Chapter XI: Part 11

It was now late, perhaps about twelve o'clock, and the storm was at its height, when the fears of the two lonely sisters were suddenly wrought up to a horrible climax, by a loud rapping at the door, which, again, was instantly followed by the sound of a voice imploring admittance. In the first moment of alarm, the women leaped from their seats and flew to different corners of the apartment, screaming hideously, having no doubt that their fatal dream was now about to be realised. From this terror, however, they were gradually in some measure relieved by the supplicatory language and tones of the person seeking admittance.

"For God's sake, open the door!" he said--for it was the voice of a man--"or I must perish. I have already travelled fifteen miles in the storm, and am now so benumbed and exhausted that I cannot move another step. Open the door, I say, if you have the smallest spark of humanity in you, and give me shelter till daylight."

Somewhat reassured by these appeals, which had in them so little of a hostile character, and to which circumstances gave so truthful a complexion, Jane, the younger of the two sisters, asked the elder, in a low voice, what they should do. "Shall we admit him?" she said; "for it really seems to be a person in distress, and it would be cruel to refuse him shelter in such a night as this. We could never forgive ourselves, Mary, if the poor man should perish in the storm."

"It is true, Jane," replied her sister--"we could not indeed. We will admit him, and trust the result to God. He will not allow a deed of charity and benevolence to be turned into an instrument of crime." Saying this, Mary approached the door, and, placing her hand on the bar, put one other query ere she undid it. "Are you," she said, addressing the person without--"are you really in the situation you represent yourself to be?"

"Before God, I am!" replied the voice from without, emphatically. "Admit me for heaven's sake! You have nothing to fear from me."

In the next instant the bolt was withdrawn, the door flew open, and in walked a man in the garb of a soldier. The brass plate on his cap glittered in the light of the lamp held by the younger sister, who stood at some distance from the door, and from beneath the greatcoat he wore peeped the dreaded red livery of the king. One fearful and simultaneous shriek from the sisters, as they fled frantically into the interior of the house, told of this horrid realisation of their dreams. The soldier, in the meantime, walked into the kitchen; but any one who should at this instant have marked his countenance, would have seen very little in it to indicate the fell purpose for which there seemed good reason to fear he had come. He was, in truth, a young, handsome, and singularly good-looking man, with a face expressive of great good-nature and mildness of disposition. Little regarding these indications of a character so different from that which occupied their minds, the sisters continued to express their horror and alarm in wild shrieks, and in the most piteous appeals for mercy. On their bent knees they implored it; offering all they had, if their lives were only spared. The soldier, benumbed and exhausted though he was, seemed to forget his own sufferings in contemplating what he appeared to consider as a most extraordinary and unaccountable scene--the terrified sisters on their knees, imploring his mercy.

"Good women," he at length said, "what is the meaning of this? What are you afraid of? Is there anything in my appearance so dreadful as to excite this extraordinary alarm? If there be, I never knew it before; and am very sorry to find it out now. I am sure I intend you no harm--none in the world. God forbid I should! I am but too grateful to you for having opened your door to me; and but too happy to get near this cheerful fire."

Again somewhat calmed by these friendly expressions, so different from what they had expected, the sisters ceased their frantic cries for mercy; and, though yet far from being reconciled to their tremendous visiter, they became a little more composed when the soldier, perceiving the effects of his disclamations, followed them up by repeated assurances of the perfect innocence of his intentions, and of the perfectly accidental and harmless nature of his visit. These asseverations, delivered, as they were, in a mild and conciliatory tone, eventually induced the sisters not only to look with less alarm on their unwelcome guest, but to desire him to take a seat by the fire. We will not say, however, that this act of kindness was dictated by pure benevolence. We will not say that it was not done more with a view to disarm their still dreaded visiter of any hostile intentions he might entertain towards them, than from any feeling of compassion. Be this as it may, however, the soldier, after throwing off his snow-covered greatcoat, gladly availed himself of the invitation of his hostesses, and sat him down before the fire.

