Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XII Part 22

Bet creeps beside me, unco dour.

I clap her back, and say, "My dawtie!"

Quo' she, "Weel, weel, my pa.s.sion's owre; But dinna gang a-drinkin, Watty."'"

"Bravo, Scotchy!" shouted one. "Your health and song, Mr Brown," cried another. Adam's head began to swim--the lights danced before his eyes--he fell from his chair. One of his friends called a hackney-coach; and, half insensible of where he was, he was conveyed to his lodgings.

It was afternoon on the following day before he appeared at the counting-house, and his eyes were red, and he had the languid look of one who had spent a night in revelry. That night he was again prevailed upon to accompany his brother clerks to the club-room, "just," as they expressed it, "to have one bottle to put all right." That night he again heard the words--"_We'll have another_," and again he yielded to their seduction.

But we will not follow him through the steps and through the snares by which he departed from virtue, and became entangled in vice. He became an almost nightly frequenter of the tavern, the theatre, or both, and his habits opened up temptations to grosser viciousness. Still he kept up a correspondence with Mary Douglas, the gentle object of his young affections, and, for a time, her endeared remembrance haunted him like a protecting angel, whispering in his ear, and saving him from depravity.

But his religious principles were already forgotten; and, when that cord was snapped asunder, the fibre of affection that twined around his heart did not long hold him in the path of virtue. As the influence of company grew upon him, her remembrance lost its power, and Adam Brown plunged headlong into all the pleasures and temptations of the metropolis.

Still he was attentive to business--he still retained the confidence of his employer--his salary was liberal--he still sent thirty pounds a-year to his mother; and Mary Douglas yet held a place in his heart, though he was changed--fatally changed. He had been about four years in his situation, when he obtained leave for a few weeks to visit his native village. It was on a summer afternoon, when a chaise from Jedburgh drove up to the door of the only public-house in the village. A fas.h.i.+onably-dressed young man alighted, and, in an affected voice, desired the landlord to send a _porter_ with his luggage to Mrs Brown's.

"A porter, sir?" said the innkeeper--"there's naething o' the kind in the toun; but I'll get twa callants to tak it alang."

He hastened to his mother's. "Ah! how d'ye do?" said he, slightly shaking the hands of his younger brothers; but a tear gathered in his eye as his mother kissed his cheek. She, good soul, when the first surprise was over, said "she hardly kenned her bairn in sic a fine gentleman." He proceeded to the manse, and Mary marvelled at the change in his appearance and his manner; yet she loved him not the less: but her father beheld the affectation and levity of his young friend, and grieved over them.

He had not been a month in the village when Mary gave him her hand, and they set out for London together. For a few weeks after their arrival, he spent his evenings at their own fireside, and they were blessed in the society of each other. But it was not long until company again spread its seductive snares around him. Again he listened to the words--"_We'll have another_"--again he yielded to their temptation, and again the _force of habit_ made him its slave. Night followed night, and he was irritable and unhappy, unless in the midst of his boon companions. Poor Mary felt the bitterness and anguish of a deserted wife; but she upbraided him not--she spoke not of her sorrows. Health forsook her cheeks, and gladness had fled from her spirit; yet as she nightly sat hour after hour waiting his return, as he entered, she welcomed him with a smile, which not unfrequently was met with an imprecation or a frown. They had been married about two years. Mary was a mother, and oft at midnight she would sit weeping over the cradle of her child, mourning in secret for its thoughtless father.

It was her birth-day, her father had come to London to visit them; she had not told him of her sorrows, and she had invited a few friends to dine with them. They had a.s.sembled; but Adam was still absent. He had been unkind to her; but this was an unkindness she did not expect from him. They were yet waiting, when a police-officer entered. His errand was soon told. Adam Brown had become a gambler, as well as a drunkard--he had been guilty of fraud and embezzlement--his guilt had been discovered, and the police were in quest of him. Mr Douglas wrung his hands and groaned. Mary bore the dreadful blow with more than human fort.i.tude. She uttered no scream--she shed no tears; for a moment she sat motionless--speechless. It was the dumbness of agony. With her child at her breast, and in the midst of her guests, she flung herself at her father's feet. "Father!" she exclaimed, "for my sake!--for my helpless child's sake--save! oh, save my poor husband!"

