[Illustration: Bookcover]
[Illustration: Spines]
THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN, Volume 2
By Walter Scott
TALES OF MY LANDLORD
COLLECTED AND ARRANGED
BY JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM,
SCHOOLMASTER AND PARISH CLERK
OF GANDERCLEUGH.
SECOND SERIES.
[Illustration: Titlepage]
THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN.
CHAPTER FIRST.
Isab.--Alas! what poor ability's in me
To do him good?
Lucio.--Assay the power you have.
Measure for Measure.
When Mrs. Saddletree entered the apartment in which her guests had
shrouded their misery, she found the window darkened. The feebleness
which followed his long swoon had rendered it necessary to lay the old
man in bed. The curtains were drawn around him, and Jeanie sate
motionless by the side of the bed. Mrs. Saddletree was a woman of
kindness, nay, of feeling, but not of delicacy. She opened the half-shut
window, drew aside the curtain, and, taking her kinsman by the hand,
exhorted him to sit up, and bear his sorrow like a good man, and a
Christian man, as he was. But when she quitted his hand, it fell
powerless by his side, nor did he attempt the least reply.
"Is all over?" asked Jeanie, with lips and cheeks as pale as ashes,--"and
is there nae hope for her?"
"Nane, or next to nane," said Mrs. Saddletree; "I heard the Judge-carle
say it with my ain ears--It was a burning shame to see sae mony o' them
set up yonder in their red gowns and black gowns, and to take the life o'
a bit senseless lassie. I had never muckle broo o' my gudeman's gossips,
and now I like them waur than ever. The only wiselike thing I heard
onybody say, was decent Mr. John Kirk of Kirk-knowe, and he wussed them
just to get the king's mercy, and nae mair about it. But he spake to
unreasonable folk--he might just hae keepit his breath to hae blawn on
his porridge."
"But _can_ the king gie her mercy?" said Jeanie, earnestly. "Some folk
tell me he canna gie mercy in cases of mur in cases like hers."
"_Can_ he gie mercy, hinny?--I weel I wot he can, when he likes. There
was young Singlesword, that stickit the Laird of Ballencleuch, and
Captain Hackum, the Englishman, that killed Lady Colgrain's gudeman, and
the Master of Saint Clair, that shot the twa Shaws,* and mony mair in my
time--to be sure they were gentle blood, and had their, kin to speak for
them--And there was Jock Porteous the other day--I'se warrant there's
mercy, an folk could win at it."
* [In 1828, the Author presented to the Roxburgh Club a curious volume
containing the "Proceedings in the Court-Martial held upon John, Master
of Sinclair, for the murder of Ensign Schaw, and Captain Schaw, 17th
October 1708."]
"Porteous?" said Jeanie; "very true--I forget a' that I suld maist mind.--
Fare ye weel, Mrs. Saddletree; and may ye never want a friend in the
hour of distress!"
"Will ye no stay wi' your father, Jeanie, bairn?--Ye had better," said
Mrs. Saddletree.
"I will be wanted ower yonder," indicating the Tolbooth with her hand,
"and I maun leave him now, or I will never be able to leave him. I fearna
for his life--I ken how strong-hearted he is--I ken it," she said, laying
her hand on her bosom, "by my ain heart at this minute."
"Weel, hinny, if ye think it's for the best, better he stay here and rest
him, than gang back to St. Leonard's."
"Muckle better--muckle better--God bless you!--God bless you!--At no rate
let him gang till ye hear frae me," said Jeanie.
"But ye'll be back belive?" said Mrs. Saddletree, detaining her; "they
winna let ye stay yonder, hinny."
"But I maun gang to St. Leonard's--there's muckle to be dune, and little
time to do it in--And I have friends to speak to--God bless you--take
care of my father."
She had reached the door of the apartment, when, suddenly turning, she
came back, and knelt down by the bedside.--"O father, gie me your
blessing--I dare not go till ye bless me. Say but 'God bless ye, and
prosper ye, Jeanie'--try but to say that!"
Instinctively, rather than by an exertion of intellect, the old man
murmured a prayer, that "purchased and promised blessings might be
multiplied upon her."
"He has blessed mine errand," said his daughter, rising from her knees,
"and it is borne in upon my mind that I shall prosper."
So saying, she left the room.
Mrs. Saddletree looked after her, and shook her head. "I wish she binna
roving, poor thing--There's something queer about a' thae Deanses. I
dinna like folk to be sae muckle better than other folk--seldom comes
gude o't. But if she's gaun to look after the kye at St. Leonard's,
that's another story; to be sure they maun be sorted.--Grizzie, come up
here, and tak tent to the honest auld man, and see he wants naething.--Ye
silly tawpie" (addressing the maid-servant as she entered), "what garr'd
ye busk up your cockemony that gate?--I think there's been enough the day
to gie an awfa' warning about your cockups and your fallal duds--see what
they a' come to," etc. etc. etc.
Leaving the good lady to her lecture upon worldly vanities, we must
transport our reader to the cell in which the unfortunate Effie Deans was
now immured, being restricted of several liberties which she had enjoyed
before the sentence was pronounced.
When she had remained about an hour in the state of stupified horror so
natural in her situation, she was disturbed by the opening of the jarring
bolts of her place of confinement, and Ratcliffe showed himself. "It's
your sister," he said, "wants to speak t'ye, Effie."
"I canna see naebody," said Effie, with the hasty irritability which
misery had rendered more acute--"I canna see naebody, and least of a'
her--Bid her take care o' the auld man--I am naething to ony o' them now,
nor them to me."
