Chapter TWENTY: Third (1)

Law, take thy victim--May she find the mercy
In yon mild heaven, which this hard world denies her!

It was an hour ere the jurors returned, and as they traversed the crowd with slow steps, as men about to discharge themselves of a heavy and painful responsibility, the audience was hushed into profound, earnest, and awful silence.

“Have you agreed on your chancellor, gentlemen?” was the first question of the Judge.

The foreman, called in Scotland the chancellor of the jury, usually the man of best rank and estimation among the assizers, stepped forward, and with a low reverence, delivered to the Court a sealed paper, containing the verdict, which, until of late years, that verbal returns are in some instances permitted, was always couched in writing. The jury remained standing while the Judge broke the seals, and having perused the paper, handed it with an air of mournful gravity down to the clerk of Court, who proceeded to engross in the record the yet unknown verdict, of which, however, all omened the tragical contents. A form still remained, trifling and unimportant in itself, but to which imagination adds a sort of solemnity, from the awful occasion upon which it is used. A lighted candle was placed on the table, the original paper containing the verdict was enclosed in a sheet of paper, and, sealed with the Judgeís own signet, was transmitted to the Crown Office, to be preserved among other records of the same kind. As all this is transacted in profound silence, the producing and extinguishing the candle seems a type of the human spark which is shortly afterwards doomed to be quenched, and excites in the spectators something of the same effect which in England is obtained by the Judge assuming the fatal cap of judgment. When these preliminary forms had been gone through, the Judge required Euphemia Deans to attend to the verdict to be read.

After the usual words of style, the verdict set forth, that the Jury having made choice of John Kirk, Esq., to be their chancellor, and Thomas Moore, merchant, to be their clerk, did, by a plurality of voices, find the said Euphemia Deans Guilty of the crime libelled; but, in consideration of her extreme youth, and the cruel circumstances of her case, did earnestly entreat that the Judge would recommend her to the mercy of the Crown.

“Gentlemen,” said the Judge, “you have done your duty--and a painful one it must have been to men of humanity like you. I will undoubtedly transmit your recommendation to the throne. But it is my duty to tell all who now hear me, but especially to inform that unhappy young woman, in order that her mind may be settled accordingly, that I have not the least hope of a pardon being granted in the present case. You know the crime has been increasing in this land, and I know farther, that this has been ascribed to the lenity in which the laws have been exercised, and that there is therefore no hope whatever of obtaining a remission for this offence.” The jury bowed again, and, released from their painful office, dispersed themselves among the mass of bystanders.

The Court then asked Mr. Fairbrother whether he had anything to say, why judgment should not follow on the verdict? The counsel had spent some time in persuing and reperusing the verdict, counting the letters in each jurorís name, and weighing every phrase, nay, every syllable, in the nicest scales of legal criticism. But the clerk of the jury had understood his business too well. No flaw was to be found, and Fairbrother mournfully intimated, that he had nothing to say in arrest of judgment.

The presiding Judge then addressed the unhappy prisoner:--“Euphemia Deans, attend to the sentence of the Court now to be pronounced against you.”

She rose from her seat, and with a composure far greater than could have been augured from her demeanour during some parts of the trial, abode the conclusion of the awful scene. So nearly does the mental portion of our feelings resemble those which are corporeal, that the first severe blows which we receive bring with them a stunning apathy, which renders us indifferent to those that follow them. Thus said Mandrin, when he was undergoing the punishment of the wheel; and so have all felt, upon whom successive inflictions have descended with continuous and reiterated violence.*

* [The notorious Mandrin was known as the Captain-General of French & smugglers. See a Tract on his exploits, printed 1753.]

