Chapter X: Part 10

"We are nearing the boat fast, sir." And the captain made his appearance on deck, to reconnoitre the approaching stranger.

"Ship ahoy!" roared a voice ahead; "lay your maintopsail to the mast, and give us a rope for the boat."

"Forecastle there!--a rope for the boat! Let go the maintop bowline! Square away the mainyard, after-guard!" bawled the officer of the deck.

In the meantime, the unfortunates who had never crossed the line were driven below; the "gratings" were laid on fore and aft, and sentries were stationed at the hatchways to prevent escape.

A bugle-note was now heard murdering the "Conquering Hero," who soon made his appearance in person, over the bows, and stood for a moment in a _graceful_ attitude on the night-head, where he really cut quite an imposing figure, with his robe of sheep-skins and flowing beard of "oakum," and grasping in his extended hand a trident, with a fine fish on its prongs. A few minutes after he had descended into the "waist," the screen we before mentioned was withdrawn, and the procession moved on. First came the ship's musicians, fantastically dressed for the occasion, and playing "Rule Britannia" with all their might and main; next came the triumphal car, surmounted by a canopy decorated with flags of all nations, under which were seated Neptune, Amphitrite, or Mrs Nep, as Jack calls her, and a little triton; and immediately in the rear followed the _suite_, consisting of the barber, doctor, clerk, and about a dozen half-naked and particoloured demigods, who acted as water-bailiffs. Each of these gentlemen merits a particular description; for they were all great men, in their way. The doctor wore an immense _floured_ wig, and an uncommonly long, unwholesome-looking nose, and over all a rusty piece of tarpaulin, pinched into three corners, to represent a hat; under his arm he carried his family medicine-chest, the lid of which was open, and displayed to view pills and powders of all shapes, sizes, and colours, in great profusion; and in his hand he carried a large bottle, labelled, "Neptune's elixir." The barber carried, slung over his arm, his shaving-box (a large tar bucket), with brushes to correspond; the pouch in the front of his apron was filled with little etceteras, such as boxes of _grease_ for the hair, _powder_ for the teeth, &c.; and in his hand he brandished three razors, each about three feet long--one made of smooth iron hoop, the next about as genteel as a hand-saw, and the third, meant for particular favourites, with teeth grinning at each other, half-an inch apart, more or less. The clerk, or scribe, was a dandy of the first water: he had on a small raree hat, which looked as if it had been forced up on one side by an immense crop of oakum curls, which sprouted most luxuriantly from under one of the rims. His whiskers were pointed to the wind with the greatest nicety; and from behind his ear peeped the quill, his badge of office; while a little inkstand dangled at his button-hole. The tips of his nose and ears were almost hidden by a most magnificently stiff collar, and his chin nestled in a bed of frill, made to match the collar of the best _foolscap_. All these _gentlemen_ wore _long togs_.[6]

[Footnote 6: Coats]

On came the pageant: Neptune's sheep-skins and trident looked very majestic; Amphitrite, a tall, high-cheek-boned Scotch "topman," with the assistance of a little red paint and oakum locks, and arrayed _cap-a-pie_ in cabin finery, made a very passable representation of a she-monster; the barber brandished his razors; the scribe paraded his list, and, every now and then, made use of an old frying-pan, with the bottom knocked out of it, for a quizzing-glass; the jack-_tars_ who acted as sea-horses pranced as uncouthly as jack-_asses_; and the coachman, seated on the fore-part of the car, and proud of his livery and shoulder-knots, cracked his whip, d----d his horses for _lubbers_, and _singing out_ to them, "Hard a-port!" contrived to _weather_ the after hatchway, and then _bear up_ round the "capstan," where, with a graceful pull-up of the reins, very much like a strong pull at the mainbrace, and an "Avast there!" to his obedient cattle, he stopped the car. The captain was standing under the poop-awning, in readiness to receive his majesty, who welcomed him most graciously to his dominions.

"Glad to see you once more, Captain Oakum," said he; "it warms the cockles of my heart to fall in with an old friend; and my wife here and I both wants comfort of some kind, after our long morning ride over the water; the cold air is apt to give one a cold in the stomach." The doctor immediately stepped forward with his bottle, and presented it to his majesty. "No, no," said he; "none of your doctor's stuff for _me_; keep that for my children; Captain Oakum knows my complaint of old."

The captain laughed, and his steward, taking the hint, produced a bottle containing a different kind of _elixir_, which old Neptune seemed to quaff with peculiar relish. A glass was then offered to Amphitrite, who pretended to reject it, and tried to blush--in vain.

"Come, come! none of that 'ere humbug, old gal," said the king; "tip it over; it'll do you good." And away it went, where many of its fellows had gone before.

"Ah!" said she, smacking her lips with unqueenlike gusto, "glorious stuff to drive out a cold!"

The whole of the suite were immediately seized with the same complaint, and all required the application of the same remedy.

"I understand, Captain Oakum, you have a good many of my children on board."

"Yes, a few. I hope you will treat them kindly."

"Oh, leave that to me, sir; I'll give none of them more nor they desarves."

He then thrust out his trident to the captain's steward, with a graceful air, as if he meant to impale him; but it was only for the purpose of presenting the fish on its prongs, as an addition to his honour the captain's dinner.

"I wish it war better; but we've had a sad sickly season down below, and all the dolphins and bonitos are on the doctor's list with influenzie."