"For your sake, what I can do I will do, dearest," groaned the old man.

A coach was ordered to the door, and the miserable wife and her father hastened to the office of her husband's employer.

When Adam Brown received intelligence that his guilt was discovered from a companion, he was carousing with others in a low gambling-house.

Horror seized him, and he hurried from the room; but he returned in a few minutes. "_We'll have another_!" he exclaimed, in atone of frenzy; and another was brought. He half-filled a gla.s.s--he raised it to his lips--he dashed into it a deadly poison, and, ere they could stay his hand, the fatal draught was swallowed. He had purchased a quant.i.ty of a.r.s.enic when he rushed from the house.

His fellow-gamblers were thronging around him, when his injured wife and her grey-haired father entered the room. "Away, tormentors!" he exclaimed, as his glazed eyes fell upon them, and he dashed his hand before his face.

"My husband! my dear husband!" cried Mary, flinging her arms around his neck; "look on me--speak to me! All is well!"

He gazed on her face--he grasped her hand. "Mary--my injured Mary!" he exclaimed, convulsively, "can _you_ forgive me--_you_--_you_? O G.o.d! I was once innocent! Forgive me, dearest!--for our child's sake, curse not its guilty father!"

"Husband!--Adam!" she cried, wringing his hand--"come with me, love, come--leave this horrid place--you have nothing to fear--your debt is paid."

"Paid!" he exclaimed, wildly. "Ha! ha! Paid!"

They were his last words. Convulsions came upon him; the film of death pa.s.sed over his eyes, and his troubled spirit fled.

She clung round his neck--she yet cried, "Speak to me!"--she refused to believe that he was dead, and her reason seemed to have fled with his spirit.

She was taken from his body and conveyed home. The agony of grief subsided into a stupor approaching imbecility. She was unconscious of all around; and within three weeks from the death of her husband, the broken spirit of Mary Douglas found rest, and her father returned in sorrow with her helpless orphan to Teviotdale.

THE SCOTTISH VETERAN.

It was upon one of those clear, chill, but not unpleasant days, that so often occur towards the latter end of November, that an aged female, and one much younger, in all the bloom of maiden beauty, overcast by a tender shade of melancholy, that gave tenfold interest to her lovely countenance, and mellowed the l.u.s.tre of her dark hazel eyes, were seen sitting at the door of a cottage on the banks of one of the tributaries of the silver Tweed. The full round orb of the sun was sinking slowly behind a huge bank of clouds, tinged by his departing rays, that lingered as if regretting his short career, and loth to depart. The deep shades of twilight closed quickly upon the scene; but the females sat engaged at their work, as if it had been an eve of autumn. Margaret Blair, the more aged of the two, sat gazing in one direction with unwearied a.s.siduity, only occasionally looking at the progress she made at the stocking she was busy knitting; and Jeanie Aitken, the younger, bent her steadfast gaze at intervals in the same direction, towards the road that skirted the foot of the neighbouring hills. Heavy clouds began to rise in the east; the wind had changed towards that quarter, and howled mournfully along the waste.

"Jeanie, my dear," said Margaret, "Jamie has gotten a fine day to travel in. Do you see no appearance o' him yet? Your young een are far clearer than mine. These heavy clouds mak me fear for the nicht. I am sure he might hae been here lang before this time, if his heart yearned as mickle to see me as mine does to see him. I trust that naething has happened to him on the road. Many a danger has he pa.s.sed through in the wars. It would be an awfu thing were ony misfortune to happen him when he is sae near hame. G.o.d has preserved him in the battlefield; and oh, I trust and pray He will still be his guide! Do you no see ony signs o'

him yet? The nicht will soon be on, and I fear it will be a stormy ane."

