender shade of melancholy, that gave tenfold interest to her lovely
countenance, and mellowed the lustre of her dark hazel eyes, were seen
sitting at the door of a cottage on the banks of one of the tributaries
of the silver Tweed. The full round orb of the sun was sinking slowly
behind a huge bank of clouds, tinged by his departing rays, that
lingered as if regretting his short career, and loth to depart. The deep
shades of twilight closed quickly upon the scene; but the females sat
engaged at their work, as if it had been an eve of autumn. Margaret
Blair, the more aged of the two, sat gazing in one direction with
unwearied assiduity, only occasionally looking at the progress she made
at the stocking she was busy knitting; and Jeanie Aitken, the younger,
bent her steadfast gaze at intervals in the same direction, towards the
road that skirted the foot of the neighbouring hills. Heavy clouds began
to rise in the east; the wind had changed towards that quarter, and
howled mournfully along the waste.
"Jeanie, my dear," said Margaret, "Jamie has gotten a fine day to travel
in. Do you see no appearance o' him yet? Your young een are far clearer
than mine. These heavy clouds mak me fear for the nicht. I am sure he
might hae been here lang before this time, if his heart yearned as
mickle to see me as mine does to see him. I trust that naething has
happened to him on the road. Many a danger has he passed through in the
wars. It would be an awfu thing were ony misfortune to happen him when
he is sae near hame. God has preserved him in the battlefield; and oh, I
trust and pray He will still be his guide! Do you no see ony signs o'
him yet? The nicht will soon be on, and I fear it will be a stormy ane."
A deep sigh escaped from Jeanie as she answered, "Oh no; I see no one on
the road. Dear mother, retire into the house--you must be very cold--I
will watch yet a little. I hope he will soon be here, and then we will
be so happy when we meet." The tears that filled her eyes, and the
trembling accents in which she spoke, betrayed a heart ill at ease.
It was at this period I arrived at the cottage, in hopes of seeing my
old schoolfellow; for a letter had been received a few days before, in
which he informed his mother and Jean that he would be with them this
day, as he had received his discharge.
Jeanie and James had long loved each other; they were cousins, and had
been brought up together; but he had enlisted in anger, and forsaken
her. With all his faults, she had never ceased to love him; and, from
the day he went off to join his regiment, for six long years they had
never heard of him. About three months after the battle of Victoria, the
carrier to the town of Dunse brought them two letters as he passed--one
for Margaret Blair, the other for Jeanie Aitken. They were from James. I
was shown both the letters, which will unfold the previous history of my
friends, and the feelings of the reformed son better than I can, and
introduce the Veteran in a more favourable light than I have as yet been
enabled to do.
"_Victoria._
"DEAREST MOTHER,--My folly has at length fallen upon my own
head, and heavy is the load I will bear until I receive an
answer to this, containing your forgiveness for my wicked
neglect of your counsels, and despising the instructions of my
worthy father--the result of all which has been my giving
myself so much to evil company, and deserting you in your old
age. But, dear mother, I am now an altered man. On the dark and
cheerless guard, at the dead hour of the night, my conscience
often awoke, and rendered me almost desperate--when sinking
under fatigue, hunger, and thirst, on the long and toilsome
march, it has given a keener edge to my sufferings; still I
warred against the better feelings that arose in my breast--for
I was still wayward and proud; but now, lingering under my
wounds, I humble myself in the dust, before that God I so long
neglected, who alone speaks peace to my humbled spirit! Be not
alarmed at the mention of my wounds. I am now out of danger,
and will be enabled to join my regiment in a few weeks--would
it were to join your peaceful fireside. But, though I am
unworthy to obtain yet for a time this my earnest prayer, I
feel assured I shall yet be spared to comfort your declining
years. And that every blessing may be yours until then, is the
prayer of your now repentant and loving son,
"JAMES BLAIR.
"P.S.--Is cousin Jeanie still unmarried? Does she reside still
near you? I hope she is still unchanged, unreasonable that I
am. If she is, give her the letter; if not, burn it. The scenes
and feelings I enjoyed before I left your roof are dearer and
stronger here in Spain than I can express, or you imagine. I do
not request you to write soon--it would be unjust and unkind to
doubt it for a moment. Again, I am your now altered and dutiful
son until death.
"J. B."
The letter to Jeanie was received with a trembling hand, and placed in
her bosom, that felt it impart a buoyancy to her feelings, she had been
long a stranger to. As soon as she had finished reading the letter to
Margaret, she retired to a beautiful knowe that overtopped the burn, and
seated herself among the long yellow broom, where the most pleasant of
her days had passed with her James. There they had herded together;
there they had first plighted their young loves; and there James had
left her in anger, without hope of ever returning to her again. On this
loved spot, every moment she could spare had been passed, musing upon
her absent lover, or praying for his safety and return; and now, with a
feeling of pleasure she had been long a stranger to, she drew the
letter from her bosom, and broke it open, while joy and grief filled her
heart by turns.
"_Victoria._
"DEAREST AND BELOVED, BUT MUCH-INJURED JEAN,--Dare I hope you
ever think of me? I fear, if you do, it is with anger and
contempt; for I feel, and my heart is like to burst with the
thought, that I have used you ill. Believe me, it was in anger
at I knew not what. You, with the prudence I now esteem you
for, refused to fulfil your promise of marriage, because I had
given myself too much up to company--to my shame I own, to
dissipation. Believe me, my love, I now feel, in all its
bitterness, my folly, and your wisdom. I am no longer the
'roaring boy' I used to boast myself among my associates; but
the humbled lover and son. The privations and toils of war have
opened my eyes to my true interests. For a time I was the most
reckless in our company; for I strove, by riot, to drive from
my mind the upbraidings of my heart; but I strove in vain. The
early lessons I had received in rectitude embittered all my
guilty joys, and at length triumphed. Let me pour into your
bosom the history of my reformation. It was on the eve of the
battle of Fuentes de Honore the first serious reflection came
over my mind. The whole after part of the day I had been
engaged in the work of death, with all my energies aiding in
the destruction of my species, my mind excited to the utmost.
