THE DREAM.
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The war of reason against the prejudices of superstition has been a long one. It followed on the heels of the crusades of superstition against reason. How different the spirit, tactics, and results of the two! Cruelty, injustice, blood, the burning stake, and an increase of the strength of the persecuted, on the one side; on the other, argument, persuasion, and, at the worst, a harmless satire, with the almost total extinction of the cowardly foe, who, having no refuge but in the dark recesses of ignorance, required only to be brought to light to suffer extermination. Auguries and divinations ruled the world for two thousand years, and were put an end to by the Christian faith, which left untouched the power of witches, ghosts, and dreams. The first of these, notwithstanding all the probation of King James, have perished; the second, maugre the arguments of Johnson, have left this earth; but the third, which has had a thousand supporters between Artemant Milesius and Lord Monboddo, still retain some authority in the world. We support them not; but we subscribe to the opinion of Peter Bayle, who stated, in reference to the reality of the dream of the Spanish Jesuit, Maldonat, there are many things appertaining to dreams which have troubled and perplexed strong spirits more than they have been ever willing to confess. We are now to add one instance more to those of which the same author has said the world is almost already full; but we again protest against the inference of our own belief in oneirology.
About half-way between the towns of Hamilton and Glasgow, there stand, at the distance of about a quarter-of-a-mile from the highway, and on the left as you approach the latter place, the remains of what was once a small farmhouse. It is now long since the last inhabitant left this little humble domicile, whose handful of ruins would perhaps excite but little attention from the passer-by, were they not so delightfully and conspicuously situated. They stand on the very extremity and summit of a beautiful green promontory, of considerable height, that projects into and overlooks a lovely strath, skirted with wood, and through which winds one of the prettiest and best trouting streams in Scotland. The situation, therefore, of these humble ruins invests them with an interest which would by no means attach to them, were they situated in a less romantic locality.
Of the farmhouse of which we speak there now remain only one of the gables and a portion of the side-walls; but, if your curiosity tempt you to further investigation, you may still trace the limits of the little kail-yard, which lay immediately behind it; and, struggling for an obscure existence with the rude bramble, which has now usurped the place of the homely but civilised vegetation of the little garden, may be seen a solitary rose, the last and almost only trace of its former cultivation. The little garden, in short, is now all but obliterated, and can only be distinguished by the low irregular green mound—once its wall—that forms the boundary of its limits.
There is nothing in all this, perhaps, to excite any particular interest; for we have rarely any sympathy for the humble and the lowly. In the case of such vestiges of bygone days as those alluded to, it is only the ruined castle, the half-filled moat, and the crumbling walls of mighty masonry, that excite our curiosity, and set our imagination to work—not the handful of loose stones that once formed the cottage of the obscure peasant, not the little rudely-cultivated patch that formed his Eden. These are by far too commonplace and too undignified to attract a moment's notice, or to excite a moment's interest. Yet the cottage has its tale as well as the castle, as we will presently show.
About the year 1760, the farmhouse of which we have spoken was inhabited by John Edmonstone—a man of excellent character, and who, humble as his station was, had contrived, in the course of a long life of industry and economy, to scrape together a very considerable sum of money, besides a good deal of property invested in stock, such as cattle, grain, farming implements, &c. The former—namely, the cash—according to the good old custom of Scotland, amongst John's class, was stowed into a stocking-foot, which again was stowed into a certain hole in the wall, known only to the members of the family. But, ignoble and odd as this depository may seem, it yet contained no inconsiderable treasure, and that not a whit the worse or less valuable for the homeliness of its abode. In one end of the stocking aforesaid was a bulbous swelling, as large as a well-sized fist. This contained a tempting store of bright and shining guineas, to the number of about, perhaps, 250. These being at once confined and secured by a string tightly tied round the stocking, produced the appearance above alluded to. Next followed, but in the same general depository—namely, the stocking—a huge conglomeration of crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, to the amount of about £50 more, which were also secured by a tight ligature—thus giving, if there had been another link or two to the stocking, something the appearance of a string of sausages.
At the period of our story, John Edmonstone was a widower, with two daughters—the one, at this time, about twenty, the other some four or five years older. They were both unmarried, and lived with their father. Jane Edmonstone, the younger of the two, was a very pretty and interesting-looking girl. Her sister Mary did not possess such striking personal advantages; but this was amply compensated by a pleasant manner and a kind and gentle disposition. For many years these relatives lived happily together, in their little, lonely cottage at Braehead. They led a sober, industrious, and pious life; for, duly as the evening came round, the "big ha' Bible" was placed on the kitchen-table, and, by the light of a clean and well-trimmed lamp, aided by the blaze of a cheerful fire, John read aloud to his daughters from the sacred page. But the best regulated life must have an end, as well as the most reckless and abandoned. John was suddenly seized with a mortal illness, of which he shortly died, leaving his two daughters sole and equal inheritors of his wealth. The death of their father was a grievous calamity to the two unprotected girls; for they were without relatives—at least, there were none near them—though certainly not without those who wished them well, as they were universally respected in their own neighbourhood, both on their father's account and their own. Yet did they feel, on the death of their only parent, a sense of loneliness and of inability to cope with the world, which at once alarmed and dispirited them, notwithstanding the considerable resources which their father's industry and economy had secured to them. Nor did their local situation tend to lessen the former feeling; for it was a solitary one—the house in which they lived being at a considerable distance from any other habitation. The neighbourhood in which they resided, moreover, was a loose one. It was filled with coal-miners and coal-carters—the latter, in particular, a brutal, ruffian race; and to all these the poor solitary women believed it to be well known, as it certainly was to a great many of them, that their father had left them money, and that it was in the house; and thus, to their other fears, was added the dread of their dwelling being broken into, and themselves robbed and murdered.