"She says she maun see ye, though," said Ratcliffe; and Jeanie, rushing
into the apartment, threw her arms round her sister's neck, who writhed
to extricate herself from her embrace.
"What signifies coming to greet ower me," said poor Effie, "when you have
killed me?--killed me, when a word of your mouth would have saved
me--killed me, when I am an innocent creature--innocent of that guilt at
least--and me that wad hae wared body and soul to save your finger from
being hurt?"
"You shall not die," said Jeanie, with enthusiastic firmness; "say what
you like o' me--think what you like o' me--only promise--for I doubt your
proud heart--that ye wunna harm yourself, and you shall not die this
shameful death."
"A _shameful_ death I will not die, Jeanie, lass. I have that in my
heart--though it has been ower kind a ane--that wunna bide shame. Gae
hame to our father, and think nae mair on me--I have eat my last earthly
meal."
"Oh, this was what I feared!" said Jeanie.
"Hout, tout, hinny," said Ratcliffe; "it's but little ye ken o' thae
things. Ane aye thinks at the first dinnle o' the sentence, they hae
heart eneugh to die rather than bide out the sax weeks; but they aye bide
the sax weeks out for a' that. I ken the gate o't weel; I hae fronted the
doomster three times, and here I stand, Jim Ratcliffe, for a' that. Had I
tied my napkin strait the first time, as I had a great mind till't--and
it was a' about a bit grey cowt, wasna worth ten punds sterling--where
would I have been now?"
"And how _did_ you escape?" said Jeanie, the fates of this man, at first
so odious to her, having acquired a sudden interest in her eyes from
their correspondence with those of her sister.
"_How_ did I escape?" said Ratcliffe, with a knowing wink,--"I tell ye I
'scapit in a way that naebody will escape from this Tolbooth while I keep
the keys."
"My sister shall come out in the face of the sun," said Jeanie; "I will
go to London, and beg her pardon from the king and queen. If they
pardoned Porteous, they may pardon her; if a sister asks a sister's life
on her bended knees, they will pardon her--they _shall_ pardon her--and
they will win a thousand hearts by it."
Effie listened in bewildered astonishment, and so earnest was her
sister's enthusiastic assurance, that she almost involuntarily caught a
gleam of hope; but it instantly faded away.
"Ah, Jeanie! the king and queen live in London, a thousand miles from
this--far ayont the saut sea; I'll be gane before ye win there."
"You are mistaen," said Jeanie; "it is no sae far, and they go to it by
land; I learned something about thae things from Reuben Butler."
"Ah, Jeanie! ye never learned onything but what was gude frae the folk ye
keepit company wi'; but!--but!"--she wrung her hands and wept bitterly.
"Dinna think on that now," said Jeanie; "there will be time for that if
the present space be redeemed. Fare ye weel. Unless I die by the road, I
will see the king's face that gies grace--O, sir" (to Ratcliffe), "be
kind to her--She ne'er ken'd what it was to need a stranger's kindness
till now.--Fareweel--fareweel, Effie!--Dinna speak to me--I maunna greet
now--my head's ower dizzy already!"
She tore herself from her sister's arms, and left the cell. Ratcliffe
followed her, and beckoned her into a small room. She obeyed his signal,
but not without trembling.
"What's the fule thing shaking for?" said he; "I mean nothing but
civility to you. D--n me, I respect you, and I can't help it. You have so
much spunk, that d--n me, but I think there's some chance of your
carrying the day. But you must not go to the king till you have made some
friend; try the duke--try MacCallummore; he's Scotland's friend--I ken
that the great folks dinna muckle like him--but they fear him, and that
will serve your purpose as weel. D'ye ken naebody wad gie ye a letter to
him?"
"Duke of Argyle!" said Jeanie, recollecting herself suddenly, "what was
he to that Argyle that suffered in my father's time--in the persecution?"
"His son or grandson, I'm thinking," said Ratcliffe, "but what o' that?"
"Thank God!" said Jeanie, devoutly clasping her hands.
"You whigs are aye thanking God for something," said the ruffian. "But
hark ye, hinny, I'll tell ye a secret. Ye may meet wi' rough customers on
the Border, or in the Midland, afore ye get to Lunnon. Now, deil ane o'
them will touch an acquaintance o' Daddie Ratton's; for though I am
retired frae public practice, yet they ken I can do a gude or an ill turn
yet--and deil a gude fellow that has been but a twelvemonth on the lay,
be he ruffler or padder, but he knows my gybe* as well as the jark** of
e'er a queer cuffin*** in England--and there's rogue's Latin for you."
* Pass.
** Seal.
*** Justice of Peace.
It was indeed totally unintelligible to Jeanie Deans, who was only
impatient to escape from him. He hastily scrawled a line or two on a
dirty piece of paper, and said to her, as she drew back when he offered
it, "Hey!--what the deil--it wunna bite you, my lass--if it does nae
gude, it can do nae ill. But I wish you to show it, if you have ony
fasherie wi' ony o' St. Nicholas's clerks."
"Alas!" said she, "I do not understand what you mean."
"I mean, if ye fall among thieves, my precious,--that is a Scripture
phrase, if ye will hae ane--the bauldest of them will ken a scart o' my
guse feather. And now awa wi' ye--and stick to Argyle; if onybody can do
the job, it maun be him."
After casting an anxious look at the grated windows and blackened walls
of the old Tolbooth, and another scarce less anxious at the hospitable
lodging of Mrs. Saddletree, Jeanie turned her back on that quarter, and
soon after on the city itself. She reached St. Leonard's Crags without
meeting any one whom she knew, which, in the state of her mind, she
considered as a great blessing. "I must do naething," she thought, as she
went along, "that can soften or weaken my heart--it's ower weak already
for what I hae to do. I will think and act as firmly as I can, and speak
as little."