During this interview, the men were all standing near the gangway, armed with buckets of water, wet swabs, &c., impatient for the commencement of the fun.

"But I must wish you good-morning, Captain Oakum; I have no time to lose. I have two or three other ships to board this morning."

"Good-morning!"

The band struck up "Off she goes." "Carry on, you lubbers!" said the coachman. Crack went the whip--off pranced the horses--and away whirled the car, which no sooner approached the gangway, than the procession was greeted with torrents of water, and his "godship" was half smothered in his own element. After gasping for breath, and shaking off the superfluous moisture, Neptune and the _fair_ Amphitrite took their station on "the booms," to superintend the operations of the day. The clerk handed to his majesty a list of his new subjects, who were recommended to his peculiar attention.

"Richard Goldie is the first on the list," said Neptune; "send him up!" And away scampered the Tritons (or constables), who were naked to the waist, the upper parts of their bodies being hideously painted, fantastic-looking caps on their heads, and short painted staves in their hands. The main-hatch "grating" was lifted, and up came our friend Richard, blindfolded, between two constables, laughing and joking with his captors as he came along. As soon as he made his appearance, Neptune exclaimed--

"Who have we got here? I ought to know the cut of that younker's jib. Ay, I'm blowed if it isn't the same that was cruising about the other day after a drowning shipmate. One of the right sort that. Just put my mark upon him--give him a touch of the tar-brush, and let him go."

Almost untouched, Richard was allowed to escape forward, where he immediately equipped himself with a wet "swab," and prepared to follow the example of those around him.

"Edward Cummin! Bring Edward Cummin!"

And Cummin made his appearance, escorted as Goldie had been, with a face almost as white as the handkerchief that blinded his eyes, and shivering with anticipation. The attendant Tritons seated him on the edge of the jolly-boat at the gangway; and the barber, turning to Neptune, and holding up his three razors, said--

"Please your honour, which?"

"Let us hear first what he has to say for himself," said Neptune.

"Where do ye come from?"

"From Scot----oo! oo!" said the poor fellow, as the barber thrust a well-filled tar-brush into his mouth.

"How long is it since you left it?"

But Cummin had gained experience; he set his teeth, pressed his lips together, and sat, a ludicrous picture of fear, mixed with desperate resolution.

"A close Scot, I see," said Neptune; "give him some soap to soften his _fizz_, and teach him to open his mouth. Shave him clean."

The barber lathered his victim's cheeks with tar, which he _dabbed_ on without much regard for his feelings; while the Tritons, with their hands in his hair, _tugged_ his head about in the proper direction. The operation was performed with the "favourite's" razor, which left the furrows of its _fine_ edge upon his cheeks. The doctor was standing by with his vial of tar-water, and his box of indescribable pills, ready to take advantage of every involuntary gasp of the poor patient. At last, after daubing his hair with rancid grease, "to make it grow," the bandage was suddenly taken from his eyes, and he was thrown backward into the boat, and left floundering among the tarry water, till some charitable hand dragged him out. Half-drowned and half-blinded, Cummin staggered forwards, blessing his stars that his torments were over; but, alas! he soon found that he had escaped from the fangs of the torturing few, only to encounter the tender mercies of the vindictive many. Groans and hisses from all quarters gave token of the dislike in which he was held--bucketfuls of water were dashed in his face, and a rope drawn suddenly right across, tripped up his feet, and he floundered on the deck at the mercy of his tormentors, who, whenever he attempted to rise, dashed torrents of water upon him, and half-buried him in wet "swabs." Mad with rage and mortification, wearied and exhausted, Cummin at last reached the forecastle, where he sat down for awhile, to recover breath and strength.

"Come, Cummin, man," shouted Goldie to him--"come and join the sport."

There was something in Goldie's joyous and laughing tone which jarred upon Cummin's excited feelings--it seemed to him like an insult, that his companion should be so merry and happy, while he was sitting, like an evil spirit, scowling on the scene of mirth before him. He made no reply to Goldie, but muttered to himself--"Laugh on, my young cock of the walk; you shall pay dearly for your fun." From that day, Cummin became an altered man in manner; he no longer attempted to conceal his dislike to Goldie, but on all occasions did his utmost to thwart and annoy him. He used to pace up and down the deck, in gloomy silence, while the rest of the crew were sleeping around him; and dark and deadly were the thoughts that crowded through his brain. He felt that he was disliked and avoided by all his companions, and, attributing their estrangement to the arts and influence of Goldie, over and over again did he vow bitter revenge against him. But how was his revenge to be gratified? There was the rub. He was too much of a coward to attack him openly, and feared to attempt any secret mischief, as he knew that he would be immediately suspected as the author of it; for his hatred to Goldie had, by this time, been remarked throughout the ship, where, it was equally obvious, Goldie had no other enemy. But, while he is meditating mischief, we must go on with our story.

When the Briton arrived in Madras Roads, several vessels were lying at anchor there; and one of them, a small merchantman, had her foretopsail loose, and "blue-peter" flying. This was the Columbine, a Liverpool ship, which was expected to sail that night about twelve o'clock. As Cummin stood on the forecastle in the evening, after the hammocks were piped down, looking gloomily at that vessel, his countenance suddenly brightened up. He rubbed his hands together, and laughed aloud; then checking himself, and looking cautiously round, to see whether any one was near him, he dived below. At midnight, the Columbine "got under way," and stood to sea.