It was while living in this state of feverish alarm and utter helplessness—for they found they could not conduct the business of the farm—and about a fortnight after the death of their father, that Jane, the youngest of the sisters, suddenly awoke, early in the morning, from a troubled sleep, and sprang from her bed, in an agony of terror and affright, exclaiming, as she hurried on her clothes—
"O Mary, Mary! we'll stay here no longer. Not another day—not another day. I'll go into Glasgow this forenoon, and consult with our uncle about selling off, and removing into the city. We will not stay here, Mary, to be robbed and murdered."
"I am as uneasy remaining here as you can be, Jane," replied her sister, now more than ever alarmed by the latter's wild looks and unusual excitement; "but what is the meaning of this sudden outcry?"
"It does not matter, it does not matter, Mary," said Jane, in great agitation, and still hurrying on her clothes; "but I'll go this day to Glasgow, and consult our uncle." And, without vouchsafing any explanation of the cause of this sudden determination, so peremptorily expressed, she shortly afterwards took a hasty breakfast, and, in a few minutes more, was on the road to Glasgow, a distance of from four to five miles.
The uncle whom Jane proposed to consult on this occasion was a brother of her mother's, named James Davidson. He was in poor circumstances, and had been so all his life; and, whether from this or some other cause, he had never stood high in the favour of his brother-in-law. He was a hard-featured old man, stern and morose, and without any of that patient forbearance of disposition and manner which gives to age so pleasing and amiable a character. Davidson, as we have said, was poor. He had never been able to improve his circumstances, or to rise above the condition of a labourer. There he started, and there he was still. Nor did his eldest son promise to be more fortunate in the world. He inherited his father's disposition, which was an unhappy one; was idly inclined; and, somehow or other, could never gain the good-will of any one. Neither Jane nor Mary Edmonstone had ever seen much of their uncle; their father's dislike to him prevented this. Neither did they know much about his circumstances or character; the same cause preventing all intercourse between the families. They, in short, only knew of their uncle's existence by his frequent applications to their father for the loan of money, which he invariably refused. Still, he was their uncle, and the nearest relative they had, and, in their present circumstances, they naturally looked on him as the fittest person to consult regarding their affairs, their wishes and intentions. These Jane now laid before the old man, who received her kindly, notwithstanding his usual asperity of manner; telling him, at the same time, that she and her sister were resolved, at all hazards, and at whatever loss, to sell off at Braehead, and take up their residence in Glasgow; "for," said she, "we are day and night in danger of our lives yonder; and besides, we are wholly unable to conduct our father's business—buying and selling cattle—or to carry on the affairs of the farm. These are things that we cannot do—and neither need we, as we have enough to live upon without it. All that we want is safety."
The old man heard her patiently, and it was some time before he made any reply. At length he said—
"Yes, enough to live upon, I daresay you have. How much did your father leave, Jane?—in money, I mean."
"Somewhat about three hundred pounds," replied his niece.
"A good round sum," said the old man, "to be all in hard money. And is it all past you—all in the house?"
"All."
Davidson thought for a moment. Then—"Well, I'll tell you what it is, Jane," he said: "I do not at all approve of your leaving Braehead. If you do so, you throw yourselves at once upon your little capital, which will not last you very long in a town like this, where all would be going out, and nothing coming in—and where would you be when it was exhausted? Now, your byres and farm in the country are a certain source of emolument to you; and, by keeping these, you will make a decent maintenance of it, without encroaching on the funds left you by your father. My advice to you, then, Jane, is, by all means to remain where you are. Hire persons to do your heavy out-of-door work; and, as the distance is not great, I will come out myself once or twice a week, and assist you with both my personal services and advice."
"Thank you, uncle," replied his niece; "but we really cannot remain at Braehead, on any account. I would not remain in it another week for any consideration."
"No! what for, Jane? What are you afraid of?" said her uncle.
"Of being murdered," replied Jane; "and I have but too good reason to fear it."
"Nonsense, Jane. Who would murder you? What ridiculous fears are these?"'
"But I have a reason, though, for fearing it, uncle," replied his niece, with emphasis.
"Reason!—what reason can you have but your own idle and absurd fears?"