“Young woman,” said the Judge, “it is my painful duty to tell you, that your life is forfeited under a law, which, if it may seem in some degree severe, is yet wisely so, to render those of your unhappy situation aware what risk they run, by concealing, out of pride or false shame, their lapse from virtue, and making no preparation to save the lives of the unfortunate infants whom they are to bring into the world. When you concealed your situation from your mistress, your sister, and other worthy and compassionate persons of your own sex, in whose favour your former conduct had given you a fair place, you seem to me to have had in your contemplation, at least, the death of the helpless creature, for whose life you neglected to provide. How the child was disposed of--whether it was dealt upon by another, or by yourself--whether the extraordinary story you have told is partly false, or altogether so, is between God and your own conscience. I will not aggravate your distress by pressing on that topic, but I do most solemnly adjure you to employ the remaining space of your time in making your peace with God, for which purpose such reverend clergymen, as you yourself may name, shall have access to you. Notwithstanding the humane recommendation of the jury, I cannot afford to you, in the present circumstances of the country, the slightest hope that your life will be prolonged beyond the period assigned for the execution of your sentence. Forsaking, therefore, the thoughts of this world, let your mind be prepared by repentance for those of more awful moments--for death, judgment, and eternity.--Doomster, read the sentence.” *

* Note N. Doomster, or Dempster, of Court.

When the Doomster showed himself, a tall haggard figure, arrayed in a fantastic garment of black and grey, passmented with silver lace, all fell back with a sort of instinctive horror, and made wide way for him to approach the foot of the table. As this office was held by the common executioner, men shouldered each other backward to avoid even the touch of his garment, and some were seen to brush their own clothes, which had accidentally become subject to such contamination. A sound went through the Court, produced by each person drawing in their breath hard, as men do when they expect or witness what is frightful, and at the same time affecting. The caitiff villain yet seemed, amid his hardened brutality, to have some sense of his being the object of public detestation, which made him impatient of being in public, as birds of evil omen are anxious to escape from daylight, and from pure air.

Repeating after the Clerk of Court, he gabbled over the words of the sentence, which condemned Euphemia Deans to be conducted back to the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, and detained there until Wednesday the day of ---; and upon that day, betwixt the hours of two and four oíclock afternoon, to be conveyed to the common place of execution, and there hanged by the neck upon a gibbet. “And this,” said the Doomster, aggravating his harsh voice, “I pronounce for _doom._”

He vanished when he had spoken the last emphatic word, like a foul fiend after the purpose of his visitation had been accomplished; but the impression of horror excited by his presence and his errand, remained upon the crowd of spectators.

The unfortunate criminal,--for so she must now be termed,--with more susceptibility, and more irritable feelings than her father and sister, was found, in this emergence, to possess a considerable share of their courage. She had remained standing motionless at the bar while the sentence was pronounced, and was observed to shut her eyes when the Doomster appeared. But she was the first to break silence when that evil form had left his place.

“God forgive ye, my Lords,” she said, “and dinna be angry wií me for wishing it--we aí need forgiveness.--As for myself, I canna blame ye, for ye act up to your lights; and if I havena killed my poor infant, ye may witness aí that hae seen it this day, that I hae been the means of killing my greyheaded father--I deserve the warst frae man, and frae God too--But God is mair mercifuí to us than we are to each other.”

With these words the trial concluded. The crowd rushed, bearing forward and shouldering each other, out of the Court, in the same tumultuary mode in which they had entered; and, in excitation of animal motion and animal spirits, soon forgot whatever they had felt as impressive in the scene which they had witnessed. The professional spectators, whom habit and theory had rendered as callous to the distress of the scene as medical men are to those of a surgical operation, walked homeward in groups, discussing the general principle of the statute under which the young woman was condemned, the nature of the evidence, and the arguments of the counsel, without considering even that of the Judge as exempt from their criticism.

The female spectators, more compassionate, were loud in exclamation against that part of the Judgeís speech which seemed to cut off the hope of pardon.

“Set him up, indeed,” said Mrs. Howden, “to tell us that the poor lassie behoved to die, when Mr. John Kirk, as civil a gentleman as is within the ports of the town, took the pains to prigg for her himsell.”

“Ay, but, neighbour,” said Miss Damahoy, drawing up her thin maidenly form to its full height of prim dignity--“I really think this unnatural business of having bastard-bairns should be putten a stop to.--There isna a hussy now on this side of thirty that you can bring within your doors, but there will be chields--writer-lads, prentice-lads, and what not--coming traiking after them for their destruction, and discrediting aneís honest house into the bargain--I hae nae patience wií them.”