Next morning, while washing decks, the officer of the deck called out, "Midshipman! I don't see Cummin; send him up."

"Cummin!--Richard Cummin!" was echoed round the decks; but no Richard Cummin appeared.

The hands were called out to muster; Cummin did not answer to his name. Strict search was made for him, but he was nowhere to be found. The first and most natural conclusion was, that he had deserted to the Columbine; but it was too late now to ascertain. But that belief was a good deal shaken, when one of the men, who happened to have been awake at eleven o'clock the night before, said that he had heard a loud splash in the water, and ran immediately to the "port" to look out; but all was silent again; and, if it was, as he now supposed, Cummin, he must have gone down immediately. He did not give the alarm at the time, for he was half-asleep when he heard the noise, and thought he must have been mistaken. While the man was giving this evidence on the quarterdeck, up came Goldie with a piece of paper, which he had found on the pillow of his hammock, on which were scrawled the following words:--"Richie, I must put an end to this life of misery and mortification; when I am gone, perhaps you will think more kindly of me. I was wicked enough to talk of revenge. I leave my chest and all my traps to you. Be kind to my poor mother, for the sake of your unhappy shipmate." It was now evident to all that the poor fellow, whose dejection and reserve had been long noticed, had committed suicide; and, much as he was disliked, his disappearance cast a gloom over the ship's company for some days. Goldie grieved sincerely for him, now that he was gone--all his violence, all his tempers were forgotten, and Richard only thought of him as the friend of his boyhood, and the companion of his early days; and he was much affected by the kindly feeling manifested in his note.

We must now transport ourselves, for awhile, on board the Columbine, and follow Edward Cummin and his fortunes. On the night of the Briton's arrival in Madras Roads, Cummin, who was a capital swimmer, dropped unperceived under the bows of the Columbine, about an hour before she got "under way," and climbed into the "head" by a rope that was hanging overboard. He passed the look-out on the forecastle; but the man, being half-asleep, took him for one of the ship's company. He then _dived_ down the main-hatchway, and concealed himself in the "heart" of one of the cable-tiers, where he remained undiscovered during the day. Next night, when all was quiet, he stole up on the gundeck, and was in the act of helping himself out of one of the bread-bags there, when a man of the mess, who happened to be awake, seized him as a thief, and dragged him on the upper deck.

"Bring a light, quartermaster," said the mate; "let us see who this skulking thief is. Holloa!" continued he, starting back, with surprise, "who the deuce have we got here? Where did you spring from?"

"I came up from the cable-tier to get something to eat, sir; I was very hungry."

"Out of the cable-tier! But how did you get _into_ the cable-tier?"

"I swam----"

"Swam into the cable-tier! You must be a clever fellow. Come, none of your tricks upon travellers--tell the truth at once."

"I was going to tell you when you stopped me, sir. I am a 'Briton.'"

"Well, what has that to do with it?"

"Why, sir, I was tired of being one."

"Tired of being a Briton, and swam into the cable-tier! What do you mean?"

"Why, sir, that I was one of the crew of the Briton, the Indiaman that lay next you in the roads, and I cut and run from her, and got on board of you, just before you got under way."

"Here's a pretty business! But we must make the best of a bad bargain. I suppose you're one of the company's _hard ones_."

The Columbine was short-handed, having lost several men at Madras, and the captain, though he blustered a little when he first heard the story, was in his heart pleased to have got such an unexpected addition to his crew; and, after a short time, Cummin, behaving satisfactorily, was rated able seaman on the ship's books. On the Columbine's arrival at Liverpool, Cummin immediately set off homewards, and made his appearance at Kelton again, about eight months after he had left it, much to the surprise of his parents. He told a long and affecting story of his sufferings on board the Briton, and of the illness and death of poor Goldie, who had fallen a victim at sea, he said, to cholera. After the death of his friend, driven to desperation by the ill-usage he was exposed to, he determined to run from his ship on the first opportunity, and had accordingly deserted, as before stated. He spoke, on all occasions, in the warmest terms of Goldie's great kindness to him, and expressed the utmost regret at his loss. The sad news was a death-blow to the poor old Goldies, who never recovered from the effects of it, and who, broken-hearted and repining, fell easy victims, a few weeks afterwards, to an epidemic then raging. Ellen Grey mourned deeply and sincerely for Richard Goldie; she had always liked him as an agreeable companion, and respected him as an amiable and steady character; and though, at first, she had given the preference to the plausible Cummin, yet, before they parted, Richie's good qualities had so much gained upon her better sense, that she had begun to experience that kind of partiality towards him which might in time have ripened into a warmer feeling. With the quick eye of jealous rivalry, Cummin had noticed this change in her feelings, almost before she was conscious of it herself. He had never really loved her; his object in appearing to do so had been to annoy Goldie; but the wound thus given to his vanity had rankled in his heart, to the exclusion of every other feeling but that of a wish to punish her for her defection.