"Yet I have, though, uncle," said Jane, pertinaciously, but appearing somewhat confused and embarrassed.
"What do you mean, girl?" said her uncle, fixing his keen grey eye upon her countenance scrutinisingly; for he observed her embarrassment. "What is this reason of yours for so unreasonable a fear?"
"Well, uncle, I'll tell you what it is at once," replied Jane: "I had a most frightful dream last night. I dreamed that a soldier—a tall, fierce-looking man—broke into our house in the middle of the night, with a drawn bayonet in his hand; that he murdered my sister before my eyes—I saw her blood streaming on the floor; and that, having done this, he seized me by the hair of the head, and was about to plunge his bayonet into my heart, when I awoke. It was a horrible dream, uncle, and has made such an impression on me—it was so fearfully true—that I cannot think of abiding longer in the house. It was this frightful dream that urged me in to see you to-day. I have not told my sister of it; for it would put her distracted."
Jane's uncle listened patiently, but with a smile of contemptuous incredulity, to the strange dream of his niece; and when she had done—
"Pho, pho! what stuff!" he said—"what absurd stuff! How can you be so silly, girl, as even to speak seriously, let alone putting any faith in such nonsense as this?"
"I cannot help it," interrupted Jane.
"Well, well—perhaps you cannot," continued Davidson; "but it is not the less ridiculous for that; and, if it were known, it would certainly get you laughed at. Pay no attention to such trash, Jane. Think no more of it; but return to Braehead, and proceed with your usual occupations, and I will come out in a day or two, to see how you get on."
To this he added the advice which he had already given, and in nearly the same words, but in vain. Nothing could drive the girl from her purpose—from her determination to leave Braehead. Finding this—
"Well, then," said her uncle, "at least remain where you are for a day or two, when I will come out and assist you in your arrangements, and in the disposal of your effects; you cannot manage these matters yourselves."
To this proposal Jane yielded a reluctant consent, but repeated her determination to leave the place as soon as possible, and to come into Glasgow to reside.
On this understanding, then—namely, that Jane and her sister should remain at Braehead until their uncle came out—the former returned home, when she told Mary of all that had passed, excepting what related to her dream, to which, for the reason she had herself assigned, she carefully avoided all allusion. By a very strange coincidence, however—but, though strange, by no means unprecedented—the considerate caution of Jane, in the particular just spoken of, was soon after rendered unavailing. On the very next morning, the elder sister awoke, in an exactly similar state of perturbation with that in which Jane had arisen on that preceding, exclaiming—
"O Jane, Jane! I have had a frightful dream!"
"What was it, Mary?" inquired her sister, in great alarm, recollecting her own frightful vision.
"O Jane!" replied the former, still trembling with terror, "I dreamed that a person in the dress of a soldier broke in at our back-window, and murdered us both. O God! it was horrible! I think I see you on the floor there, struggling with your murderer, who held a naked dagger in his hand, with which he had already stabbed you in several places."
"Gracious God protect us!" exclaimed Jane, leaping to the floor, in a state of alarm exceeding even that of her sister. "This is dreadful! Oh, these are fearful warnings! It can no longer be doubted—it can no longer be doubted! O Mary, Mary! I dreamed precisely the same thing last night; and it was that, though I did not tell you, that hurried me in to our uncle yesterday. I told him of my dream; but he treated it with contempt. He will surely now acknowledge that it is a warning not to be slighted."
We need not interrupt our narrative at this point, by stopping to describe further Jane's feelings on hearing of this strange and appalling repetition of her own frightful vision. These feelings were dreadful. She grew pale as death, and shook like an aspen leaf. On their first terrors subsiding a little, the two sisters began to consult as to what they should do, to avoid the horrible fate with which they now had no doubt they were threatened; and finally resolved that, if their uncle did not appear on that day—or, indeed, whether he appeared or not—they would, on the next, remove to Glasgow, taking with them all their ready money, and whatever other things they could conveniently remove, and leave the rest, for a time, under the charge of a neighbouring farmer, who had been an intimate friend of their father's. They, in short, resolved that, in any event, they would remain only one other night at Braehead.
Before proceeding further with our story, we would beg the reader to observe, that the circumstances we are now relating occurred in the year 1760, in the month of January. It was a winter of great severity, and remarkable for the amazing quantity of snow that fell; but one of the wildest days of that wild season was the 21st day of the month above named. It was the same day in which the scene between the two sisters which we have just related occurred.
The storm, bearing huge drifts of snow on its wings, which had been raging all day, increased as night approached; and, when darkness had fallen upon the earth, it became tremendous. The trees around the little cottage of Braehead bent before the wind like willow wands; and loud and wild, nay, even appalling, was the rushing sound of the storm amongst the leafless branches. The snow, too, was whirling all around, in immense dense masses, and overwhelming every object whose height they surpassed in their cumbrous layers of white. It was in truth a fearful night, and such a one as no person long exposed to it could possibly have survived. Dreadful in particular to the lonely traveller, who was seeking a distant refuge, and whose urgencies required that he should do battle with the storm; and many a harrowing tale was afterwards told of the shepherd and wayfarer who had perished in the terrible night of the 21st of January, 1760.