"Now, my good friends," he said, after having warmed himself a little, and having still further abated the terrors of the sisters by more kind and gentle words, "will you be so good as tell me why you were so much afraid of me when I first entered the house?--for I cannot understand it--seeing that you yourselves opened the door, and of your own accord, and must, therefore, have been prepared to see somebody or other. Was it my cap and red coat that frightened you so? Come, tell me now, candidly."

The sisters looked to each other with a faint smile, and an air of embarrassment; but with an expression of inquiry which said as plainly as an unspoken expression could say it--"Shall we tell him?"

Their guest perceived their difficulty, and saw very clearly that there was something to explain--something that they did not altogether like to avow. Observing this--

"Come, now, out with it!" he said, laughingly, "and, depend upon it, I shall not be the least offended, however uncomplimentary it may be to myself."

"Well, then," said the younger sister, "I _will_ tell you. Both my sister and I dreamed very lately, that a soldier came into this house here, as you have done, and murdered us. We both dreamed the same dream at different times, and without its being previously known to either of us. Now, you'll allow that there was little wonder that we should have been so much alarmed at your appearance."

"Odd enough," said the soldier, laughing; "but, in my opinion, very particular nonsense. Had you dreamed of a soldier coming to court you, it would have been a much more likely thing, and you would have had a better chance of seeing it realised, I should think, than that he should have come to murder you."

"But why were you abroad in such a night as this, and at such an hour?" inquired the elder sister, whose fears, as well as those of Jane, were by no means entirely allayed by this familiarity. "Where were you going to, and whence came you?"

"Why, I'll tell you all about that, mistress," replied the soldier, "when I have filled this pipe." And he proceeded to the operation of which he spoke. When he had done, and had expirated a whiff or two--Now, I'll tell you (he said) how it happens that I am out in such an infernal night as this. Depend upon it, it was not with my will. I belong to the 50th Regiment, now stationed in Glasgow, and have been absent on furlough, seeing my poor old mother in the south country, where she resides. I had not seen her, poor soul! for several years; and as she was unwilling to part with me again, I was obliged to stay with her to the last moment of my time. My furlough expired yesterday, and I was anxious to get on to quarters before it was out; for we have got a devil of a fellow in our commanding officer: and this is the reason why I was so late upon the road in such a night. I wanted to save my distance, and avoid a bothering. But it wouldn't do--I was obliged to knock under.

I found my poor mother (went on the soldier) in much better circumstances than I expected to find her; for my father left her in great poverty and with a large family; but a rather curious occurrence gave her a lift in the world, in her own humble way, about a couple of years ago, of which she still reaps the benefit. Mother, you see, is a very pious woman, and she attributes it all to Providence, saying that it was the Divine interference in her behalf. However this may be, it was a very simple affair, and all natural enough.

In mother's neighbourhood, you see--she lives in a remote parish in the south of Scotland--there resides a fellow of the name of Tweedie--Tom Tweedie. Tom is a cattle-dealer to business, and is well to pass in the world--a lively, active, bustling little scamp he is, and extremely fond of a practical joke, in which he often indulges at the expense of his neighbours. Amongst those who suffer most severely by his waggery is a good-natured man of the name of Brydon--Peter Brydon, a farmer who lives close by him--that is, at the distance of about a mile or so. Well, on this person, who is his favourite butt, Tweedie has played innumerable tricks--all, indeed, of a harmless character, but some of them sufficiently annoying. Either from want of opportunity, or what is more likely, from want of genius, Peter never could accomplish any retaliation--a circumstance which tended greatly to increase the fever of agitation in which Tweedie's superior dexterity and ingenuity in the way of practical joking constantly kept him. At length, however, chance threw in Peter's way what he considered an excellent opportunity of annoying his mischievous neighbour in turn.