A deep sigh escaped from Jeanie as she answered, "Oh no; I see no one on the road. Dear mother, retire into the house--you must be very cold--I will watch yet a little. I hope he will soon be here, and then we will be so happy when we meet." The tears that filled her eyes, and the trembling accents in which she spoke, betrayed a heart ill at ease.

It was at this period I arrived at the cottage, in hopes of seeing my old schoolfellow; for a letter had been received a few days before, in which he informed his mother and Jean that he would be with them this day, as he had received his discharge.

Jeanie and James had long loved each other; they were cousins, and had been brought up together; but he had enlisted in anger, and forsaken her. With all his faults, she had never ceased to love him; and, from the day he went off to join his regiment, for six long years they had never heard of him. About three months after the battle of Victoria, the carrier to the town of Dunse brought them two letters as he pa.s.sed--one for Margaret Blair, the other for Jeanie Aitken. They were from James. I was shown both the letters, which will unfold the previous history of my friends, and the feelings of the reformed son better than I can, and introduce the Veteran in a more favourable light than I have as yet been enabled to do.

"_Victoria._

"DEAREST MOTHER,--My folly has at length fallen upon my own head, and heavy is the load I will bear until I receive an answer to this, containing your forgiveness for my wicked neglect of your counsels, and despising the instructions of my worthy father--the result of all which has been my giving myself so much to evil company, and deserting you in your old age. But, dear mother, I am now an altered man. On the dark and cheerless guard, at the dead hour of the night, my conscience often awoke, and rendered me almost desperate--when sinking under fatigue, hunger, and thirst, on the long and toilsome march, it has given a keener edge to my sufferings; still I warred against the better feelings that arose in my breast--for I was still wayward and proud; but now, lingering under my wounds, I humble myself in the dust, before that G.o.d I so long neglected, who alone speaks peace to my humbled spirit! Be not alarmed at the mention of my wounds. I am now out of danger, and will be enabled to join my regiment in a few weeks--would it were to join your peaceful fireside. But, though I am unworthy to obtain yet for a time this my earnest prayer, I feel a.s.sured I shall yet be spared to comfort your declining years. And that every blessing may be yours until then, is the prayer of your now repentant and loving son,

"JAMES BLAIR.

"P.S.--Is cousin Jeanie still unmarried? Does she reside still near you? I hope she is still unchanged, unreasonable that I am. If she is, give her the letter; if not, burn it. The scenes and feelings I enjoyed before I left your roof are dearer and stronger here in Spain than I can express, or you imagine. I do not request you to write soon--it would be unjust and unkind to doubt it for a moment. Again, I am your now altered and dutiful son until death.

"J. B."

The letter to Jeanie was received with a trembling hand, and placed in her bosom, that felt it impart a buoyancy to her feelings, she had been long a stranger to. As soon as she had finished reading the letter to Margaret, she retired to a beautiful knowe that overtopped the burn, and seated herself among the long yellow broom, where the most pleasant of her days had pa.s.sed with her James. There they had herded together; there they had first plighted their young loves; and there James had left her in anger, without hope of ever returning to her again. On this loved spot, every moment she could spare had been pa.s.sed, musing upon her absent lover, or praying for his safety and return; and now, with a feeling of pleasure she had been long a stranger to, she drew the letter from her bosom, and broke it open, while joy and grief filled her heart by turns.

"_Victoria._

"DEAREST AND BELOVED, BUT MUCH-INJURED JEAN,--Dare I hope you ever think of me? I fear, if you do, it is with anger and contempt; for I feel, and my heart is like to burst with the thought, that I have used you ill. Believe me, it was in anger at I knew not what. You, with the prudence I now esteem you for, refused to fulfil your promise of marriage, because I had given myself too much up to company--to my shame I own, to dissipation. Believe me, my love, I now feel, in all its bitterness, my folly, and your wisdom. I am no longer the 'roaring boy' I used to boast myself among my a.s.sociates; but the humbled lover and son. The privations and toils of war have opened my eyes to my true interests. For a time I was the most reckless in our company; for I strove, by riot, to drive from my mind the upbraidings of my heart; but I strove in vain. The early lessons I had received in rect.i.tude embittered all my guilty joys, and at length triumphed. Let me pour into your bosom the history of my reformation. It was on the eve of the battle of Fuentes de Honore the first serious reflection came over my mind. The whole after part of the day I had been engaged in the work of death, with all my energies aiding in the destruction of my species, my mind excited to the utmost.