He now renewed his intimacy with old Grey, and was doubly assiduous in his attentions towards him. He had become, apparently, quite an altered character--that is, he had become a more finished hypocrite; he had learned to calm his temper and to smooth his brow; and appeared, on all occasions, so steady and industrious, that the old man began to feel the kindest regard towards him, and pointed him out to his daughter's attention as a pattern for the young men around, and one who would make a steady and respectable husband. There was at first, however, a changeableness in his manner towards Ellen that puzzled and surprised her. At times, he was almost servilely obsequious in his attentions towards her; at others, when he thought himself unobserved, she was startled by the malevolent expression of his countenance, and by the derisive smile that played round his lips, as he gazed upon her. Cummin noticed the unfavourable impression he was making, and became more guarded in his behaviour; he redoubled his attentions, and never allowed a shade of unpleasant feeling to be visible on his brow. His perseverance had the desired effect of reviving her old partiality, and in an evil hour she consented to become his wife. The morning after their wedding, he had disappeared, and had never since been heard of. A deserted bride, she was left in all the misery of uncertainty respecting his fate or his intentions, and in utter ignorance to what cause she could impute the cool contempt with which it appeared he had treated her from the moment of their union.

But we must return to our friend Richard Goldie. Nothing particular occurred during the remainder of the voyage of the Briton, until their arrival in China, where, in consequence of a dispute with the authorities, the ships were detained for several months, and a year elapsed before they returned to England. As soon as he had received his pay, Richard set off for Liverpool, from whence he proceeded by steam to Annan. When his foot was fairly planted on the soil of Dumfries-shire, and his face was turned homewards, Richard could not restrain the exuberance of his spirits. He laughed, he sang, he ran, he waved his hat, and was guilty of all those extravagances which could only be excused in a young sailor just let loose; and which, had they been witnessed by others of a cooler temperament, would have been looked upon as the freaks of a madman. Then he began to think of Kelton, of his parents, and of bonny Ellen Grey; and with thoughts of her came a sad recollection of poor Cummin, and a kind of flattering notion that the latter had had good cause for his jealousy on the night of their quarrel, when Ellen, every feature of whose face and every note of whose voice were vividly present to his memory, smiled so sweetly upon him, and bid him take care of himself "for a' our sakes."

It was late in the evening when he approached Kelton, on his way homewards; and he resolved to give the Greys a call as he went past. At length he saw the well-known cottage, and a flush came over his brow when he recognised Ellen sitting at the door. He hastened forward to greet her; but, instead of the friendly reception he had anticipated, he was surprised and mortified to see her start up with a faint scream, and avert her eyes, with looks of horror and alarm.

"Ellen!" exclaimed he--"hae ye forgotten me? What gars ye turn awa yer head, as though ye'd seen a bogle? Am I sae changed, that ye dinna ken yer auld freend, Richie Goldie?" And he advanced to take her hand. The girl started from his touch, with a cold shudder, and muttered--

"Is it no gane yet?"

"What is't ye're speakin o', Ellen? There's nought here but yersel and me? Can ye no speak to me? It sets ye ill to turn the cauld shouther to an auld freend."

The girl now looked at him for a moment fearfully over her shoulder, and exclaimed, with a start of joy--

"Oh! I believe it's himsel!"

"Why, wha else did ye tak me for, Ellen?"

"For yer wraith, Richie; they tell't me ye were dead."

"And wha tell't ye sic a lee?"

"He tell't me sae himsel."

"And wha was he?"

"Ned Cummin: he said he saw ye dee."

"Ned Cummin! Why the lassie's head's in a creel. Ned drowned himsel, puir chiel! in Madras Roads; and mony a sair thocht has it gien me that we war unfreends when we parted."

"Weel, Richie, a' I ken is, that it's Gude's truth that Ned Cummin tell't me ye were dead--and I believed him." And the tears gushed from her eyes as she said so. "But come ben the hoose, and see my faither."

Old Grey was at first as much alarmed as his daughter at the apparition, as he thought it, of Richard Goldie; for they both were infected with the superstition of the country, and firmly believed in the doctrine of wraiths, bogles, and other supernatural appearances.

"And, noo," said the old man, "that we ken that ye're yersel, and no yer wraith, sit doun and tell us a' that's happened ye sin ye gaed awa."

"I hae nae time 'enow," said Richard; "I maun awa hame; for I haena seen my ain folk yet--mair's the shame; but I'll come back the morn's morn, and gie ye my cracks."

"But Richie, my man, hae ye no heard--d'ye no ken?" said the old man, hesitatingly.

"What's happened?" cried Goldie, alarmed. "Are they no a' weel at hame?"

"They heard ye were dead, Richie: and ye ken, they aye said that ye war the life o' their hearts--they were never like the same folk again; the grass o' Caerlav'rock kirkyard is green abune their heads."

Goldie was staggered by this unexpected and distressing intelligence; he had loved his parents with the fondest affection, and the hope of cheering and supporting them in their declining years had been the mainspring of his activity and industry. He covered his face with his hands, and remained for some moments silent; and at last, with a sudden outburst of grief, exclaimed--

"Gane! baith gane! and I am left alane without a leevin freend, or a roof to shelter me!"

"Yese no want either, Richie, as lang's I'm to the fore. Come, bide whar ye are; ye'll aye be welcome for the sake o' langsyne. I hae aften wished, and I ance thocht, that oor Ellen and you micht come thegither; but it wasna to be."

"And what for can it no be?" said Richie, forgetting his recent loss for the moment, and looking at Ellen. But she burst into tears, and left the room.