There was an ancient servant, or rather cottar, of her father's, who had
lived under him for many years, and whose fidelity was worthy of full
confidence. She sent for this woman, and explaining to her that the
circumstances of her family required that she should undertake a journey,
which would detain her for some weeks from home, she gave her full
instructions concerning the management of the domestic concerns in her
absence. With a precision, which, upon reflection, she herself could not
help wondering at, she described and detailed the most minute steps which
were to be taken, and especially such as were necessary for her father's
comfort. "It was probable," she said, "that he would return to St.
Leonard's to-morrow! certain that he would return very soon--all must be
in order for him. He had eneugh to distress him, without being fashed
about warldly matters."
In the meanwhile she toiled busily, along with May Hettly, to leave
nothing unarranged.
It was deep in the night when all these matters were settled; and when
they had partaken of some food, the first which Jeanie had tasted on that
eventful day, May Hettly, whose usual residence was a cottage at a little
distance from Deans's house, asked her young mistress, whether she would
not permit her to remain in the house all night? "Ye hae had an awfu'
day," she said, "and sorrow and fear are but bad companions in the
watches of the night, as I hae heard the gudeman say himself."
"They are ill companions indeed," said Jeanie; "but I maun learn to abide
their presence, and better begin in the house than in the field."
She dismissed her aged assistant accordingly,--for so slight was the
gradation in their rank of life, that we can hardly term May a
servant,--and proceeded to make a few preparations for her journey.
The simplicity of her education and country made these preparations very
brief and easy. Her tartan screen served all the purposes of a
riding-habit and of an umbrella; a small bundle contained such changes of
linen as were absolutely necessary. Barefooted, as Sancho says, she had
come into the world, and barefooted she proposed to perform her
pilgrimage; and her clean shoes and change of snow-white thread stockings
were to be reserved for special occasions of ceremony. She was not aware,
that the English habits of comfort attach an idea of abject misery to the
idea of a barefooted traveller; and if the objection of cleanliness had
been made to the practice, she would have been apt to vindicate herself
upon the very frequent ablutions to which, with Mahometan scrupulosity, a
Scottish damsel of some condition usually subjects herself. Thus far,
therefore, all was well.
From an oaken press, or cabinet, in which her father kept a few old
books, and two or three bundles of papers, besides his ordinary accounts
and receipts, she sought out and extracted from a parcel of notes of
sermons, calculations of interest, records of dying speeches of the
martyrs, and the like, one or two documents which she thought might be of
some use to her upon her mission. But the most important difficulty
remained behind, and it had not occurred to her until that very evening.
It was the want of money; without which it was impossible she could
undertake so distant a journey as she now meditated.
David Deans, as we have said, was easy, and even opulent in his
circumstances. But his wealth, like that of the patriarchs of old,
consisted in his kine and herds, and in two or three sums lent out at
interest to neighbours or relatives, who, far from being in circumstances
to pay anything to account of the principal sums, thought they did all
that was incumbent on them when, with considerable difficulty, they
discharged the "annual rent." To these debtors it would be in vain,
therefore, to apply, even with her father's concurrence; nor could she
hope to obtain such concurrence, or assistance in any mode, without such
a series of explanations and debates as she felt might deprive her
totally of the power of taking the step, which, however daring and
hazardous, she felt was absolutely necessary for trying the last chance
in favour of her sister. Without departing from filial reverence, Jeanie
had an inward conviction that the feelings of her father, however just,
and upright, and honourable, were too little in unison with the spirit of
the time to admit of his being a good judge of the measures to be adopted
in this crisis. Herself more flexible in manner, though no less upright
in principle, she felt that to ask his consent to her pilgrimage would be
to encounter the risk of drawing down his positive prohibition, and under
that she believed her journey could not be blessed in its progress and
event. Accordingly, she had determined upon the means by which she might
communicate to him her undertaking and its purpose, shortly after her
actual departure. But it was impossible to apply to him for money without
altering this arrangement, and discussing fully the propriety of her
journey; pecuniary assistance from that quarter, therefore, was laid out
of the question.
It now occurred to Jeanie that she should have consulted with Mrs.
Saddletree on this subject. But, besides the time that must now
necessarily be lost in recurring to her assistance Jeanie internally
revolted from it. Her heart acknowledged the goodness of Mrs.
Saddletree's general character, and the kind interest she took in their
family misfortunes; but still she felt that Mrs. Saddletree was a woman
of an ordinary and worldly way of thinking, incapable, from habit and
temperament, of taking a keen or enthusiastic view of such a resolution
as she had formed; and to debate the point with her, and to rely upon her
conviction of its propriety, for the means of carrying it into execution,
would have been gall and wormwood.
Butler, whose assistance she might have been assured of, was greatly
poorer than herself. In these circumstances, she formed a singular
resolution for the purpose of surmounting this difficulty, the execution
of which will form the subject of the next chapter.
CHAPTER SECOND
'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I've heard him complain,
"You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again;"
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his side, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
Dr. Watts.
The mansion-house of Dumbiedikes, to which we are now to introduce our
readers, lay three or four miles--no matter for the exact topography--to
the southward of St. Leonard's. It had once borne the appearance of some
little celebrity; for the "auld laird," whose humours and pranks were
often mentioned in the ale-houses for about a mile round it, wore a
sword, kept a good horse, and a brace of greyhounds; brawled, swore, and
betted at cock-fights and horse-matches; followed Somerville of Drum's
hawks, and the Lord Ross's hounds, and called himself _point devise_ a
gentleman. But the line had been veiled of its splendour in the present
proprietor, who cared for no rustic amusements, and was as saying, timid,
and retired, as his father had been at once grasping and selfishly
extravagant--daring, wild, and intrusive.