While the tempest is thus howling about the little lonely cottage of Braehead, and the huge wreaths of snow are blocking up door and window, what are its two solitary inmates about? There they are, the two unprotected women—all their previous fears increased tenfold by the awful sounds without, and their sense of loneliness and helplessness deepened into unendurable intensity. There they are, we say, sitting by their fire, pale and trembling, one on each side of the chimney—for they are afraid to go to bed—listening in silent awe to the raging of the storm.
It was only at long intervals that the two sisters exchanged words on this dreary night, and then it was little more than a brief exclamation or remark, excited by some sudden and violent gust that swept over their little cottage, or roared amongst the trees with a fury exceeding the general tenor of the storm. To bed they could not think of going. They therefore continued by the fire, where they sat almost without moving for many hours.
It was now late, perhaps about twelve o'clock, and the storm was at its height, when the fears of the two lonely sisters were suddenly wrought up to a horrible climax, by a loud rapping at the door, which, again, was instantly followed by the sound of a voice imploring admittance. In the first moment of alarm, the women leaped from their seats and flew to different corners of the apartment, screaming hideously, having no doubt that their fatal dream was now about to be realised. From this terror, however, they were gradually in some measure relieved by the supplicatory language and tones of the person seeking admittance.
"For God's sake, open the door!" he said—for it was the voice of a man—"or I must perish. I have already travelled fifteen miles in the storm, and am now so benumbed and exhausted that I cannot move another step. Open the door, I say, if you have the smallest spark of humanity in you, and give me shelter till daylight."
Somewhat reassured by these appeals, which had in them so little of a hostile character, and to which circumstances gave so truthful a complexion, Jane, the younger of the two sisters, asked the elder, in a low voice, what they should do. "Shall we admit him?" she said; "for it really seems to be a person in distress, and it would be cruel to refuse him shelter in such a night as this. We could never forgive ourselves, Mary, if the poor man should perish in the storm."
"It is true, Jane," replied her sister—"we could not indeed. We will admit him, and trust the result to God. He will not allow a deed of charity and benevolence to be turned into an instrument of crime." Saying this, Mary approached the door, and, placing her hand on the bar, put one other query ere she undid it. "Are you," she said, addressing the person without—"are you really in the situation you represent yourself to be?"
"Before God, I am!" replied the voice from without, emphatically. "Admit me for heaven's sake! You have nothing to fear from me."
In the next instant the bolt was withdrawn, the door flew open, and in walked a man in the garb of a soldier. The brass plate on his cap glittered in the light of the lamp held by the younger sister, who stood at some distance from the door, and from beneath the greatcoat he wore peeped the dreaded red livery of the king. One fearful and simultaneous shriek from the sisters, as they fled frantically into the interior of the house, told of this horrid realisation of their dreams. The soldier, in the meantime, walked into the kitchen; but any one who should at this instant have marked his countenance, would have seen very little in it to indicate the fell purpose for which there seemed good reason to fear he had come. He was, in truth, a young, handsome, and singularly good-looking man, with a face expressive of great good-nature and mildness of disposition. Little regarding these indications of a character so different from that which occupied their minds, the sisters continued to express their horror and alarm in wild shrieks, and in the most piteous appeals for mercy. On their bent knees they implored it; offering all they had, if their lives were only spared. The soldier, benumbed and exhausted though he was, seemed to forget his own sufferings in contemplating what he appeared to consider as a most extraordinary and unaccountable scene—the terrified sisters on their knees, imploring his mercy.
"Good women," he at length said, "what is the meaning of this? What are you afraid of? Is there anything in my appearance so dreadful as to excite this extraordinary alarm? If there be, I never knew it before; and am very sorry to find it out now. I am sure I intend you no harm—none in the world. God forbid I should! I am but too grateful to you for having opened your door to me; and but too happy to get near this cheerful fire."
Again somewhat calmed by these friendly expressions, so different from what they had expected, the sisters ceased their frantic cries for mercy; and, though yet far from being reconciled to their tremendous visiter, they became a little more composed when the soldier, perceiving the effects of his disclamations, followed them up by repeated assurances of the perfect innocence of his intentions, and of the perfectly accidental and harmless nature of his visit. These asseverations, delivered, as they were, in a mild and conciliatory tone, eventually induced the sisters not only to look with less alarm on their unwelcome guest, but to desire him to take a seat by the fire. We will not say, however, that this act of kindness was dictated by pure benevolence. We will not say that it was not done more with a view to disarm their still dreaded visiter of any hostile intentions he might entertain towards them, than from any feeling of compassion. Be this as it may, however, the soldier, after throwing off his snow-covered greatcoat, gladly availed himself of the invitation of his hostesses, and sat him down before the fire.