Passing the gable of Tweedie's house one morning, pretty early, on horseback (the road he was travelling led close by it), Peter saw a huge wooden dish of oat-meal porridge smoking on the top of the wall of the house-yard. It was intended for the breakfast of the family, and had been put out there to cool. On seeing the dish of porridge, Peter, struck with a bright idea, instantly drew bridle, and, after contemplating it for an instant, rode up to it, and having previously looked carefully around him to see that nobody marked his motions, he lifted the dish from its place, porridge and all, placed it before him on the saddle, brought his plaid over it so as to conceal it, and rode off rejoicing with his prize. Well, you see, it happens that my mother's house lies close by the road on which he had to travel, and at the distance of about a mile from the place where the robbery had been committed. Now, it struck Peter that he could not do better than leave the dish of porridge there, where he knew there was a houseful of children, who would clear all out in a twinkling; but he did not know--for my mother had carefully concealed her poverty from her neighbours--how seasonable would be the supply which he now proposed to bring them. On that morning, the children had no breakfast of their own to take. There was not a morsel in the house to give them. Having made up his mind as to the disposal of the dish of porridge, Peter made directly up to my mother's door, and, without dismounting, rapped with the butt-end of his whip. My mother came out.

"Here," said Peter, handing down the stolen mess; "here's a dish of porridge I have brought for the children's breakfast."

"Porridge!" exclaimed my mother, in amazement, and at the same time blushing deeply, from a conviction that her poverty had been detected, "how, in all the world, came you to think of bringing porridge to me, Mr Brydon?"

This was a question which Peter had but little inclination to answer. He therefore waived it.

"Hoot, hoot, guidwife," he replied, "what does that signify? There they are--that's enough--and a capital mess, I warrant ye, your young anes will find them. So let them fa' to wark as fast's they like, and muckle guid may't do them! It'll save you the trouble, at ony rate, guidwife, of making a breakfast of your own."

My mother having now no doubt that her neighbour knew of her destitute condition--of which, however, he, in reality, knew nothing--and that his gift was one of pure benevolence, rising the corner of her apron to her eyes, thanked him with such expressions of humble gratitude as gave him full information regarding what she thought he already knew--her straitened circumstances. Peter made no remark, at the time, on my mother's confession of poverty, and said little or nothing in reply to what she addressed to him, but rode on his way.

Well, it happened that, on this very day, my mother went to Tweedie's house with some yarn she had been spinning for his wife, who occasionally employed her in that way, when the latter, amongst other things, informed her of the robbery of the porridge; adding, however, that she cared little about the mess, and only regretted the loss of her dish, which, she said, was an excellent one of its kind.

"If they would only bring me the basin back," she said, "they are welcome, whoever took it, to its contents."

The blood rushed to my mother's face. She remained for some moments in silent confusion; but at length said--her face as red as crimson--

"Mrs. Tweedie, your dish is safe; it is in my house, but the porridge is gone."

"In your house, Mrs. Johnston!" (that is my mother's name)--"my basin in your house! How does that happen?" replied Mrs. Tweedie, with a look of surprise, and something like displeasure.

My mother detailed the circumstances as already related; and, thinking herself compelled to acknowledge her poverty, as an apology for having made use of the porridge, she fairly stated her condition; saying, amongst other things, that when it came she had not a morsel in the house.

Mrs. Tweedie rated my mother for not having told her before of her situation, and concluded by promising that neither she nor her children should ever again want a meal as long as she had one to give them; and she instantly loaded her with as many potatoes as she could carry home. Her husband, who was present on this occasion, enjoyed the joke exceedingly, and gave the chosen victim of his own wit, Brydon, great credit for his trick. He further expressed himself highly pleased that the latter had taken the dish of porridge to my mother, seeing that she stood so much in need of them. To make a long story short (added the soldier), both Tweedie and Brydon, who were good kind-hearted men, from this moment that my mother's necessities were thus so strangely made known to them, took her under their especial patronage.

On the following day, Brydon sent her as much meal and potatoes as lasted her a month; each of them took one of my brothers into their service; their wives gave her as much spinning as she could execute; and a complement of provisions, sometimes of one kind and sometimes of another, has been sent her alternately and regularly ever since by the two benevolent jokers. From that day to this, old mother, has never been in want; and when speaking of the occurrence says, that the day on which Peter Brydon brought the dish of stolen porridge to her door was the luckiest in her life.