Dumbiedikes was what is called in Scotland a single house; that is,
having only one room occupying its whole depth from back to front, each
of which single apartments was illuminated by six or eight cross lights,
whose diminutive panes and heavy frames permitted scarce so much light to
enter as shines through one well-constructed modern window. This
inartificial edifice, exactly such as a child would build with cards, had
a steep roof flagged with coarse grey stones instead of slates; a
half-circular turret, battlemented, or, to use the appropriate phrase,
bartizan'd on the top, served as a case for a narrow turnpike stair, by
which an ascent was gained from storey to storey; and at the bottom of
the said turret was a door studded with large-headed nails. There was no
lobby at the bottom of the tower, and scarce a landing-place opposite to
the doors which gave access to the apartments. One or two low and
dilapidated outhouses, connected by a courtyard wall equally ruinous,
surrounded the mansion. The court had been paved, but the flags being
partly displaced and partly renewed, a gallant crop of docks and thistles
sprung up between them, and the small garden, which opened by a postern
through the wall, seemed not to be in a much more orderly condition. Over
the low-arched gateway which led into the yard there was a carved stone,
exhibiting some attempt at armorial bearings; and above the inner
entrance hung, and had hung, for many years, the mouldering hatchment,
which announced that umquhile Laurence Dumbie of Dumbiedikes had been
gathered to his fathers in Newbattle kirkyard. The approach to this
palace of pleasure was by a road formed by the rude fragments of stone
gathered from the fields, and it was surrounded by ploughed, but
unenclosed land. Upon a baulk, that is, an unploughed ridge of land
interposed among the corn, the Laird's trusty palfrey was tethered by the
head, and picking a meal of grass. The whole argued neglect and
discomfort; the consequence, however, of idleness and indifference, not
of poverty.
In this inner court, not without a sense of bashfulness and timidity,
stood Jeanie Deans, at an early hour in a fine spring morning. She was no
heroine of romance, and therefore looked with some curiosity and interest
on the mansion-house and domains, of which, it might at that moment occur
to her, a little encouragement, such as women of all ranks know by
instinct how to apply, might have made her mistress. Moreover, she was no
person of taste beyond her time, rank, and country, and certainly thought
the house of Dumbiedikes, though inferior to Holyrood House, or the
palace at Dalkeith, was still a stately structure in its way, and the
land a "very bonny bit, if it were better seen to and done to." But
Jeanie Deans was a plain, true-hearted, honest girl, who, while she
acknowledged all the splendour of her old admirer's habitation, and the
value of his property, never for a moment harboured a thought of doing
the Laird, Butler, or herself, the injustice, which many ladies of higher
rank would not have hesitated to do to all three on much less temptation.
Her present errand being with the Laird, she looked round the offices to
see if she could find any domestic to announce that she wished to see
him. As all was silence, she ventured to open one door--it was the old
Laird's dog-kennel, now deserted, unless when occupied, as one or two
tubs seemed to testify, as a washing-house. She tried another--it was the
rootless shed where the hawks had been once kept, as appeared from a
perch or two not yet completely rotten, and a lure and jesses which were
mouldering on the wall. A third door led to the coal-house, which was
well stocked. To keep a very good fire was one of the few points of
domestic management in which Dumbiedikes was positively active; in all
other matters of domestic economy he was completely passive, and at the
mercy of his housekeeper--the same buxom dame whom his father had long
since bequeathed to his charge, and who, if fame did her no injustice,
had feathered her nest pretty well at his expense.
Jeanie went on opening doors, like the second Calender wanting an eye, in
the castle of the hundred obliging damsels, until, like the said prince
errant, she came to a stable. The Highland Pegasus, Rory Bean, to which
belonged the single entire stall, was her old acquaintance, whom she had
seen grazing on the baulk, as she failed not to recognise by the
well-known ancient riding furniture and demi-pique saddle, which half
hung on the walls, half trailed on the litter. Beyond the "treviss,"
which formed one side of the stall, stood a cow, who turned her head and
lowed when Jeanie came into the stable, an appeal which her habitual
occupations enabled her perfectly to understand, and with which she could
not refuse complying, by shaking down some fodder to the animal, which
had been neglected like most things else in the castle of the sluggard.
While she was accommodating "the milky mother" with the food which she
should have received two hours sooner, a slipshod wench peeped into the
stable, and perceiving that a stranger was employed in discharging the
task which she, at length, and reluctantly, had quitted her slumbers to
perform, ejaculated,
"Eh, sirs! the Brownie! the Brownie!" and fled, yelling as if she had
seen the devil.
To explain her terror it may be necessary to notice that the old house of
Dumbiedikes had, according to report, been long haunted by a Brownie, one
of those familiar spirits who were believed in ancient times to supply
the deficiencies of the ordinary labourer--
Whirl the long mop, and ply the airy flail.