"Now, my good friends," he said, after having warmed himself a little, and having still further abated the terrors of the sisters by more kind and gentle words, "will you be so good as tell me why you were so much afraid of me when I first entered the house?—for I cannot understand it—seeing that you yourselves opened the door, and of your own accord, and must, therefore, have been prepared to see somebody or other. Was it my cap and red coat that frightened you so? Come, tell me now, candidly."
The sisters looked to each other with a faint smile, and an air of embarrassment; but with an expression of inquiry which said as plainly as an unspoken expression could say it—"Shall we tell him?"
Their guest perceived their difficulty, and saw very clearly that there was something to explain—something that they did not altogether like to avow. Observing this—
"Come, now, out with it!" he said, laughingly, "and, depend upon it, I shall not be the least offended, however uncomplimentary it may be to myself."
"Well, then," said the younger sister, "I will tell you. Both my sister and I dreamed very lately, that a soldier came into this house here, as you have done, and murdered us. We both dreamed the same dream at different times, and without its being previously known to either of us. Now, you'll allow that there was little wonder that we should have been so much alarmed at your appearance."
"Odd enough," said the soldier, laughing; "but, in my opinion, very particular nonsense. Had you dreamed of a soldier coming to court you, it would have been a much more likely thing, and you would have had a better chance of seeing it realised, I should think, than that he should have come to murder you."
"But why were you abroad in such a night as this, and at such an hour?" inquired the elder sister, whose fears, as well as those of Jane, were by no means entirely allayed by this familiarity. "Where were you going to, and whence came you?"
"Why, I'll tell you all about that, mistress," replied the soldier, "when I have filled this pipe." And he proceeded to the operation of which he spoke. When he had done, and had expirated a whiff or two—Now, I'll tell you (he said) how it happens that I am out in such an infernal night as this. Depend upon it, it was not with my will. I belong to the 50th Regiment, now stationed in Glasgow, and have been absent on furlough, seeing my poor old mother in the south country, where she resides. I had not seen her, poor soul! for several years; and as she was unwilling to part with me again, I was obliged to stay with her to the last moment of my time. My furlough expired yesterday, and I was anxious to get on to quarters before it was out; for we have got a devil of a fellow in our commanding officer: and this is the reason why I was so late upon the road in such a night. I wanted to save my distance, and avoid a bothering. But it wouldn't do—I was obliged to knock under.
I found my poor mother (went on the soldier) in much better circumstances than I expected to find her; for my father left her in great poverty and with a large family; but a rather curious occurrence gave her a lift in the world, in her own humble way, about a couple of years ago, of which she still reaps the benefit. Mother, you see, is a very pious woman, and she attributes it all to Providence, saying that it was the Divine interference in her behalf. However this may be, it was a very simple affair, and all natural enough.
In mother's neighbourhood, you see—she lives in a remote parish in the south of Scotland—there resides a fellow of the name of Tweedie—Tom Tweedie. Tom is a cattle-dealer to business, and is well to pass in the world—a lively, active, bustling little scamp he is, and extremely fond of a practical joke, in which he often indulges at the expense of his neighbours. Amongst those who suffer most severely by his waggery is a good-natured man of the name of Brydon—Peter Brydon, a farmer who lives close by him—that is, at the distance of about a mile or so. Well, on this person, who is his favourite butt, Tweedie has played innumerable tricks—all, indeed, of a harmless character, but some of them sufficiently annoying. Either from want of opportunity, or what is more likely, from want of genius, Peter never could accomplish any retaliation—a circumstance which tended greatly to increase the fever of agitation in which Tweedie's superior dexterity and ingenuity in the way of practical joking constantly kept him. At length, however, chance threw in Peter's way what he considered an excellent opportunity of annoying his mischievous neighbour in turn.
Passing the gable of Tweedie's house one morning, pretty early, on horseback (the road he was travelling led close by it), Peter saw a huge wooden dish of oat-meal porridge smoking on the top of the wall of the house-yard. It was intended for the breakfast of the family, and had been put out there to cool. On seeing the dish of porridge, Peter, struck with a bright idea, instantly drew bridle, and, after contemplating it for an instant, rode up to it, and having previously looked carefully around him to see that nobody marked his motions, he lifted the dish from its place, porridge and all, placed it before him on the saddle, brought his plaid over it so as to conceal it, and rode off rejoicing with his prize. Well, you see, it happens that my mother's house lies close by the road on which he had to travel, and at the distance of about a mile from the place where the robbery had been committed. Now, it struck Peter that he could not do better than leave the dish of porridge there, where he knew there was a houseful of children, who would clear all out in a twinkling; but he did not know—for my mother had carefully concealed her poverty from her neighbours—how seasonable would be the supply which he now proposed to bring them. On that morning, the children had no breakfast of their own to take. There was not a morsel in the house to give them. Having made up his mind as to the disposal of the dish of porridge, Peter made directly up to my mother's door, and, without dismounting, rapped with the butt-end of his whip. My mother came out.
"Here," said Peter, handing down the stolen mess; "here's a dish of porridge I have brought for the children's breakfast."