“Hout, neighbour,” said Mrs. Howden, “we suld live and let live--we hae been young oursells, and we are no aye to judge the warst when lads and lasses forgather.”

“Young oursells! and judge the warst!” said Miss Damahoy. “I am no sae auld as that comes to, Mrs. Howden; and as for what ye caí the warst, I ken neither good nor bad about the matter, I thank my stars!”

“Ye are thankfuí for smaí mercies, then,” said Mrs. Howden with a toss of her head; “and as for you and young--I trow ye were doing for yoursell at the last riding of the Scots Parliament, and that was in the gracious year seven, sae ye can be nae sic chicken at ony rate.”

Plumdamas, who acted as squire of the body to the two contending dames, instantly saw the hazard of entering into such delicate points of chronology, and being a lover of peace and good neighbourhood, lost no time in bringing back the conversation to its original subject.

“The Judge didna tell us aí he could hae tellíd us, if he had liked, about the application for pardon, neighbours,” said he “there is aye a wimple in a lawyerís clew; but itís a wee bit of a secret.”

“And what isít--what isít, neighbour Plumdamas?” said Mrs. Howden and Miss Damahoy at once, the acid fermentation of their dispute being at once neutralised by the powerful alkali implied in the word secret.

“Hereís Mr. Saddletree can tell ye that better than me, for it was him that tauld me,” said Plumdamas as Saddletree came up, with his wife hanging on his arm, and looking very disconsolate.

When the question was put to Saddletree, he looked very scornful. “They speak about stopping the frequency of child-murder,” said he, in a contemptuous tone; “do ye think our auld enemies of England, as Glendook aye caís them in his printed Statute-book, care a boddle whether we didna kill ane anither, skin and birn, horse and foot, man, woman, and bairns, all and sindry, _omnes et singulos,_ as Mr. Crossmyloof says? Na, na, itís no _that_ hinders them frae pardoning the bit lassie. But here is the pinch of the plea. The king and queen are sae ill pleased wií that mistak about Porteous, that deil a kindly Scot will they pardon again, either by reprieve or remission, if the haill town oí Edinburgh should be aí hanged on ae tow.”

“Deil that they were back at their German kale-yard then, as my neighbour MacCroskie caís it,” said Mrs. Howden, “an thatís the way theyíre gaun to guide us!”

“They say for certain,” said Miss Damahoy, “that King George flang his periwig in the fire when he heard oí the Porteous mob.”

“He has done that, they say,” replied Saddletree, “for less thing.”

“Aweel,” said Miss Damahoy, “he might keep mair wit in his anger--but itís aí the better for his wigmaker, Iíse warrant.”

“The queen tore her biggonets for perfect anger,--yeíll hae heard oí that too?” said Plumdamas. “And the king, they say, kickit Sir Robert Walpole for no keeping down the mob of Edinburgh; but I dinna believe he wad behave sae ungenteel.”

“Itís dooms truth, though,” said Saddletree; “and he was for kickiní the Duke of Argyle* too.”

* Note O. John Duke of Argyle and Greenwich.

“Kickiní the Duke of Argyle!” exclaimed the hearers at once, in all the various combined keys of utter astonishment.

“Ay, but MacCallummoreís blood wadna sit down wií that; there was risk of Andro Ferrara coming in thirdsman.”

“The duke is a real Scotsman--a true friend to the country,” answered Saddletreeís hearers.

“Ay, troth is he, to king and country baith, as ye sall hear,” continued the orator, “if ye will come in bye to our house, for itís safest speaking of sic things _inter parietes._”

When they entered his shop, he thrust his prentice boy out of it, and, unlocking his desk, took out, with an air of grave and complacent importance, a dirty and crumpled piece of printed paper; he observed, “This is new corn--itís no every body could show you the like oí this. Itís the dukeís speech about the Porteous mob, just promulgated by the hawkers. Ye shall hear what Ian Roy Cean* says for himsell.

* Red John the warrior, a name personal and proper in the Highlands to John Duke of Argyle and Greenwich, as MacCummin was that of his race or dignity.