Goldie, surprised at her emotion, asked the reason of it; and the old man, in explanation, told him the story we have already related, and expressed his surprise at Cummin's conduct, and his wonder as to what could be his motive for such deception.

"What for did he tell us ye were dead, Richie?"

"I see it a' noo," said Richard: "when I struck him to the ground, he swore he would hae revenge--and sair revenge has he taen. My puir faither and mither! What had they dune?" And the poor fellow hung down his head, and sobbed aloud.

"But what could hae garred him leave our Ellen?"

"Oh, he kent that I liked Ellen, and jaloused that she thocht mair o' me than o' himsel; and he just married her to spite me, and to be revenged upon her for slighting him at first. But there's a time for a' things; if I get a grip on him, he's repent it."

It was long before Goldie was able to bear up against the disappointment of all his fondest hopes; and when the first violence of his grief was past, the springiness and buoyancy of his disposition seemed to have left him entirely. He became grave and thoughtful, a smile was scarcely ever seen to brighten his countenance, and he went about his usual occupations with a sort of dogged indifference, as if it mattered not to him how they were performed, and as if they were to him a mere mechanical and tiresome duty. Yet he loved Ellen Grey as fondly as ever; but she was now, though deserted, the wife of another, and he assumed a coldness of manner, to conceal the warm feelings which still reigned but too powerfully in his breast. He was _reserved_, because he felt a kind of painful pleasure in brooding in silence over his sorrows. In thinking of his poor parents, and of Ellen Grey, who might have been his wife but for another, he would mutter threats of retaliation upon the cold-blooded villain who had caused him so much misery. He would fain have left a place which, much as he loved it, only kept awake so many painful recollections, had he not been withheld from doing so by a strong feeling of gratitude to old Grey, who was now unable to work for his own subsistence, and depended almost entirely upon him for his daily support. Ellen herself, who was much liked in the neighbourhood, and whose story had excited much interest among the neighbouring gentry, obtained a good deal of employment as a dressmaker, which enabled her not only to assist in the support of her father, but likewise to procure many luxuries for him which he otherwise could not have obtained. At length, after lingering for some months in a state of gradual decay, the old man died, and Goldie, after having seen Ellen comfortably settled in a neighbouring family, took an affectionate farewell of her, and went to Liverpool in search of employment. No accounts had been heard of Cummin, although nearly two years had elapsed since his disappearance; and Goldie, who could not forget his love for Ellen Grey, was kept in a state of most unpleasant uncertainty.

Richard had been for a short time in Liverpool, and was walking one day on the Clarence Dock, as some carts were being unloaded. The horse in one of them took fright at some passing object, and dashed off at full speed. A sailor, who was standing on the dock, ran forward and attempted to stop it; but was instantly knocked down with great violence, and the wheel of the cart passed over his head. Richard, who was close to the spot, hastened to his assistance; and was horrified at the sight that met his eyes. The poor fellow was senseless; his arm appeared to be broken, and his face, dreadfully disfigured, was covered with gore and dust. Richard raised his head on a log of wood lying near, loosened his collar, and, a crowd instantly collecting, requested some of them to run for the nearest doctor. He then, with the assistance of some of the bystanders, conveyed the poor sufferer into one of the houses near, where he lay for some time panting and groaning; but apparently quite insensible.

After they had all gone, the wounded man turned to Richard, and, looking in his face, gave a heavy sigh.

"Are ye in much pain?" said Goldie.

"Pain of mind more than pain of body, Richard Goldie," replied the man, in feeble and imperfect accents. "Do you not know me?"

"Mercifu powers!" exclaimed Richie; "sure it canna be Ned Cummin?"

"It _is_ Edward Cummin, Richie, your false friend, your once bitter enemy, that lies bruised, and crushed, and broken-spirited before you. Can you forgive me?--can you forgive a dying and a penitent man?"

"Ned Cummin," said Richard, "ye hae dune me grievous wrang; but I forgie ye wi' a' my heart."

"Thanks, dear Richie!--this is more than I deserved. Now I shall die happy."

"Speak nae mair, Ned; ye heard what the doctor said."

"But I _must_ speak, Richie, while time is mine. Oh, that a few years were allowed me, to prove my repentance sincere! But I feel that is not to be. Death is before me, Richie, and I see things in a very different light now. You were always better than me; you were frank, and open, and confiding; I was a proud, revengeful hypocrite, and I hated you because I always _felt_ myself to be one when you were near me. When you struck me to the earth, the feeling of revenge was aroused within me; but it was long before I could contrive how to gratify it. At last I thought of Ellen Grey; I knew you loved her, and I fancied she had deserted me for you; I determined to be revenged upon you both. I wooed and won, and then deserted her. But the terrors of an accusing conscience went with me, and I had resolved to return homewards, when the accident occurred. Richard, I am dying! Cruel and revengeful as I have been, can you still forgive me?"

"I do, I do, from my heart," sobbed Richard.

"Bless you for saying so! Now leave me to my own thoughts, that I may make my peace with Heaven."

Next morning Edward Cummin was no more. Goldie was with him in his last moments, and was gratified by the conviction that he departed in a happy frame of mind. After having attended the remains to their last home, he gave up his intention of going abroad, and turned his steps homeward. Having arrived, he sought Ellen, and communicated to her the sad news. His love for her was as strong as ever; and all obstacles to their union having been removed, they were soon afterwards wedded--a union very different from the former marriage into which Ellen had been betrayed.