"Porridge!" exclaimed my mother, in amazement, and at the same time blushing deeply, from a conviction that her poverty had been detected, "how, in all the world, came you to think of bringing porridge to me, Mr Brydon?"
This was a question which Peter had but little inclination to answer. He therefore waived it.
"Hoot, hoot, guidwife," he replied, "what does that signify? There they are—that's enough—and a capital mess, I warrant ye, your young anes will find them. So let them fa' to wark as fast's they like, and muckle guid may't do them! It'll save you the trouble, at ony rate, guidwife, of making a breakfast of your own."
My mother having now no doubt that her neighbour knew of her destitute condition—of which, however, he, in reality, knew nothing—and that his gift was one of pure benevolence, rising the corner of her apron to her eyes, thanked him with such expressions of humble gratitude as gave him full information regarding what she thought he already knew—her straitened circumstances. Peter made no remark, at the time, on my mother's confession of poverty, and said little or nothing in reply to what she addressed to him, but rode on his way.
Well, it happened that, on this very day, my mother went to Tweedie's house with some yarn she had been spinning for his wife, who occasionally employed her in that way, when the latter, amongst other things, informed her of the robbery of the porridge; adding, however, that she cared little about the mess, and only regretted the loss of her dish, which, she said, was an excellent one of its kind.
"If they would only bring me the basin back," she said, "they are welcome, whoever took it, to its contents."
The blood rushed to my mother's face. She remained for some moments in silent confusion; but at length said—her face as red as crimson—
"Mrs. Tweedie, your dish is safe; it is in my house, but the porridge is gone."
"In your house, Mrs. Johnston!" (that is my mother's name)—"my basin in your house! How does that happen?" replied Mrs. Tweedie, with a look of surprise, and something like displeasure.
My mother detailed the circumstances as already related; and, thinking herself compelled to acknowledge her poverty, as an apology for having made use of the porridge, she fairly stated her condition; saying, amongst other things, that when it came she had not a morsel in the house.
Mrs. Tweedie rated my mother for not having told her before of her situation, and concluded by promising that neither she nor her children should ever again want a meal as long as she had one to give them; and she instantly loaded her with as many potatoes as she could carry home. Her husband, who was present on this occasion, enjoyed the joke exceedingly, and gave the chosen victim of his own wit, Brydon, great credit for his trick. He further expressed himself highly pleased that the latter had taken the dish of porridge to my mother, seeing that she stood so much in need of them. To make a long story short (added the soldier), both Tweedie and Brydon, who were good kind-hearted men, from this moment that my mother's necessities were thus so strangely made known to them, took her under their especial patronage.
On the following day, Brydon sent her as much meal and potatoes as lasted her a month; each of them took one of my brothers into their service; their wives gave her as much spinning as she could execute; and a complement of provisions, sometimes of one kind and sometimes of another, has been sent her alternately and regularly ever since by the two benevolent jokers. From that day to this, old mother, has never been in want; and when speaking of the occurrence says, that the day on which Peter Brydon brought the dish of stolen porridge to her door was the luckiest in her life.
Here the soldier finished his story and his pipe together. Both the matter of his little tale and his manner of telling it tended considerably to calm the apprehensions of his hostesses, and to disabuse them, in spite of their dream, of much of the unfavourable opinion they had entertained of his intentions. Still, however, they felt by no means secure, and would even yet have readily given the half, perhaps the whole, of the money in the house, to have been quit of him. Nor were the fears that yet remained lessened by their having discovered, which they had not done for some time after he had entered, that he wore his bayonet by his side. On this formidable weapon the two poor women looked with inexpressible horror; having a strong feeling of apprehension that it was the dreadful instrument by which their destruction was to be accomplished and their dream fulfiled. Now, too, the sisters detected the fellow occasionally glancing around the house, with a most suspicious look, as if calculating on future operations. He now, also, began to put questions that greatly alarmed them—such as, Was there nobody in the house but themselves? How far distant was the nearest house? and guessing, with an apparently assumed air of jocularity, that their father (they had informed him of his death) had left them a good round sum in some corner or other? In short, his behaviour altogether began again to grow extremely suspicious; and, perceiving this, the sisters' fears returned with all their original force.
In the meantime, the storm without, so far from abating, had increased; the dreary, rushing sound of the trees became fiercer and louder, and the fitful gusts of wind more frequent and furious. It was now about one o'clock of the morning, when, actuated by the same motives which had induced them to ask their terrible guest to sit by the fire—namely, to disarm him, by kindness, of any evil design he might entertain towards them—the sisters now offered the soldier some refreshment. He gladly accepted the offer. Food was placed before him, and he ate heartily. When he had done, one of the sisters told him that there was a spare bed in a closet to which she pointed, and that he might go to it if he chose. With this offer he also gladly closed, and immediately retired.