Certes, the convenience of such a supernatural assistance could have been
nowhere more sensibly felt than in a family where the domestics were so
little disposed to personal activity; yet this serving maiden was so far
from rejoicing in seeing a supposed aerial substitute discharging a task
which she should have long since performed herself, that she proceeded to
raise the family by her screams of horror, uttered as thick as if the
Brownie had been flaying her. Jeanie, who had immediately resigned her
temporary occupation, and followed the yelling damsel into the courtyard,
in order to undeceive and appease her, was there met by Mrs. Janet
Balchristie, the favourite sultana of the last Laird, as scandal
went--the housekeeper of the present. The good-looking buxom woman,
betwixt forty and fifty (for such we described her at the death of the
last Laird), was now a fat, red-faced, old dame of seventy, or
thereabouts, fond of her place, and jealous of her authority. Conscious
that her administration did not rest on so sure a basis as in the time
of the old proprietor, this considerate lady had introduced into the
family the screamer aforesaid, who added good features and bright eyes
to the powers of her lungs. She made no conquest of the Laird, however,
who seemed to live as if there was not another woman in the world but
Jeanie Deans, and to bear no very ardent or overbearing affection even
to her. Mrs. Janet Balchristie, notwithstanding, had her own uneasy
thoughts upon the almost daily visits to St. Leonard's Crags, and often,
when the Laird looked at her wistfully and paused, according to his
custom before utterance, she expected him to say, "Jenny, I am gaun to
change my condition;" but she was relieved by, "Jenny, I am gaun to
change my shoon."
Still, however, Mrs. Balchristie regarded Jeanie Deans with no small
portion of malevolence, the customary feeling of such persons towards
anyone who they think has the means of doing them an injury. But she had
also a general aversion to any female tolerably young, and decently
well-looking, who showed a wish to approach the house of Dumbiedikes and
the proprietor thereof. And as she had raised her mass of mortality out
of bed two hours earlier than usual, to come to the rescue of her
clamorous niece, she was in such extreme bad humour against all and
sundry, that Saddletree would have pronounced that she harboured
_inimicitiam contra omnes mortales._
"Wha the deil are ye?" said the fat dame to poor Jeanie, whom she did not
immediately recognise, "scouping about a decent house at sic an hour in
the morning?"
"It was ane wanting to speak to the Laird," said Jeanie, who felt
something of the intuitive terror which she had formerly entertained for
this termagant, when she was occasionally at Dumbiedikes on business of
her father's.
"Ane!--And what sort of ane are ye!--hae ye nae name?--D'ye think his
honour has naething else to do than to speak wi' ilka idle tramper that
comes about the town, and him in his bed yet, honest man?"
"Dear Mrs. Balchristie," replied Jeanie, in a submissive tone, "d'ye no
mind me?--d'ye no mind Jeanie Deans?"
"Jeanie Deans!" said the termagant, in accents affecting the utmost
astonishment; then, taking two strides nearer to her, she peered into her
face with a stare of curiosity, equally scornful and malignant--"I say
Jeanie Deans indeed--Jeanie Deevil, they had better hae ca'ed ye!--A
bonny spot o' wark your tittie and you hae made out, murdering ae puir
wean, and your light limmer of a sister's to be hanged for't, as weel she
deserves!--And the like o' you to come to ony honest man's house, and
want to be into a decent bachelor gentleman's room at this time in the
morning, and him in his bed!--Gae wa', gae wa'!"
Jeanie was struck mute with shame at the unfeeling brutality of this
accusation, and could not even find words to justify herself from the
vile construction put upon her visit. When Mrs. Balchristie, seeing her
advantage, continued in the same tone, "Come, come, bundle up your pipes
and tramp awa wi' ye!--ye may be seeking a father to another wean for ony
thing I ken. If it warna that your father, auld David Deans, had been a
tenant on our land, I would cry up the men-folk, and hae ye dookit in the
burn for your impudence."
Jeanie had already turned her back, and was walking towards the door of
the court-yard, so that Mrs. Balchristie, to make her last threat
impressively audible to her, had raised her stentorian voice to its
utmost pitch. But, like many a general, she lost the engagement by
pressing her advantage too far.
The Laird had been disturbed in his morning slumbers by the tones of Mrs.
Balchristie's objurgation, sounds in themselves by no means uncommon, but
very remarkable, in respect to the early hour at which they were now
heard. He turned himself on the other side, however, in hopes the squall
would blow by, when, in the course of Mrs. Balchristie's second explosion
of wrath, the name of Deans distinctly struck the tympanum of his ear. As
he was, in some degree, aware of the small portion of benevolence with
which his housekeeper regarded the family at St. Leonard's, he instantly
conceived that some message from thence was the cause of this untimely
ire, and getting out of his bed, he slipt as speedily as possible into an
old brocaded night-gown, and some other necessary garments, clapped on
his head his father's gold-laced hat (for though he was seldom seen
without it, yet it is proper to contradict the popular report that he
slept in it, as Don Quixote did in his helmet), and opening the window of
his bedroom, beheld, to his great astonishment, the well-known figure of
Jeanie Deans herself retreating from his gate; while his housekeeper,
with arms a-kimbo, fist clenched and extended, body erect, and head
shaking with rage, sent after her a volley of Billingsgate oaths. His
choler rose in proportion to the surprise, and, perhaps, to the
disturbance of his repose. "Hark ye," he exclaimed from the window, "ye
auld limb of Satan--wha the deil gies you commission to guide an honest
man's daughter that gate?"
Mrs. Balchristie was completely caught in the manner. She was aware, from
the unusual warmth with which the Laird expressed himself, that he was
quite serious in this matter, and she knew, that with all his indolence
of nature, there were points on which he might be provoked, and that,
being provoked, he had in him something dangerous, which her wisdom
taught her to fear accordingly. She began, therefore, to retract her
false step as fast as she could. "She was but speaking for the house's
credit, and she couldna think of disturbing his honour in the morning sae
early, when the young woman might as weel wait or call again; and to be
sure, she might make a mistake between the twa sisters, for ane o' them
wasna sae creditable an acquaintance."