Thrice we had driven the enemy through the village before us,
over the dead and wounded. My comrades were falling thick
around me. Evening came to stop the work of death. My bosom
friend, the companion of my follies, had fallen, early in the
action, at the foot of the brae, by the burn-side. I remember
the spot well. O Jeanie, how could I forget it? It was so like
the spot where we last parted--where the most innocent and
happiest of my hours had been spent--that, even in the hottest
of the fire, the resemblance strung my arm, and fired my soul
to double daring. I could not endure that an enemy should be in
possession of it, and drive us from the sacred ground. I
rejoiced that I was put on duty, to bury the dead and remove
the wounded. I hurried to the spot where my friend had fallen,
to assist him if alive, or to pay the last duty if dead. Alas!
Jeanie, what a sight there met my eyes! He lay, adding to the
pile of bleeding bodies, that, only a few hours before, were
all in life and health. Silent and sad, we dug a trench, and
deposited the victims of war. The French parties were out on
the same duty; we mixed friendly together, only enemies by a
cruel necessity, and, like dogs, brought out to fight for the
interest or amusement of others. Several of them could speak a
little English. We drank and ate together. They had plenty; we
were at this time almost famished, being in advance of our
supplies. Fear, my love, you know, is no part of my nature; but
the uncertainty of human life as a soldier had never struck my
mind with so much force as now. I returned an altered man. I
felt as if we were never to meet again, and I never should
reach my native vale, to lay my mother's head in the grave. I
own, with shame, I had until now striven to forget you, but
could not; for, sleeping or waking, you were ever in my
thoughts, night after night you were present in my dreams, and
day found me almost distracted. Dissipation only brought
greater anguish; yet my proud heart would not stoop to
communicate its woes to those who alone could give relief.
Every draught that joined I anxiously looked for an
acquaintance from my native place; and I would have given a
kingdom for the knowledge that you were still free. I knew your
faithful nature; but I had basely deserted you; wounded that
heart I ought to have cherished, because it would act contrary
to the dictates of a desecrating advice, that would have ruined
us both. At length the battle of Victoria was fought; in which
action I was wounded in the thigh; but still I kept the ranks.
We were sorely pressed by the enemy; but nature could support
me no longer, and I sank to the ground, as our regiment was
forced to retire, overpowered by superior numbers. A charge of
cavalry passed over the ground where I lay; and, O Jeanie! what
horror did I feel at this moment! I commended my soul to
God--my mother's and your name escaped from my lips--the horses
passed over me--and when, from a swoon, I awoke to
consciousness, the surgeons were setting the bone of my leg,
and a bandage was already upon my wound in the thigh. I will
not pain you more. I am now almost well, and often amuse myself
with the thought that, were you to see the pale and emaciated
soldier upon his crutches, you would look in vain for Jamie
Blair. But be cheerful, my love; for the surgeon says I will be
as sound a man as ever, and join my regiment in a few weeks.
How much better were it to join you and my mother! But the time
will come in course, and I hope soon. If pity ever found a
place in your bosom, send me your forgiveness; and, if you can
send me the assurance that, in spite of all my follies, you
love me dear as ever, I will now do all in my power to be
worthy of it. If you refuse to pardon me, you will drive me to
despair, and I shall volunteer for every forlorn hope, and rush
upon danger, until death relieve me from my present state of
mind. Return me, my love, good for evil, and give peace to that
heart that wounded yours. Remembered or forgot, dearest Jean, I
shall ever remain yours until death,
"JAMES BLAIR."
On the evening of the day after the receipt of these letters, when I
made my usual call, I was astonished at the change that had taken place
in the widow's cottage. The sadness had passed from the brow of Jean,
and hope had given a new lustre to her eye. Margaret was all garrulity,
and loud in the praises of James; but Jean was silent, and seemed to
luxuriate in the present feelings with which her soul was filled. I
departed myself with a feeling of happiness at the welcome news from my
old schoolfellow, and walked home more stately and erect, as if my
consequence had been enhanced by my friendship and intimacy with one of
Wellington's heroes; and crooned, with peculiar spirit and satisfaction,
as I walked along, "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled."
It would be superfluous to say that Jeanie returned such an answer as
James might wish. Joy once more became an inmate of Widow Blair's
cottage, and thanksgivings were now mingled in their prayers for the
absent soldier. The correspondence was as regular as the vicissitudes of
war would permit; and often, when I had occasion to go to town, I was
intrusted with the letter and penny to lodge in the post-office for
James Blair. Month after month rolled on; peace was at length concluded;
the troops were returning to Britain; and James, being a seven-years'
man, and his period of service nearly expired, we could calculate to a
day the time we expected to have him once more among us. But for a time
we were disappointed. In no home in Britain did the return of Bonaparte
from Elba cause greater sorrow than in the widow's cottage. James was
once more embarked for the Continent with his regiment--was present at
the battle of Waterloo--escaped the dreadful carnage unhurt--and marched
with the army for Paris, where he got his discharge, and was on his
return at the commencement of this narrative.