Thrice we had driven the enemy through the village before us, over the dead and wounded. My comrades were falling thick around me. Evening came to stop the work of death. My bosom friend, the companion of my follies, had fallen, early in the action, at the foot of the brae, by the burn-side. I remember the spot well. O Jeanie, how could I forget it? It was so like the spot where we last parted--where the most innocent and happiest of my hours had been spent--that, even in the hottest of the fire, the resemblance strung my arm, and fired my soul to double daring. I could not endure that an enemy should be in possession of it, and drive us from the sacred ground. I rejoiced that I was put on duty, to bury the dead and remove the wounded. I hurried to the spot where my friend had fallen, to a.s.sist him if alive, or to pay the last duty if dead. Alas!

Jeanie, what a sight there met my eyes! He lay, adding to the pile of bleeding bodies, that, only a few hours before, were all in life and health. Silent and sad, we dug a trench, and deposited the victims of war. The French parties were out on the same duty; we mixed friendly together, only enemies by a cruel necessity, and, like dogs, brought out to fight for the interest or amus.e.m.e.nt of others. Several of them could speak a little English. We drank and ate together. They had plenty; we were at this time almost famished, being in advance of our supplies. Fear, my love, you know, is no part of my nature; but the uncertainty of human life as a soldier had never struck my mind with so much force as now. I returned an altered man. I felt as if we were never to meet again, and I never should reach my native vale, to lay my mother's head in the grave. I own, with shame, I had until now striven to forget you, but could not; for, sleeping or waking, you were ever in my thoughts, night after night you were present in my dreams, and day found me almost distracted. Dissipation only brought greater anguish; yet my proud heart would not stoop to communicate its woes to those who alone could give relief.

Every draught that joined I anxiously looked for an acquaintance from my native place; and I would have given a kingdom for the knowledge that you were still free. I knew your faithful nature; but I had basely deserted you; wounded that heart I ought to have cherished, because it would act contrary to the dictates of a desecrating advice, that would have ruined us both. At length the battle of Victoria was fought; in which action I was wounded in the thigh; but still I kept the ranks.

We were sorely pressed by the enemy; but nature could support me no longer, and I sank to the ground, as our regiment was forced to retire, overpowered by superior numbers. A charge of cavalry pa.s.sed over the ground where I lay; and, O Jeanie! what horror did I feel at this moment! I commended my soul to G.o.d--my mother's and your name escaped from my lips--the horses pa.s.sed over me--and when, from a swoon, I awoke to consciousness, the surgeons were setting the bone of my leg, and a bandage was already upon my wound in the thigh. I will not pain you more. I am now almost well, and often amuse myself with the thought that, were you to see the pale and emaciated soldier upon his crutches, you would look in vain for Jamie Blair. But be cheerful, my love; for the surgeon says I will be as sound a man as ever, and join my regiment in a few weeks.

How much better were it to join you and my mother! But the time will come in course, and I hope soon. If pity ever found a place in your bosom, send me your forgiveness; and, if you can send me the a.s.surance that, in spite of all my follies, you love me dear as ever, I will now do all in my power to be worthy of it. If you refuse to pardon me, you will drive me to despair, and I shall volunteer for every forlorn hope, and rush upon danger, until death relieve me from my present state of mind. Return me, my love, good for evil, and give peace to that heart that wounded yours. Remembered or forgot, dearest Jean, I shall ever remain yours until death,

"JAMES BLAIR."