"Haud your peace, ye auld jade," said Dumbiedikes; "the warst quean e'er
stude in their shoon may ca' you cousin, an a' be true that I have
heard.--Jeanie, my woman, gang into the parlour--but stay, that winna be
redd up yet--wait there a minute till I come down to let ye in--Dinna
mind what Jenny says to ye."
"Na, na," said Jenny, with a laugh of affected heartiness, "never mind
me, lass--a' the warld kens my bark's waur than my bite--if ye had had an
appointment wi' the Laird, ye might hae tauld me--I am nae uncivil
person--gang your ways in by, hinny," and she opened the door of the
house with a master-key.
"But I had no appointment wi' the Laird," said Jeanie, drawing back; "I
want just to speak twa words to him, and I wad rather do it standing
here, Mrs. Balchristie."
"In the open court-yard!--Na, na, that wad never do, lass; we mauna guide
ye that gate neither--And how's that douce honest man, your father?"
Jeanie was saved the pain of answering this hypocritical question by the
appearance of the Laird himself.
"Gang in and get breakfast ready," said he to his housekeeper--"and, d'ye
hear, breakfast wi' us yoursell--ye ken how to manage thae porringers of
tea-water--and, hear ye, see abune a' that there's a gude fire.--Weel,
Jeanie, my woman, gang in by--gang in by, and rest ye."
"Na, Laird," Jeanie replied, endeavouring as much as she could to express
herself with composure, notwithstanding she still trembled, "I canna gang
in--I have a lang day's darg afore me--I maun be twenty mile o' gate the
night yet, if feet will carry me."
"Guide and deliver us!--twenty mile--twenty mile on your feet!"
ejaculated Dumbiedikes, whose walks were of a very circumscribed
diameter,--"Ye maun never think o' that--come in by."
"I canna do that, Laird," replied Jeanie; "the twa words I have to say to
ye I can say here; forby that Mrs. Balchristie"
"The deil flee awa wi' Mrs. Balchristie," said Dumbiedikes, "and he'll
hae a heavy lading o' her! I tell ye, Jeanie Deans, I am a man of few
words, but I am laird at hame, as well as in the field; deil a brute or
body about my house but I can manage when I like, except Rory Bean, my
powny; but I can seldom be at the plague, an it binna when my bluid's
up."
"I was wanting to say to ye, Laird," said Jeanie, who felt the necessity
of entering upon her business, "that I was gaun a lang journey, outby of
my father's knowledge."
"Outby his knowledge, Jeanie!--Is that right? Ye maun think ot
again--it's no right," said Dumbiedikes, with a countenance of great
concern.
"If I were ance at Lunnon," said Jeanie, in exculpation, "I am amaist
sure I could get means to speak to the queen about my sister's life."
"Lunnon--and the queen--and her sister's life!" said Dumbiedikes,
whistling for very amazement--"the lassie's demented."
"I am no out o' my mind," said she, "and sink or swim, I am determined to
gang to Lunnon, if I suld beg my way frae door to door--and so I maun,
unless ye wad lend me a small sum to pay my expenses--little thing will
do it; and ye ken my father's a man of substance, and wad see nae man,
far less you, Laird, come to loss by me."
Dumbiedikes, on comprehending the nature of this application, could
scarce trust his ears--he made no answer whatever, but stood with his
eyes rivetted on the ground.
"I see ye are no for assisting me, Laird," said Jeanie, "sae fare ye
weel--and gang and see my poor father as aften as ye can--he will be
lonely eneugh now."
"Where is the silly bairn gaun?" said Dumbiedikes; and, laying hold of
her hand, he led her into the house. "It's no that I didna think o't
before," he said, "but it stack in my throat."
Thus speaking to himself, he led her into an old-fashioned parlour, shut
the door behind them, and fastened it with a bolt. While Jeanie,
surprised at this manoeuvre, remained as near the door as possible, the
Laird quitted her hand, and pressed upon a spring lock fixed in an oak
panel in the wainscot, which instantly slipped aside. An iron strong-box
was discovered in a recess of the wall; he opened this also, and pulling
out two or three drawers, showed that they were filled with leathern bags
full of gold and silver coin.
"This is my bank, Jeanie lass," he said, looking first at her and then at
the treasure, with an air of great complacency,--"nane o' your
goldsmith's bills for me,--they bring folk to ruin."
Then, suddenly changing his tone, he resolutely said,--"Jeanie, I will
make ye Lady Dumbiedikes afore the sun sets and ye may ride to Lunnon in
your ain coach, if ye like."
"Na, Laird," said Jeanie, "that can never be--my father's grief--my
sister's situation--the discredit to you"
"That's _my_ business," said Dumbiedikes; "ye wad say naething about that
if ye werena a fule--and yet I like ye the better for't--ae wise body's
eneugh in the married state. But if your heart's ower fu', take what
siller will serve ye, and let it be when ye come back again--as gude syne
as sune."
"But, Laird," said Jeanie, who felt the necessity of being explicit with
so extraordinary a lover, "I like another man better than you, and I
canna marry ye."
"Another man better than me, Jeanie!" said Dumbiedikes; "how is that
possible? It's no possible, woman--ye hae ken'd me sae lang."
"Ay but, Laird," said Jeanie, with persevering simplicity, "I hae ken'd
him langer."
"Langer! It's no possible!" exclaimed the poor Laird. "It canna be; ye
were born on the land. O Jeanie woman, ye haena lookit--ye haena seen the
half o' the gear." He drew out another drawer--"A' gowd, Jeanie, and
there's bands for siller lent--And the rental book, Jeanie--clear three
hunder sterling--deil a wadset, heritable band, or burden--Ye haena
lookit at them, woman--And then my mother's wardrobe, and my
grandmother's forby--silk gowns wad stand on their ends, their
pearline-lace as fine as spiders' webs, and rings and ear-rings to the
boot of a' that--they are a' in the chamber of deas--Oh, Jeanie, gang up
the stair and look at them!"