My correspondent bought it in the Palace-yard, thatís like just under the kingís nose--I think he claws up their mittans!--It came in a letter about a foolish bill of exchange that the man wanted me to renew for him. I wish ye wad see about it, Mrs. Saddletree.”

Honest Mrs. Saddletree had hitherto been so sincerely distressed about the situation of her unfortunate proteígeíe, that she had suffered her husband to proceed in his own way, without attending to what he was saying. The words bills and renew had, however, an awakening sound in them; and she snatched the letter which her husband held towards her, and wiping her eyes, and putting on her spectacles, endeavoured, as fast as the dew which collected on her glasses would permit, to get at the meaning of the needful part of the epistle; while her husband, with pompous elevation, read an extract from the speech.

“I am no minister, I never was a minister, and I never will be one”

“I didna ken his Grace was ever designed for the ministry,” interrupted Mrs. Howden.

“He disna mean a minister of the gospel, Mrs. Howden, but a minister of state,” said Saddletree, with condescending goodness, and then proceeded: “The time was when I might have been a piece of a minister, but I was too sensible of my own incapacity to engage in any state affair. And I thank God that I had always too great a value for those few abilities which Nature has given me, to employ them in doing any drudgery, or any job of what kind soever. I have, ever since I set out in the world (and I believe few have set out more early), served my prince with my tongue; I have served him with any little interest I had, and I have served him with my sword, and in my profession of arms. I have held employments which I have lost, and were I to be to-morrow deprived of those which still remain to me, and which I have endeavoured honestly to deserve, I would still serve him to the last acre of my inheritance, and to the last drop of my blood--”

Mrs. Saddletree here broke in upon the orator:--“Mr. Saddletree, what _is_ the meaning of aí this? Here are ye clavering about the Duke of Argyle, and this man Martingale gaun to break on our hands, and lose us gude sixty pounds--I wonder what duke will pay that, quotha--I wish the Duke of Argyle would pay his ain accounts--He is in a thousand punds Scots on thae very books when he was last at Roystoun--Iím no saying but heís a just nobleman, and that itís gude siller--but it wad drive ane daft to be confused wií deukes and drakes, and thae distressed folk up-stairs, thatís Jeanie Deans and her father. And then, putting the very callant that was sewing the curpel out oí the shop, to play wií blackguards in the close--Sit still, neighbours, itís no that I mean to disturb _you;_ but what between courts oí law and courts oí state, and upper and under parliaments, and parliament houses, here and in London, the gudemanís gane clean gyte, I think.”

The gossips understood civility, and the rule of doing as they would be done by, too well, to tarry upon the slight invitation implied in the conclusion of this speech, and therefore made their farewells and departure as fast as possible, Saddletree whispering to Plundamas that he would “meet him at MacCroskieís” (the low-browed shop in the Luckenbooths, already mentioned), “in the hour of cause, and put MacCallummoreís speech in his pocket, for aí the gudewifeís din.”

When Mrs. Saddletree saw the house freed of her importunate visitors, and the little boy reclaimed from the pastimes of the wynd to the exercise of the awl, she went to visit her unhappy relative, David Deans, and his elder daughter, who had found in her house the nearest place of friendly refuge.

End of Vol. 1.

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.

THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN.

CHAPTER FIRST.

Isab.--Alas! what poor abilityís 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 oí them set up yonder in their red gowns and black gowns, and to take the life oí a bit senseless lassie. I had never muckle broo oí my gudemanís 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 kingís 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 Colgrainís 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--Iíse warrant thereís 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 aí 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 wií 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 itís for the best, better he stay here and rest him, than gang back to St. Leonardís.”

“Muckle better--muckle better--God bless you!--God bless you!--At no rate let him gang till ye hear frae me,” said Jeanie.

“But yeíll be back belive?” said Mrs. Saddletree, detaining her; “they winna let ye stay yonder, hinny.”