The sisters, well pleased to have got their guest thus disposed of—thinking it something like a sign of harmless intention on his part—determined to sit themselves by the fire throughout the remainder of the night. They were, then, thus sitting, and it might be about one hour after the soldier had retired, listening with feverish watchfulness to every sound, when they suddenly heard a noise as if of some one forcing the door. At first the poor horrified women thought it was some unusual sound produced by the storm, but, on listening again, there was no doubt of the appalling fact. They heard distinctly the working of an iron instrument, and the creaking of the door from its pressure. The wretched women leaped from their seats, and again their wild shrieks were heard rising above the noise of the tempest without. Awakened by their alarming cries—for he had been fast asleep—the soldier started from his bed, calling out, as he hurried on his clothes—
"What the devil is the matter now! By heaven! you are all mad."
"Oh, you know but too well what is the matter," replied one of the sisters, in a voice faint and almost inarticulate with excessive terror—"you know but too well what is the matter. These are some of the other murderers of your gang forcing open the door. O God! in mercy receive our souls!"
"My gang forcing the door! What the devil do you mean?" replied the soldier, emerging from the closet. Then, after an instant—"By heaven! it is so far true. There is some one breaking in, sure enough."
Saying this, he drew his bayonet, and ran to the door; but, ere he gained it, it was forced open, and two men were in the act of entering, one behind the other. On seeing the soldier, the foremost presented a pistol to his head, and drew the trigger; but a click of the lock was the only result. It missed fire. In the next instant the soldier's bayonet was through the ruffian's body, and he fell, when he who was behind him immediately fled. The soldier pursued him, but, after running several hundred yards, gave up the chase as hopeless, and returned to the house, where he found, to his great surprise, that the man whom he had stabbed, and whom he thought he had killed outright, had disappeared, and was nowhere to be seen.
On entering the house—"Well, my good women," said the soldier, "are you now satisfied of the sincerity of my intentions towards you? Why, I think I have saved your lives, in place of taking them."
"You have! you have!" exclaimed both the sisters at once. "And oh how thankful are we to God, who alone could have sent you here to protect us on this dreadful night!"
"It certainly was as well for you that I was here," replied the soldier, modestly; "but have you any idea of who the villains could be?"
"None in the least," said the younger sister; "but this neighbourhood is filled with bad characters, and we have no doubt it was some of them—for all of them know, we believe, that our father left us a little money. We have alwas dreaded this."
"In that case," said the soldier, "I would advise you to leave this directly, and go to some place of greater safety."
The sisters told him that they had, for some time, meant to do so, and that they intended going to Glasgow to reside.
What subsequently passed, on this eventful night, between the sisters and their gallant protector, we will detail as briefly as we can, in order to get at a more interesting part of our story. Having again secured the door, the soldier sat with his hostesses by the fire till daylight, when, having previously partaken of a plentiful breakfast, he prepared to take the road. Just as he was about to leave the house, the youngest sister approached him, and, after again expressing her gratitude for the protection he had afforded them, slipped ten guineas into his hand. The soldier looked at the glittering coins for an instant, with a significant smile, and laying them down on a table that stood by—
"Not a farthing," he said—"not a farthing shill I take. I consider myself sufficiently paid by the shelter you afforded me. I was bound to protect you while under your roof. By admitting me last night you saved my live—and I have saved yours; so accounts are clear between us. This, at any rate," he added laughingly, "will balance them." And, soldier-like, he flung his arms around Jane's neck, and, ere she was aware, had robbed her of half-a-dozen hearty kisses.
This theft committed, he ran out of the door; but was almost immediately after called back again by the elder sister, who, on his return, informed him, that, as Jane intended going into Glasgow on that day, to inform her uncle of what had happened, and to make arrangements for their instant removal from Braehead, she thought her sister could not do better than avail herself of his company to the city, and go in with him just now. "Besides," she said, "I should like you to see our uncle, if you would be so good as take a step that length with Jane, as you will be able to give a better account of the occurrences of last night than she can, and may better convince him of the necessity of our leaving this instantly. Indeed, I do not know if he would believe our story at all of being attacked last night, unless you were to corroberate it. He would think it was just an invention to get away, as he knows of our anxiety to leave this."
The soldier was delighted with the proposal, and did not attempt to conceal the satisfaction he felt at having Jane, who, as we have already said, was a very pretty girl, for a companion into the city.
In a few minutes Jane was prepared for the journey, and in a very few more she and the young soldier were upon the road; and, as the storm had now entirely subsided, they got on without much difficulty. What conversation passed between them on this occasion, we know not, and can only conjecture from the result, which will be shortly laid before the reader. That it was of a description, however, very agreeable to both, there can be no doubt.
In the meantime, our business is to follow them into Glasgow, where they arrive in little more than a couple of hours.
On reaching her uncle's with her companion, Jane was greatly disappointed and rather surprised, to learn from one of her little cousins—its mother being out of the way at the moment—that Davidson was not at home, that he had gone to the country on the previous night, and had not yet returned.
"Then where's your brother;" inquired Jane.
"He's gone to the country, too," said the child.
"Is he with your father?"
"Yes."
"Did he go last night also?"
"Yes."