[Illustration: Jeanie and the Laird of Dumbiedykes--Frontispiece]
But Jeanie held fast her integrity, though beset with temptations, which
perhaps the Laird of Dumbiedikes did not greatly err in supposing were
those most affecting to her sex.
"It canna be, Laird--I have said it--and I canna break my word till him,
if ye wad gie me the haill barony of Dalkeith, and Lugton into the
bargain."
"Your word to _him,_" said the Laird, somewhat pettishly; "but wha is he,
Jeanie?--wha is he?--I haena heard his name yet--Come now, Jeanie, ye are
but queering us--I am no trowing that there is sic a ane in the warld--ye
are but making fashion--What is he?--wha is he?"
"Just Reuben Butler, that's schulemaster at Liberton," said Jeanie.
"Reuben Butler! Reuben Butler!" echoed the Laird of Dumbiedikes, pacing
the apartment in high disdain,--"Reuben Butler, the dominie at
Liberton--and a dominie depute too!--Reuben, the son of my cottar!--Very
weel, Jeanie lass, wilfu' woman will hae her way--Reuben Butler! he
hasna in his pouch the value o' the auld black coat he wears--But it
disna signify." And as he spoke, he shut successively and with vehemence
the drawers of his treasury. "A fair offer, Jeanie, is nae cause of
feud--Ae man may bring a horse to the water, but twenty winna gar him
drink--And as for wasting my substance on other folk's joes"
There was something in the last hint that nettled Jeanie's honest pride.--
"I was begging nane frae your honour," she said; "least of a' on sic a
score as ye pit it on.--Gude morning to ye, sir; ye hae been kind to my
father, and it isna in my heart to think otherwise than kindly of you."
So saying, she left the room without listening to a faint "But,
Jeanie--Jeanie--stay, woman!" and traversing the courtyard with a quick
step, she set out on her forward journey, her bosom glowing with that
natural indignation and shame, which an honest mind feels at having
subjected itself to ask a favour, which had been unexpectedly refused.
When out of the Laird's ground, and once more upon the public road, her
pace slackened, her anger cooled, and anxious anticipations of the
consequence of this unexpected disappointment began to influence her
with other feelings. Must she then actually beg her way to London? for
such seemed the alternative; or must she turn back, and solicit her
father for money? and by doing so lose time, which was precious, besides
the risk of encountering his positive prohibition respecting the
journey! Yet she saw no medium between these alternatives; and, while
she walked slowly on, was still meditating whether it were not better to
return.
While she was thus in an uncertainty, she heard the clatter of a horse's
hoofs, and a well-known voice calling her name. She looked round, and saw
advancing towards her on a pony, whose bare back and halter assorted ill
with the nightgown, slippers, and laced cocked-hat of the rider, a
cavalier of no less importance than Dumbiedikes himself. In the energy of
his pursuit, he had overcome even the Highland obstinacy of Rory Bean,
and compelled that self-willed palfrey to canter the way his rider chose;
which Rory, however, performed with all the symptoms of reluctance,
turning his head, and accompanying every bound he made in advance with a
sidelong motion, which indicated his extreme wish to turn round,--a
manoeuvre which nothing but the constant exercise of the Laird's heels
and cudgel could possibly have counteracted.
When the Laird came up with Jeanie, the first words he uttered
were,--"Jeanie, they say ane shouldna aye take a woman at her first
word?"
"Ay, but ye maun take me at mine, Laird," said Jeanie, looking on the
ground, and walking on without a pause.--"I hae but ae word to bestow on
ony body, and that's aye a true ane."
"Then," said Dumbiedikes, "at least ye suldna aye take a man at _his_
first word. Ye maunna gang this wilfu' gate sillerless, come o't what
like."--He put a purse into her hand. "I wad gie you Rory too, but he's
as wilfu' as yoursell, and he's ower weel used to a gate that maybe he
and I hae gaen ower aften, and he'll gang nae road else."
"But, Laird," said Jeanie, "though I ken my father will satisfy every
penny of this siller, whatever there's o't, yet I wadna like to borrow it
frae ane that maybe thinks of something mair than the paying o't back
again."
"There's just twenty-five guineas o't," said Dumbiedikes, with a gentle
sigh, "and whether your father pays or disna pay, I make ye free till't
without another word. Gang where ye like--do what ye like--and marry a'
the Butlers in the country gin ye like--And sae, gude morning to you,
Jeanie."
"And God bless you, Laird, wi' mony a gude morning!" said Jeanie, her
heart more softened by the unwonted generosity of this uncouth character,
than perhaps Butler might have approved, had he known her feelings at
that moment; "and comfort, and the Lord's peace, and the peace of the
world, be with you, if we suld never meet again!"
Dumbiedikes turned and waved his hand; and his pony, much more willing to
return than he had been to set out, hurried him homeward so fast, that,
wanting the aid of a regular bridle, as well as of saddle and stirrups,
he was too much puzzled to keep his seat to permit of his looking behind,
even to give the parting glance of a forlorn swain. I am ashamed to say,
that the sight of a lover, ran away with in nightgown and slippers and a
laced hat, by a bare-backed Highland pony, had something in it of a
sedative, even to a grateful and deserved burst of affectionate esteem.
The figure of Dumbiedikes was too ludicrous not to confirm Jeanie in the
original sentiments she entertained towards him.