THE DREAM.

The war of reason against the prejudices of superstition has been a long one. It followed on the heels of the crusades of superstition against reason. How different the spirit, tactics, and results of the two! Cruelty, injustice, blood, the burning stake, and an _increase_ of the strength of the persecuted, on the one side; on the other, argument, persuasion, and, at the worst, a harmless satire, with the almost _total extinction_ of the cowardly foe, who, having no refuge but in the dark recesses of ignorance, required only to be brought to light to suffer extermination. Auguries and divinations ruled the world for two thousand years, and were put an end to by the Christian faith, which left untouched the power of witches, ghosts, and dreams. The first of these, notwithstanding all the probation of King James, have perished; the second, maugre the arguments of Johnson, have left this earth; but the third, which has had a thousand supporters between Artemant Milesius and Lord Monboddo, still retain some authority in the world. We support them not; but we subscribe to the opinion of Peter Bayle, who stated, in reference to the reality of the dream of the Spanish Jesuit, Maldonat, there are many things appertaining to dreams which have troubled and perplexed strong spirits more than they have been ever willing to confess. We are now to add one instance more to those of which the same author has said the world is almost already full; but we again protest against the inference of our own belief in oneirology.

About half-way between the towns of Hamilton and Glasgow, there stand, at the distance of about a quarter-of-a-mile from the highway, and on the left as you approach the latter place, the remains of what was once a small farmhouse. It is now long since the last inhabitant left this little humble domicile, whose handful of ruins would perhaps excite but little attention from the passer-by, were they not so delightfully and conspicuously situated. They stand on the very extremity and summit of a beautiful green promontory, of considerable height, that projects into and overlooks a lovely strath, skirted with wood, and through which winds one of the prettiest and best trouting streams in Scotland. The situation, therefore, of these humble ruins invests them with an interest which would by no means attach to them, were they situated in a less romantic locality.

Of the farmhouse of which we speak there now remain only one of the gables and a portion of the side-walls; but, if your curiosity tempt you to further investigation, you may still trace the limits of the little _kail-yard_, which lay immediately behind it; and, struggling for an obscure existence with the rude bramble, which has now usurped the place of the homely but civilised vegetation of the little garden, may be seen a solitary rose, the last and almost only trace of its former cultivation. The little garden, in short, is now all but obliterated, and can only be distinguished by the low irregular green mound--once its wall--that forms the boundary of its limits.

There is nothing in all this, perhaps, to excite any particular interest; for we have rarely any sympathy for the humble and the lowly. In the case of such vestiges of bygone days as those alluded to, it is only the ruined castle, the half-filled moat, and the crumbling walls of mighty masonry, that excite our curiosity, and set our imagination to work--not the handful of loose stones that once formed the cottage of the obscure peasant, not the little rudely-cultivated patch that formed his Eden. These are by far too commonplace and too undignified to attract a moment's notice, or to excite a moment's interest. Yet the cottage has its tale as well as the castle, as we will presently show.

About the year 1760, the farmhouse of which we have spoken was inhabited by John Edmonstone--a man of excellent character, and who, humble as his station was, had contrived, in the course of a long life of industry and economy, to scrape together a very considerable sum of money, besides a good deal of property invested in stock, such as cattle, grain, farming implements, &c. The former--namely, the cash--according to the good old custom of Scotland, amongst John's class, was stowed into a stocking-foot, which again was stowed into a certain hole in the wall, known only to the members of the family. But, ignoble and odd as this depository may seem, it yet contained no inconsiderable treasure, and that not a whit the worse or less valuable for the homeliness of its abode. In one end of the stocking aforesaid was a bulbous swelling, as large as a well-sized fist. This contained a tempting store of bright and shining guineas, to the number of about, perhaps, 250. These being at once confined and secured by a string tightly tied round the stocking, produced the appearance above alluded to. Next followed, but in the same general depository--namely, the stocking--a huge conglomeration of crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, to the amount of about L50 more, which were also secured by a tight ligature--thus giving, if there had been another link or two to the stocking, something the appearance of a string of sausages.

At the period of our story, John Edmonstone was a widower, with two daughters--the one, at this time, about twenty, the other some four or five years older. They were both unmarried, and lived with their father. Jane Edmonstone, the younger of the two, was a very pretty and interesting-looking girl. Her sister Mary did not possess such striking personal advantages; but this was amply compensated by a pleasant manner and a kind and gentle disposition. For many years these relatives lived happily together, in their little, lonely cottage at Braehead. They led a sober, industrious, and pious life; for, duly as the evening came round, the "big ha' Bible" was placed on the kitchen-table, and, by the light of a clean and well-trimmed lamp, aided by the blaze of a cheerful fire, John read aloud to his daughters from the sacred page. But the best regulated life must have an end, as well as the most reckless and abandoned. John was suddenly seized with a mortal illness, of which he shortly died, leaving his two daughters sole and equal inheritors of his wealth. The death of their father was a grievous calamity to the two unprotected girls; for they were without relatives--at least, there were none near them--though certainly not without those who wished them well, as they were universally respected in their own neighbourhood, both on their father's account and their own. Yet did they feel, on the death of their only parent, a sense of loneliness and of inability to cope with the world, which at once alarmed and dispirited them, notwithstanding the considerable resources which their father's industry and economy had secured to them. Nor did their local situation tend to lessen the former feeling; for it was a solitary one--the house in which they lived being at a considerable distance from any other habitation. The neighbourhood in which they resided, moreover, was a loose one. It was filled with coal-miners and coal-carters--the latter, in particular, a brutal, ruffian race; and to all these the poor solitary women believed it to be well known, as it certainly was to a great many of them, that their father had left them money, and that it was in the house; and thus, to their other fears, was added the dread of their dwelling being broken into, and themselves robbed and murdered.