Here the soldier finished his story and his pipe together. Both the matter of his little tale and his manner of telling it tended considerably to calm the apprehensions of his hostesses, and to disabuse them, in spite of their dream, of much of the unfavourable opinion they had entertained of his intentions. Still, however, they felt by no means secure, and would even yet have readily given the half, perhaps the whole, of the money in the house, to have been quit of him. Nor were the fears that yet remained lessened by their having discovered, which they had not done for some time after he had entered, that he wore his bayonet by his side. On this formidable weapon the two poor women looked with inexpressible horror; having a strong feeling of apprehension that it was the dreadful instrument by which their destruction was to be accomplished and their dream fulfiled. Now, too, the sisters detected the fellow occasionally glancing around the house, with a most suspicious look, as if calculating on future operations. He now, also, began to put questions that greatly alarmed them--such as, Was there nobody in the house but themselves? How far distant was the nearest house? and guessing, with an apparently assumed air of jocularity, that their father (they had informed him of his death) had left them a good round sum in some corner or other? In short, his behaviour altogether began again to grow extremely suspicious; and, perceiving this, the sisters' fears returned with all their original force.

In the meantime, the storm without, so far from abating, had increased; the dreary, rushing sound of the trees became fiercer and louder, and the fitful gusts of wind more frequent and furious. It was now about one o'clock of the morning, when, actuated by the same motives which had induced them to ask their terrible guest to sit by the fire--namely, to disarm him, by kindness, of any evil design he might entertain towards them--the sisters now offered the soldier some refreshment. He gladly accepted the offer. Food was placed before him, and he ate heartily. When he had done, one of the sisters told him that there was a spare bed in a closet to which she pointed, and that he might go to it if he chose. With this offer he also gladly closed, and immediately retired.

The sisters, well pleased to have got their guest thus disposed of--thinking it something like a sign of harmless intention on his part--determined to sit themselves by the fire throughout the remainder of the night. They were, then, thus sitting, and it might be about one hour after the soldier had retired, listening with feverish watchfulness to every sound, when they suddenly heard a noise as if of some one forcing the door. At first the poor horrified women thought it was some unusual sound produced by the storm, but, on listening again, there was no doubt of the appalling fact. They heard distinctly the working of an iron instrument, and the creaking of the door from its pressure. The wretched women leaped from their seats, and again their wild shrieks were heard rising above the noise of the tempest without. Awakened by their alarming cries--for he had been fast asleep--the soldier started from his bed, calling out, as he hurried on his clothes--

"What the devil is the matter now! By heaven! you are all mad."

"Oh, you know but too well what is the matter," replied one of the sisters, in a voice faint and almost inarticulate with excessive terror--"you know but too well what is the matter. These are some of the other murderers of your gang forcing open the door. O God! in mercy receive our souls!"

"My gang forcing the door! What the devil do you mean?" replied the soldier, emerging from the closet. Then, after an instant--"By heaven! it is so far true. There is some one breaking in, sure enough."

Saying this, he drew his bayonet, and ran to the door; but, ere he gained it, it was forced open, and two men were in the act of entering, one behind the other. On seeing the soldier, the foremost presented a pistol to his head, and drew the trigger; but a click of the lock was the only result. It missed fire. In the next instant the soldier's bayonet was through the ruffian's body, and he fell, when he who was behind him immediately fled. The soldier pursued him, but, after running several hundred yards, gave up the chase as hopeless, and returned to the house, where he found, to his great surprise, that the man whom he had stabbed, and whom he thought he had killed outright, had disappeared, and was nowhere to be seen.

On entering the house--"Well, my good women," said the soldier, "are you now satisfied of the sincerity of my intentions towards you? Why, I think I have saved your lives, in place of taking them."

"You have! you have!" exclaimed both the sisters at once. "And oh how thankful are we to God, who alone could have sent you here to protect us on this dreadful night!"

"It certainly was as well for you that I was here," replied the soldier, modestly; "but have you any idea of who the villains could be?"