"He's a gude creature," said she, "and a kind--it's a pity he has sae
willyard a powny." And she immediately turned her thoughts to the
important journey which she had commenced, reflecting with pleasure,
that, according to her habits of life and of undergoing fatigue, she was
now amply or even superfluously provided with the means of encountering
the expenses of the road, up and down from London, and all other expenses
whatever.
CHAPTER THIRD
What strange and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover's head;
"O mercy!" to myself I cried,
"If Lucy should be dead!"
Wordsworth.
In pursuing her solitary journey, our heroine, soon after passing the
house of Dumbiedikes, gained a little eminence, from which, on looking to
the eastward down a prattling brook, whose meanders were shaded with
straggling widows and alder trees, she could see the cottages of Woodend
and Beersheba, the haunts and habitation of her early life, and could
distinguish the common on which she had so often herded sheep, and the
recesses of the rivulet where she had pulled rushes with Butler, to plait
crowns and sceptres for her sister Effie, then a beautiful but spoiled
child, of about three years old. The recollections which the scene
brought with them were so bitter, that, had she indulged them, she would
have sate down and relieved her heart with tears.
"But I ken'd," said Jeanie, when she gave an account of her pilgrimage,
"that greeting would do but little good, and that it was mair beseeming
to thank the Lord, that had showed me kindness and countenance by means
of a man, that mony ca'd a Nabal, and churl, but wha was free of his
gudes to me, as ever the fountain was free of the stream. And I minded
the Scripture about the sin of Israel at Meribah, when the people
murmured, although Moses had brought water from the dry rock that the
congregation might drink and live. Sae, I wad not trust mysell with
another look at puir Woodend, for the very blue reek that came out of the
lum-head pat me in mind of the change of market days with us."
In this resigned and Christian temper she pursued her journey until she
was beyond this place of melancholy recollections, and not distant from
the village where Butler dwelt, which, with its old-fashioned church and
steeple, rises among a tuft of trees, occupying the ridge of an eminence
to the south of Edinburgh. At a quarter of a mile's distance is a clumsy
square tower, the residence of the Laird of Liberton, who, in former
times, with the habits of the predatory chivalry of Germany, is said
frequently to have annoyed the city of Edinburgh, by intercepting the
supplies and merchandise which came to the town from the southward.
This village, its tower, and its church, did not lie precisely in
Jeanie's road towards England; but they were not much aside from it, and
the village was the abode of Butler. She had resolved to see him in the
beginning of her journey, because she conceived him the most proper
person to write to her father concerning her resolution and her hopes.
There was probably another reason latent in her affectionate bosom. She
wished once more to see the object of so early and so sincere an
attachment, before commencing a pilgrimage, the perils of which she did
not disguise from herself, although she did not allow them so to press
upon her mind as to diminish the strength and energy of her resolution. A
visit to a lover from a young person in a higher rank of life than
Jeanie's, would have had something forward and improper in its character.
But the simplicity of her rural habits was unacquainted with these
punctilious ideas of decorum, and no notion, therefore, of impropriety
crossed her imagination, as, setting out upon a long journey, she went to
bid adieu to an early friend.
There was still another motive that pressed upon her mind with additional
force as she approached the village. She had looked anxiously for Butler
in the courthouse, and had expected that, certainly, in some part of that
eventful day, he would have appeared to bring such countenance and
support as he could give to his old friend, and the protector of his
youth, even if her own claims were laid aside.
She know, indeed, that he was under a certain degree of restraint; but
she still had hoped that he would have found means to emancipate himself
from it, at least for one day. In short, the wild and wayward thoughts
which Wordsworth has described as rising in an absent lover's
imagination, suggested, as the only explanation of his absence, that
Butler must be very ill. And so much had this wrought on her imagination,
that when she approached the cottage where her lover occupied a small
apartment, and which had been pointed out to her by a maiden with a
milk-pail on her head, she trembled at anticipating the answer she might
receive on inquiring for him.
Her fears in this case had, indeed, only hit upon the truth. Butler,
whose constitution was naturally feeble, did not soon recover the fatigue
of body and distress of mind which he had suffered, in consequence of the
tragical events with which our narrative commenced. The painful idea that
his character was breathed on by suspicion, was an aggravation to his
distress.
But the most cruel addition was the absolute prohibition laid by the
magistrates on his holding any communication with Deans or his family. It
had unfortunately appeared likely to them, that some intercourse might be
again attempted with that family by Robertson, through the medium of
Butler, and this they were anxious to intercept, or prevent if possible.
The measure was not meant as a harsh or injurious severity on the part of
the magistrates; but, in Butler's circumstances, it pressed cruelly hard.
He felt he must be suffering under the bad opinion of the person who was
dearest to him, from an imputation of unkind desertion, the most alien to
his nature.
This painful thought, pressing on a frame already injured, brought on a
succession of slow and lingering feverish attacks, which greatly impaired
his health, and at length rendered him incapable even of the sedentary
duties of the school, on which his bread depended. Fortunately, old Mr.
Whackbairn, who was the principal teacher of the little parochial
establishment, was sincerely attached to Butler. Besides that he was
sensible of his merits and value as an assistant, which had greatly
raised the credit of his little school, the ancient pedagogue, who had
himself been tolerably educated, retained some taste for classical lore,
and would gladly relax, after the drudgery of the school was over, by
conning over a few pages of Horace or Juvenal with his usher. A
similarity of taste begot kindness, and accordingly he saw Butler's
increasing debility with great compassion, roused up his own energies to
teaching the school in the morning hours, insisted upon his assistant's
reposing himself at that period, and, besides, supplied him with such
comforts as the patient's situation required, and his own means were
inadequate to compass.