On the evening of the day after the receipt of these letters, when I made my usual call, I was astonished at the change that had taken place in the widow's cottage. The sadness had pa.s.sed from the brow of Jean, and hope had given a new l.u.s.tre to her eye. Margaret was all garrulity, and loud in the praises of James; but Jean was silent, and seemed to luxuriate in the present feelings with which her soul was filled. I departed myself with a feeling of happiness at the welcome news from my old schoolfellow, and walked home more stately and erect, as if my consequence had been enhanced by my friends.h.i.+p and intimacy with one of Wellington's heroes; and crooned, with peculiar spirit and satisfaction, as I walked along, "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled."

It would be superfluous to say that Jeanie returned such an answer as James might wish. Joy once more became an inmate of Widow Blair's cottage, and thanksgivings were now mingled in their prayers for the absent soldier. The correspondence was as regular as the vicissitudes of war would permit; and often, when I had occasion to go to town, I was intrusted with the letter and penny to lodge in the post-office for James Blair. Month after month rolled on; peace was at length concluded; the troops were returning to Britain; and James, being a seven-years'

man, and his period of service nearly expired, we could calculate to a day the time we expected to have him once more among us. But for a time we were disappointed. In no home in Britain did the return of Bonaparte from Elba cause greater sorrow than in the widow's cottage. James was once more embarked for the Continent with his regiment--was present at the battle of Waterloo--escaped the dreadful carnage unhurt--and marched with the army for Paris, where he got his discharge, and was on his return at the commencement of this narrative.