It was while living in this state of feverish alarm and utter helplessness--for they found they could not conduct the business of the farm--and about a fortnight after the death of their father, that Jane, the youngest of the sisters, suddenly awoke, early in the morning, from a troubled sleep, and sprang from her bed, in an agony of terror and affright, exclaiming, as she hurried on her clothes--

"O Mary, Mary! we'll stay here no longer. Not another day--not another day. I'll go into Glasgow this forenoon, and consult with our uncle about selling off, and removing into the city. We will not stay here, Mary, to be robbed and murdered."

"I am as uneasy remaining here as you can be, Jane," replied her sister, now more than ever alarmed by the latter's wild looks and unusual excitement; "but what is the meaning of this sudden outcry?"

"It does not matter, it does not matter, Mary," said Jane, in great agitation, and still hurrying on her clothes; "but I'll go this day to Glasgow, and consult our uncle." And, without vouchsafing any explanation of the cause of this sudden determination, so peremptorily expressed, she shortly afterwards took a hasty breakfast, and, in a few minutes more, was on the road to Glasgow, a distance of from four to five miles.

The uncle whom Jane proposed to consult on this occasion was a brother of her mother's, named James Davidson. He was in poor circumstances, and had been so all his life; and, whether from this or some other cause, he had never stood high in the favour of his brother-in-law. He was a hard-featured old man, stern and morose, and without any of that patient forbearance of disposition and manner which gives to age so pleasing and amiable a character. Davidson, as we have said, was poor. He had never been able to improve his circumstances, or to rise above the condition of a labourer. There he started, and there he was still. Nor did his eldest son promise to be more fortunate in the world. He inherited his father's disposition, which was an unhappy one; was idly inclined; and, somehow or other, could never gain the good-will of any one. Neither Jane nor Mary Edmonstone had ever seen much of their uncle; their father's dislike to him prevented this. Neither did they know much about his circumstances or character; the same cause preventing all intercourse between the families. They, in short, only knew of their uncle's existence by his frequent applications to their father for the loan of money, which he invariably refused. Still, he was their uncle, and the nearest relative they had, and, in their present circumstances, they naturally looked on him as the fittest person to consult regarding their affairs, their wishes and intentions. These Jane now laid before the old man, who received her kindly, notwithstanding his usual asperity of manner; telling him, at the same time, that she and her sister were resolved, at all hazards, and at whatever loss, to sell off at Braehead, and take up their residence in Glasgow; "for," said she, "we are day and night in danger of our lives yonder; and besides, we are wholly unable to conduct our father's business--buying and selling cattle--or to carry on the affairs of the farm. These are things that we cannot do--and neither need we, as we have enough to live upon without it. All that we want is safety."

The old man heard her patiently, and it was some time before he made any reply. At length he said--

"Yes, enough to live upon, I daresay you have. How much did your father leave, Jane?--in money, I mean."

"Somewhat about three hundred pounds," replied his niece.

"A good round sum," said the old man, "to be all in hard money. And is it all past you--all in the house?"

"All."

Davidson thought for a moment. Then--"Well, I'll tell you what it is, Jane," he said: "I do not at all approve of your leaving Braehead. If you do so, you throw yourselves at once upon your little capital, which will not last you very long in a town like this, where all would be going out, and nothing coming in--and where would you be when it was exhausted? Now, your byres and farm in the country are a certain source of emolument to you; and, by keeping these, you will make a decent maintenance of it, without encroaching on the funds left you by your father. My advice to you, then, Jane, is, by all means to remain where you are. Hire persons to do your heavy out-of-door work; and, as the distance is not great, I will come out myself once or twice a week, and assist you with both my personal services and advice."

"Thank you, uncle," replied his niece; "but we really cannot remain at Braehead, on any account. I would not remain in it another week for any consideration."

"No! what for, Jane? What are you afraid of?" said her uncle.

"Of being murdered," replied Jane; "and I have but too good reason to fear it."

"Nonsense, Jane. Who would murder you? What ridiculous fears are these?"'

"But I have a reason, though, for fearing it, uncle," replied his niece, with emphasis.

"Reason!--what reason can you have but your own idle and absurd fears?"

"Yet I have, though, uncle," said Jane, pertinaciously, but appearing somewhat confused and embarrassed.

"What do you mean, girl?" said her uncle, fixing his keen grey eye upon her countenance scrutinisingly; for he observed her embarrassment. "What _is_ this reason of yours for so unreasonable a fear?"

"Well, uncle, I'll tell you what it is at once," replied Jane: "I had a most frightful dream last night. I dreamed that a soldier--a tall, fierce-looking man--broke into our house in the middle of the night, with a drawn bayonet in his hand; that he murdered my sister before my eyes--I saw her blood streaming on the floor; and that, having done this, he seized me by the hair of the head, and was about to plunge his bayonet into my heart, when I awoke. It was a horrible dream, uncle, and has made such an impression on me--it was so fearfully true--that I cannot think of abiding longer in the house. It was this frightful dream that urged me in to see you to-day. I have not told my sister of it; for it would put her distracted."