"And don't you know where they went to, or when they will be home?"
The child could not tell.
At this moment the mother of the child came in, and at once accounted for the absence of her husband and son, by saying that they had got work at a distance of some miles from the town, naming the place, and that she expected them home that day, although she could not say when.
As the days were short, and her uncle's return uncertain, Jane resolved on going straight home again, and proposing to her sister that they should, for that night, at any rate, remove, taking all their money along with them, to the friend of their father's already alluded to, whose name was Anderson. And this step the sisters accordingly took.
Leaving them thus disposed of for a short time, we shall return to their uncle's house in Glasgow; and, by doing so, we shall find there some things of a very extraordinary character occurring. Shortly after Jane had left her uncle's that person came home, but he returned a very different man from what he had set out. Strong, hale, and erect, though somewhat stricken in years, when he went away he now appeared, as he approached his own house, ghastly pale, bent nearly double, and dreadfully weak and exhausted. He seemed, in short, to be suffering from some excruciating pain. He could hardly get along without supporting himself by the walls of the houses he passed. On entering his own house, he went directly to bed, without speaking to any one, further than telling his wife that he was very ill—that he had received a severe injury by falling down amongst some loose timber, a pointed piece of which, he said, had penetrated his chest. His wife, in great alarm, proposed sending instantly for a surgeon; but this the wounded man would by no means allow—saying that his wound, though painful, was not, he thought, very serious, and that he had no doubt he would soon recover. A few hours afterwards, however, finding himself getting much worse, he not only allowed, but desired, that a surgeon should be sent for. One was immediately procured. On examining the wound, he inquired of Davidson how he had met with it. He was told, in reply, the same story which we have just related.
"That cannot be true," said the surgeon. "Your wound has not been inflicted by a splinter of wood, but by a sharp three-edged instrument. It is a clean wound, and has all the appearance of having been inflicted with a bayonet or some such weapon. Indeed I feel quite assured of this, whatever may be your motives for concealing it."
Davidson repeated his asseverations of having come by his injury by falling on a pointed piece of wood.
"Well, well, sir, my business is not how or by what means your wound has been inflicted, but how it is to be cured," (During this time he was examining the injury.) "But I fear," he added, "it is beyond my skill, or that of any other human being. Your wound, I have every reason to think, is mortal."
"Do you think so?" said the patient with great calmness and composure.
"I certainly do," replied the surgeon, "and I think it my duty to tell you, that, if you have any worldly affairs to settle, the sooner you set about it the better."
The patient made no reply for some time, but seemed absorbed in thought. At length he said—
"Could you, sir, procure me a visit from a clergyman? I know none myself, and it may be of consequence that I should see one. I have something of importance to communicate."
The surgeon readily undertook to bring such a person as the dying man desired to see, and immediately departed for that purpose, having previously promised, at the earnest request of the sufferer himself, that he would return along with him. "I wish to have you both together," he said, "It will be better that there are two."
In less than half-an-hour after, the surgeon returned with one of the clergymen of the city. The moment they entered, Davidson requested the former to shut the door, and to see that it was properly secured. This done, he requested them to draw near him, when he began, in a low voice, the astounding confession that it was he who had attempted to break into the house of his nieces, and that it was he whom the soldier had stabbed on that occasion. All this, indeed, the surgeon had previously suspected; for he had heard of the attempted robbery, and of one of the ruffians having been stabbed with a bayonet by a soldier; but did not, till now, know anything of the relationship of the parties. Thus much the dying man confessed; but he would not say, though pressed to tell, who was his associate in the crime. This person, however, was subsequently ascertained, beyond all doubt, to have been his son, as he never came home, nor was ever afterwards seen or heard of by any one who knew him. Having made this confession, the wretched man expired, and that even before one word of intercession could be offered up in his behalf by the attending clergyman.
Having brought this incident to a close, we return to the two sisters, who were now residing with their father's friend, Anderson. This worthy man now took an active interest in their affairs; and, approving of their original intention of removing to Glasgow, did all he could to further their views in this respect, by selling off the cattle, farming utensils, &c., and stock of every kind.
Some days after their settlement in Glasgow, their friend Anderson called on them, and remarked, in the course of conversation with them, that he thought, now that they were all snug and safe, something ought to be done for the soldier to whom they owed, not only a great part of their little fortune, but in all probability their lives. At this moment the young soldier entered. During the conversation that followed, Mr. Anderson discovered that the young man would willingly be quit of the army. This discovery he kept in recollection; and, when the soldier left them, he proposed to the sisters to purchase his discharge, and to do so without his knowledge. This was accordingly done on the very next day; and in three weeks afterwards, Henry Johnston (which was the young soldier's name), and Jane Edmonston were united in the bands of holy wedlock. The former, whose dislike of the army, it subsequently appeared, applied only to its subordinate situation—more definitely speaking, to the condition of a private—soon after purchased a lieutenant's commission with part of his wife's money, and finally died a lieutenant-colonel, leaving behind him the reputation of a good man and a gallant soldier.