"None in the least," said the younger sister; "but this neighbourhood is filled with bad characters, and we have no doubt it was some of them--for all of them know, we believe, that our father left us a little money. We have alwas dreaded this."

"In that case," said the soldier, "I would advise you to leave this directly, and go to some place of greater safety."

The sisters told him that they had, for some time, meant to do so, and that they intended going to Glasgow to reside.

What subsequently passed, on this eventful night, between the sisters and their gallant protector, we will detail as briefly as we can, in order to get at a more interesting part of our story. Having again secured the door, the soldier sat with his hostesses by the fire till daylight, when, having previously partaken of a plentiful breakfast, he prepared to take the road. Just as he was about to leave the house, the youngest sister approached him, and, after again expressing her gratitude for the protection he had afforded them, slipped ten guineas into his hand. The soldier looked at the glittering coins for an instant, with a significant smile, and laying them down on a table that stood by--

"Not a farthing," he said--"not a farthing shill I take. I consider myself sufficiently paid by the shelter you afforded me. I was bound to protect you while under your roof. By admitting me last night you saved my live--and I have saved yours; so accounts are clear between us. This, at any rate," he added laughingly, "will balance them." And, soldier-like, he flung his arms around Jane's neck, and, ere she was aware, had robbed her of half-a-dozen hearty kisses.

This theft committed, he ran out of the door; but was almost immediately after called back again by the elder sister, who, on his return, informed him, that, as Jane intended going into Glasgow on that day, to inform her uncle of what had happened, and to make arrangements for their instant removal from Braehead, she thought her sister could not do better than avail herself of his company to the city, and go in with him just now. "Besides," she said, "I should like you to see our uncle, if you would be so good as take a step that length with Jane, as you will be able to give a better account of the occurrences of last night than she can, and may better convince him of the necessity of our leaving this instantly. Indeed, I do not know if he would believe our story at all of being attacked last night, unless you were to corroberate it. He would think it was just an invention to get away, as he knows of our anxiety to leave this."

The soldier was delighted with the proposal, and did not attempt to conceal the satisfaction he felt at having Jane, who, as we have already said, was a very pretty girl, for a companion into the city.

In a few minutes Jane was prepared for the journey, and in a very few more she and the young soldier were upon the road; and, as the storm had now entirely subsided, they got on without much difficulty. What conversation passed between them on this occasion, we know not, and can only conjecture from the result, which will be shortly laid before the reader. That it was of a description, however, very agreeable to both, there can be no doubt.

In the meantime, our business is to follow them into Glasgow, where they arrive in little more than a couple of hours.

On reaching her uncle's with her companion, Jane was greatly disappointed and rather surprised, to learn from one of her little cousins--its mother being out of the way at the moment--that Davidson was not at home, that he had gone to the country on the previous night, and had not yet returned.

"Then where's your brother;" inquired Jane.

"He's gone to the country, too," said the child.

"Is he with your father?"

"Yes."

"Did he go last night also?"

"Yes."

"And don't you know where they went to, or when they will be home?"

The child could not tell.

At this moment the mother of the child came in, and at once accounted for the absence of her husband and son, by saying that they had got work at a distance of some miles from the town, naming the place, and that she expected them home that day, although she could not say when.

As the days were short, and her uncle's return uncertain, Jane resolved on going straight home again, and proposing to her sister that they should, for that night, at any rate, remove, taking all their money along with them, to the friend of their father's already alluded to, whose name was Anderson. And this step the sisters accordingly took.