Jane's uncle listened patiently, but with a smile of contemptuous incredulity, to the strange dream of his niece; and when she had done--

"Pho, pho! what stuff!" he said--"what absurd stuff! How can you be so silly, girl, as even to speak seriously, let alone putting any faith in such nonsense as this?"

"I cannot help it," interrupted Jane.

"Well, well--perhaps you cannot," continued Davidson; "but it is not the less ridiculous for that; and, if it were known, it would certainly get you laughed at. Pay no attention to such trash, Jane. Think no more of it; but return to Braehead, and proceed with your usual occupations, and I will come out in a day or two, to see how you get on."

To this he added the advice which he had already given, and in nearly the same words, but in vain. Nothing could drive the girl from her purpose--from her determination to leave Braehead. Finding this--

"Well, then," said her uncle, "at least remain where you are for a day or two, when I will come out and assist you in your arrangements, and in the disposal of your effects; you cannot manage these matters yourselves."

To this proposal Jane yielded a reluctant consent, but repeated her determination to leave the place as soon as possible, and to come into Glasgow to reside.

On this understanding, then--namely, that Jane and her sister should remain at Braehead until their uncle came out--the former returned home, when she told Mary of all that had passed, excepting what related to her dream, to which, for the reason she had herself assigned, she carefully avoided all allusion. By a very strange coincidence, however--but, though strange, by no means unprecedented--the considerate caution of Jane, in the particular just spoken of, was soon after rendered unavailing. On the very next morning, the elder sister awoke, in an exactly similar state of perturbation with that in which Jane had arisen on that preceding, exclaiming--

"O Jane, Jane! I have had a frightful dream!"

"What was it, Mary?" inquired her sister, in great alarm, recollecting her own frightful vision.

"O Jane!" replied the former, still trembling with terror, "I dreamed that a person in the dress of a soldier broke in at our back-window, and murdered us both. O God! it was horrible! I think I see you on the floor there, struggling with your murderer, who held a naked dagger in his hand, with which he had already stabbed you in several places."

"Gracious God protect us!" exclaimed Jane, leaping to the floor, in a state of alarm exceeding even that of her sister. "This is dreadful! Oh, these are fearful warnings! It can no longer be doubted--it can no longer be doubted! O Mary, Mary! I dreamed precisely the same thing last night; and it was that, though I did not tell you, that hurried me in to our uncle yesterday. I told him of my dream; but he treated it with contempt. He will surely now acknowledge that it is a warning not to be slighted."

We need not interrupt our narrative at this point, by stopping to describe further Jane's feelings on hearing of this strange and appalling repetition of her own frightful vision. These feelings were dreadful. She grew pale as death, and shook like an aspen leaf. On their first terrors subsiding a little, the two sisters began to consult as to what they should do, to avoid the horrible fate with which they now had no doubt they were threatened; and finally resolved that, if their uncle did not appear on that day--or, indeed, whether he appeared or not--they would, on the next, remove to Glasgow, taking with them all their ready money, and whatever other things they could conveniently remove, and leave the rest, for a time, under the charge of a neighbouring farmer, who had been an intimate friend of their father's. They, in short, resolved that, in any event, they would remain only one other night at Braehead.

Before proceeding further with our story, we would beg the reader to observe, that the circumstances we are now relating occurred in the year 1760, in the month of January. It was a winter of great severity, and remarkable for the amazing quantity of snow that fell; but one of the wildest days of that wild season was the 21st day of the month above named. It was the same day in which the scene between the two sisters which we have just related occurred.

The storm, bearing huge drifts of snow on its wings, which had been raging all day, increased as night approached; and, when darkness had fallen upon the earth, it became tremendous. The trees around the little cottage of Braehead bent before the wind like willow wands; and loud and wild, nay, even appalling, was the rushing sound of the storm amongst the leafless branches. The snow, too, was whirling all around, in immense dense masses, and overwhelming every object whose height they surpassed in their cumbrous layers of white. It was in truth a fearful night, and such a one as no person long exposed to it could possibly have survived. Dreadful in particular to the lonely traveller, who was seeking a distant refuge, and whose urgencies required that he should do battle with the storm; and many a harrowing tale was afterwards told of the shepherd and wayfarer who had perished in the terrible night of the 21st of January, 1760.

While the tempest is thus howling about the little lonely cottage of Braehead, and the huge wreaths of snow are blocking up door and window, what are its two solitary inmates about? There they are, the two unprotected women--all their previous fears increased tenfold by the awful sounds without, and their sense of loneliness and helplessness deepened into unendurable intensity. There they are, we say, sitting by their fire, pale and trembling, one on each side of the chimney--for they are afraid to go to bed--listening in silent awe to the raging of the storm.

It was only at long intervals that the two sisters exchanged words on this dreary night, and then it was little more than a brief exclamation or remark, excited by some sudden and violent gust that swept over their little cottage, or roared amongst the trees with a fury exceeding the general tenor of the storm. To bed they could not think of going. They therefore continued by the fire, where they sat almost without moving for many hours.