“But I maun gang to St. Leonardís--thereís 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 ëGod bless ye, and prosper ye, Jeanieí--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--Thereís something queer about aí thae Deanses. I dinna like folk to be sae muckle better than other folk--seldom comes gude oít. But if sheís gaun to look after the kye at St. Leonardís, thatís 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 garríd ye busk up your cockemony that gate?--I think thereís been enough the day to gie an awfaí warning about your cockups and your fallal duds--see what they aí 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. “Itís your sister,” he said, “wants to speak tíye, Effie.”

“I canna see naebody,” said Effie, with the hasty irritability which misery had rendered more acute--“I canna see naebody, and least of aí her--Bid her take care oí the auld man--I am naething to ony oí 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 sisterís 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 oí me--think what you like oí 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; “itís but little ye ken oí thae things. Ane aye thinks at the first dinnle oí the sentence, they hae heart eneugh to die rather than bide out the sax weeks; but they aye bide the sax weeks out for aí that. I ken the gate oít weel; I hae fronted the doomster three times, and here I stand, Jim Ratcliffe, for aí that. Had I tied my napkin strait the first time, as I had a great mind tillít--and it was aí 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 ëscapit 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 sisterís 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 sisterís 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; Iíll 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 wií; 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 kingís face that gies grace--O, sir” (to Ratcliffe), “be kind to her--She neíer keníd what it was to need a strangerís kindness till now.--Fareweel--fareweel, Effie!--Dinna speak to me--I maunna greet now--my headís ower dizzy already!”

She tore herself from her sisterís arms, and left the cell. Ratcliffe followed her, and beckoned her into a small room. She obeyed his signal, but not without trembling.

“Whatís the fule thing shaking for?” said he; “I mean nothing but civility to you. D--n me, I respect you, and I canít help it. You have so much spunk, that d--n me, but I think thereís 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; heís Scotlandís friend--I ken that the great folks dinna muckle like him--but they fear him, and that will serve your purpose as weel. Díye 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 fatherís time--in the persecution?”

“His son or grandson, Iím thinking,” said Ratcliffe, “but what oí that?”

“Thank God!” said Jeanie, devoutly clasping her hands.

“You whigs are aye thanking God for something,” said the ruffian. “But hark ye, hinny, Iíll tell ye a secret. Ye may meet wií rough customers on the Border, or in the Midland, afore ye get to Lunnon. Now, deil ane oí them will touch an acquaintance oí Daddie Rattonís; 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 eíer a queer cuffin*** in England--and thereís rogueís 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 wií ony oí St. Nicholasís 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 oí my guse feather. And now awa wií 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. Leonardís 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--itís 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 fatherís, 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 fatherís comfort. “It was probable,” she said, “that he would return to St. Leonardís 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 Deansís house, asked her young mistress, whether she would not permit her to remain in the house all night? “Ye hae had an awfuí 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 fatherís 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. Saddletreeís 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

ëTis the voice of the sluggard, Iíve 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. Leonardís. 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 Drumís hawks, and the Lord Rossís 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, bartizaníd 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 Lairdís 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 admirerís 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 Lairdís 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. Leonardís 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 fatherís.

“Ane!--And what sort of ane are ye!--hae ye nae name?--Díye think his honour has naething else to do than to speak wií 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, “díye no mind me?--díye 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 caíed ye!--A bonny spot oí wark your tittie and you hae made out, murdering ae puir wean, and your light limmer of a sisterís to be hanged forít, as weel she deserves!--And the like oí you to come to ony honest manís house, and want to be into a decent bachelor gentlemanís room at this time in the morning, and him in his bed!--Gae waí, gae waí!”

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 wií 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. Balchristieís 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. Balchristieís 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. Leonardís, 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 fatherís 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 manís 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 houseís 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 oí them wasna sae creditable an acquaintance.”

“Haud your peace, ye auld jade,” said Dumbiedikes; “the warst quean eíer stude in their shoon may caí you cousin, an aí 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--aí the warld kens my barkís waur than my bite--if ye had had an appointment wií 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 wií 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 howís 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, díye hear, breakfast wií us yoursell--ye ken how to manage thae porringers of tea-water--and, hear ye, see abune aí that thereís 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 dayís darg afore me--I maun be twenty mile oí 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 oí 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.”