Leaving them thus disposed of for a short time, we shall return to their uncle's house in Glasgow; and, by doing so, we shall find there some things of a very extraordinary character occurring. Shortly after Jane had left her uncle's that person came home, but he returned a very different man from what he had set out. Strong, hale, and erect, though somewhat stricken in years, when he went away he now appeared, as he approached his own house, ghastly pale, bent nearly double, and dreadfully weak and exhausted. He seemed, in short, to be suffering from some excruciating pain. He could hardly get along without supporting himself by the walls of the houses he passed. On entering his own house, he went directly to bed, without speaking to any one, further than telling his wife that he was very ill--that he had received a severe injury by falling down amongst some loose timber, a pointed piece of which, he said, had penetrated his chest. His wife, in great alarm, proposed sending instantly for a surgeon; but this the wounded man would by no means allow--saying that his wound, though painful, was not, he thought, very serious, and that he had no doubt he would soon recover. A few hours afterwards, however, finding himself getting much worse, he not only allowed, but desired, that a surgeon should be sent for. One was immediately procured. On examining the wound, he inquired of Davidson how he had met with it. He was told, in reply, the same story which we have just related.

"That cannot be true," said the surgeon. "Your wound has not been inflicted by a splinter of wood, but by a sharp three-edged instrument. It is a clean wound, and has all the appearance of having been inflicted with a bayonet or some such weapon. Indeed I feel quite assured of this, whatever may be your motives for concealing it."

Davidson repeated his asseverations of having come by his injury by falling on a pointed piece of wood.

"Well, well, sir, my business is not how or by what means your wound has been inflicted, but how it is to be cured," (During this time he was examining the injury.) "But I fear," he added, "it is beyond my skill, or that of any other human being. Your wound, I have every reason to think, is mortal."

"Do you think so?" said the patient with great calmness and composure.

"I certainly do," replied the surgeon, "and I think it my duty to tell you, that, if you have any worldly affairs to settle, the sooner you set about it the better."

The patient made no reply for some time, but seemed absorbed in thought. At length he said--

"Could you, sir, procure me a visit from a clergyman? I know none myself, and it may be of consequence that I should see one. I have something of importance to communicate."

The surgeon readily undertook to bring such a person as the dying man desired to see, and immediately departed for that purpose, having previously promised, at the earnest request of the sufferer himself, that he would return along with him. "I wish to have you both together," he said, "It will be better that there are two."

In less than half-an-hour after, the surgeon returned with one of the clergymen of the city. The moment they entered, Davidson requested the former to shut the door, and to see that it was properly secured. This done, he requested them to draw near him, when he began, in a low voice, the astounding confession that it was he who had attempted to break into the house of his nieces, and that it was he whom the soldier had stabbed on that occasion. All this, indeed, the surgeon had previously suspected; for he had heard of the attempted robbery, and of one of the ruffians having been stabbed with a bayonet by a soldier; but did not, till now, know anything of the relationship of the parties. Thus much the dying man confessed; but he would not say, though pressed to tell, who was his associate in the crime. This person, however, was subsequently ascertained, beyond all doubt, to have been his son, as he never came home, nor was ever afterwards seen or heard of by any one who knew him. Having made this confession, the wretched man expired, and that even before one word of intercession could be offered up in his behalf by the attending clergyman.

Having brought this incident to a close, we return to the two sisters, who were now residing with their father's friend, Anderson. This worthy man now took an active interest in their affairs; and, approving of their original intention of removing to Glasgow, did all he could to further their views in this respect, by selling off the cattle, farming utensils, &c., and stock of every kind.

Some days after their settlement in Glasgow, their friend Anderson called on them, and remarked, in the course of conversation with them, that he thought, now that they were all snug and safe, something ought to be done for the soldier to whom they owed, not only a great part of their little fortune, but in all probability their lives. At this moment the young soldier entered. During the conversation that followed, Mr. Anderson discovered that the young man would willingly be quit of the army. This discovery he kept in recollection; and, when the soldier left them, he proposed to the sisters to purchase his discharge, and to do so without his knowledge. This was accordingly done on the very next day; and in three weeks afterwards, Henry Johnston (which was the young soldier's name), and Jane Edmonston were united in the bands of holy wedlock. The former, whose dislike of the army, it subsequently appeared, applied only to its subordinate situation--more definitely speaking, to the condition of a private--soon after purchased a lieutenant's commission with part of his wife's money, and finally died a lieutenant-colonel, leaving behind him the reputation of a good man and a gallant soldier.

END OF VOL. XIII

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