The shades of evening had forced the females to retire, benumbed with cold, long before my accustomed visit. I was grieved and disappointed at not finding James, and sorry to see the anxiety and grief of the mother and sweetheart. The clouds had now covered the whole sky; the darkness was intense; the wind blew with a piercing keenness, and snow had begun to fall fast, and drift along the waste. I gave them all the comfort I could, and retired, promising to call again in the morning--having in vain urged them to retire to rest; and, upon my return next day, I learned that, after my departure, they continued to watch--going repeatedly out to examine the state of the weather, or beguiled by the shaking of the door struck by the blast, and thinking some one tried the latch. Still no one came--hour after hour pa.s.sed on--their humble supper stood untouched--the fears of the mother were expressed in wailings and ejaculatory prayers for his safety; and Jeanie's expressive countenance betrayed the anxiety under which she laboured. Their evening devotions were made with pious hope--their usual hour of retiring to rest had long gone by; yet neither thought of sleep--for all that was most dear on earth to them was, they feared, exposed to the pitiless storm, and they still sat by the fire, shrinking at every gust of wind, as if it had struck themselves, while the candle burned on the window-sill, a beacon to guide the wanderer. At length the door opened, and a thin, weather-beaten figure staggered in, and sank upon the floor, exhausted and senseless. The antic.i.p.ated joyful meeting was one of anguish and alarm. Care and a.s.siduity restored the soldier to warmth and animation; and hope and joy succeeded to fear and grief. James had come from London to Leith in one of the smacks; and, after leaving Haddington, anxious to reach his mother's as soon as possible, had left the highway, and struck into the country, over the Lammermuir Hills, by a route dear and familiar to him; and, being some miles shorter, chosen as much for the sake of former recollections, which were crowding upon him at every step, as for its shortness. The day was clear and bracing when he left Haddington, and all induced him to follow this route; but he had miscalculated his strength, and the shades of evening overtook him in the middle of the mountains. The sky began to lour, and threatened a storm. Ere he had reached the heights, the snow fell fast, the wind and drift threatened to overwhelm him, and all around became one undistinguishable chaos. He could recognise no mark by which to know whether he was in the right track or not. Confused and bewildered, but not dismayed, he stood still for a few minutes, to collect his energies; and having recalled to his recollection that the wind blew from the direction in which he wished to proceed, he started afresh, and battled with the storm, till at length he recognised a well-remembered cairn on the heights, against which he stumbled, and of which he gained his knowledge only by groping; for it was so dark that he could not see his own hand a few inches from his face. Having felt it round and round, he came to the broad, flat stone on the southern side, the shepherd's dial, which gave a thrill of hope to his breast, like a glimpse of the polar star to the tempest-tossed mariner. Starting anew, and still keeping his face to the biting blast, again he stumbled upon a cairn, and felt it round and round; and, to his surprise and regret, found it to be the same. Disappointed and confused, he started afresh--twice he struggled round the same circle upon the heights, each time adding to the despondency that began to steal upon him, till, exhausted and almost hopeless, he threw himself on the lee side of the cairn, to recover his strength. He thought some strange fatality attended him; yet was loth to yield to despair, and struggled manfully against it; but a languor came over him, attended by an almost irresistible drowsiness; and all he had suffered in the retreat to Corunna could not be compared to his present situation. There, companions.h.i.+p had lightened the most intense sufferings; severe as they often were, they were not, as now, without that aid which sustains men in the most trying cases--the countenance of their fellow-men. Here he was alone, in a sea of snow, within a few miles of his mother's door!--the thought was bitterness unutterable, such as he had never felt before. Death he had often braved in all his forms--in the battlefield he had gazed upon him in the pomp and tumult of war, when the excited mind unheeded his presence; but here he seemed to hold his victim in suspense, until his very presence might produce the parting of soul and body from very fear of him. He struggled to rise, and combat the feelings that he knew must prove fatal to him; but his limbs were stiff, and would not obey his will, and he commended his soul to his Creator, and resigned himself to his fate. His mind became more calm, his thoughts less confused; and, as he lay musing, it occurred to him that he had erred in taking the wind for his compa.s.s, for perhaps it blew round the top of the hill (as it did), and was the cause of his always returning to the same spot. The idea occurred to him, that, if he had held straight on until he came to a running water, and followed its course, it would have guided him to some mill or cottage. This acted upon his mind like an electric spark, his heart warmed, and his limbs resumed, under the inspiration of hope that once more came to his aid, their former energy. Onwards he urged his way, stumbling, at every few paces, over the unequal ground; and, with severe labour, he cleared the hills, and anxiously listened for the sound of running water; but the howling of the blast deadened every sound; and he still urged his way, dragging his weary limbs after him, till a faint rus.h.i.+ng was heard, and a black chasm appeared at his feet, over which he must have fallen on the next step. He returned thanks to G.o.d for his preservation. The chasm was the well-remembered linn, only a few hundred yards from his mother's cottage; and he had thought, more than once, he had distinguished a faint light in the gloom, at times distinct, then vanis.h.i.+ng again, but now easily made out. His heart leaped for joy, for he knew it proceeded from his mother's cottage-window. He kept the burn-side, and proceeded straight to the house; but his energies were entirely spent. He reached it, lifted the latch, and remembered no more until he found his mother and Jeanie hanging over him and chafing his benumbed limbs. After a night's repose, the hardy veteran had risen full of vigour, as if the last night's escape from death had been only a dream. I could perceive melancholy reflections mixed with the joy he felt at finding all well at his return; but he said to me, with much bitterness,

"Eight years I have spent, of the prime of my life, in the service of my country; a few s.h.i.+llings, the remainder of my marching-money, is all I possess in the world; and I have returned to my mother's house, a poorer man, in every respect, than I left it."

A cloud pa.s.sed over his brow--a sigh escaped--his altered look Jeanie watched with pain. She spoke not, but the sigh fell on his mother's ear.

She grasped his hand, and, pressing it to her bosom,

"Jamie," said she, "my bairn, why do ye sigh on this blessed day? Are ye vexed that ye hae come back to yer auld mither and Jeanie?"

"I am not, mother," replied he; "indeed; I am not; but a few painful recollections steal over my mind; and the consciousness that I am alone the cause adds to their bitterness. Jennie, I am at home, and find you all I could wish; but complete happiness is yet at a distance. We cannot be united until I have recovered, by care and industry, what I have lost by my unprofitable absence."

Jeanie blushed, and hung down her head; her breast seemed too narrow to contain the feelings that rose in it; but his mother hastily interfered.