THE GHOST OF GAIRYBURN.
In the fulfilment of our promise of "a future story," which we made at the termination of "The Ghost of Howdycraigs," we may premise thus:—
It would be both trite and bombastic to say, as some orators have done, that "time rolls on;" and yet it is wholly owing to their having been so often repeated, that such sayings excite no interest, and the subjects to which they refer pass unnoticed; for, however we may forget the truth, or however the regular recurrence of evening and morning, summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, may make us callous to the result which these revolutions are destined to produce, nothing can be more certain than that Time never pauses in his career. His progress may be observed, not only in those great events which give birth to new eras in the history of the world—in the overthrow of ancient empires, the extinction of ancient dynasties, and the discovery of new countries: it may be traced in the occurrences of every year, every month, and almost of every day. The connections of families, the numbers of which they are composed, their relative position in society, and their prospects in life, are undergoing perpetual changes. Changeable as are the fortunes, so are the minds and the emotions of men: one hour they laugh, another they weep; and, perhaps, the very next hour they laugh again; while events the most important and the most trifling, the most solemn and the most ludicrous, mingle together, and follow each other by a law which fools our powers of investigation, and baffles our understanding.
Eighteen years had nearly elapsed since the period at which the former part of this history concludes; and the Ghost of Howdycraigs was nearly forgotten. Betsy Braikens, who was then only a girl, was now a full-grown woman, who, for the last eight or nine of the above-mentioned years, would not have been irreconcilably offended with a well-looking sweetheart for proposing to make her his wife. Her brother James, who, in the same interval, had arrived at man's estate, had been endeavouring, not very successfully, for some time past to establish himself as a merchant in Perth; and his cousin, Sandy Crawford, whom the reader will recollect as the herd laddie at Howdycraigs, had, by the death of his father, been promoted to be tacksman of Gairyburn; upon which place he resided with his mother. Jenny Jervis, too, with whose birth the preceding story concludes, was by this time a lass upon whom those who were neither too young nor too old might have looked with as much interest at least as it is common to bestow on a maiden in her eighteenth year. It is also probable that she herself had begun to steal an occasional glance at the young men of the district, as she saw them passing on the road, or assembled at their rustic sports; and to recollect, when her mind was otherwise unoccupied, that one was tall, that another had dark eyes, that a third had a smiling countenance; and, perhaps, that a fourth united all these charms in his proper person.
It was the middle of winter, or what is commonly called "the daft days," which has long been a season of festivity to the rich, and, in so far as circumstances will permit, to the poor also. The cottagers were invited to each other's houses, to spend an evening in forgetfulness of care. Cakes, cheese, and ale, supplied them with a cheap, and, at the same time, a cheery repast. The old people talked of bygone times, and the feats of dexterity or strength which they had performed in their youth, with all the enthusiasm of heroes when "fighting their battles over again;" while the young ones looked in each other's faces, and laughed heartily at little jests. Unpremeditated compliments were paid in off-handed profusion; old and incredible stories were revived; and, in the words of Goldsmith, "news much older than their ale went round;" but, whatever might be their age, at such seasons they were certain to produce as much merriment as upon the occasion when they were first produced. To conclude the picture—
"The nappy reek'd wi' mantling 'ream,
And shed a heart-inspiring stream;
And luntin pipe and sneeshin mill
Were handed round wi' richt guid-will."
Sandy Crawford and his mother had been invited to "get their cakes," and spend the evening with John Jervis and his wife. They came, according to custom; and, after the cheese, the oaten bread, and the ale had been sent round in the usual manner—
"Troth, Nelly," said Margaret Crawford, addressing her hostess, "your Jenny's turned a perfect woman, I declare. Sic an odds there's on her within the last twalmonth! Mony a time I look at her when she's gaun past; and, to say the truth, ye may weel be proud o' yer dochter, for I dinna see a bonnier lassie i' the hale country-side than she is."
"Beauty is only skin-deep," said Nelly, with a smile of satisfaction, which showed how highly she appreciated the quality in her daughter which she pretended to undervalue. "But the lassie's weel aneugh, though she were nae freend o' mine. And noo, Sandy," she continued, in a jesting tone, and turning from the mother to the son as she spoke, "what think ye o' her for a wife? Yer mither seems to be unco weel pleased wi' her; I'm sure I would like weel to see ye gang thegither, and I dinna think our Jock would say onything against sic a marriage."
"Hoot, woman," interrupted her husband, "were I to haver like you, I would say that, if I thought she would only turn out half as guid a wife to him as you've dune to me, I would maist advise him to tak her; but she's our ain bairn, and we should haud our tongues."
"That's as true as ye hae said it," rejoined Nelly; "fathers and mithers should say little on sic a subject; but as this is a nicht on which a'body haver, ye maun just allow me to haver too: when folk only haver for diversion, it can do little ill. And sae, as I was gaun to say," she continued, again addressing Sandy, "yer mither seems to be pleased; I'm weel pleased; Jock's no that sair set against the match, and noo there's naebody's consent awantin but your ain."
"Ay," said Sandy, "there's anither yet, though you've forgotten about it; ye maun get her consent too afore it can be a bargain. Jenny has a heart as weel as her neebors, I'll warrant her," he continued, stealing a look at the object of whom he spoke, "and I'm maybe no amang the folk she likes best."
"Weel, Jenny, it's a' at your door noo, I declare," said her mother, laughing outright. "What say ye to this affair?"
"Oh, if ye would only haud your tongue!" said Jenny, blushing, and still keeping her eyes fixed upon a rather profitless occupation in which she had been engaged for some time past—namely, that of folding and unfolding the corners of her apron with great assiduity; but the rest of the company, if we except Sandy, perhaps, were so deeply engaged in their own nonsensical conversation, that they took no notice of this circumstance.
"That's just the way wi' a' young folk," said Nelly, still laughing; "the lad thinks the lass has some ither body that she likes better than him, and the lass thinks the lad pays mair attention to anither than he does to her; she daurna say a word unless she maybe tak the dorts and misca him; he hesitates to speak for fear he should be refused; and between them they aften contrive to torment ane anither for years, when twa words micht settle the matter, and mak them baith happy. But I'm sure, Margaret, if they would only leave the thing to you and me, we could mak a bargain for them the nicht yet."
"It's likely, at least, that we would mak a bargain sooner than they would do," said the other. But the sigh with which she concluded bespoke some emotion which accorded ill with the lightness of the previous conversation. There was a something, too, in her manner, which seemed to say that, while she was not averse to the proposed match, she did not altogether relish the jest in which its immediate consummation had been spoken of.
Mothers have frequently thrown serious obstacles in the path of young people when they supposed themselves travelling on the highway to happiness; but sometimes, too, they seem inclined to give them an opportunity of forming that liking for each other, without which, according to the popular creed, no happiness can exist. Nelly now proposed that, while the guidman was suppering the horse, Margaret should go with her to the byre and see the cow, the yearling, and the calf, which, she said, "were in wonderfu guid order, considerin how little they had to gie them." Sandy and Jenny were thus left to themselves; but upon this occasion they seemed to have the greatest difficulty in keeping up a sort of intermitting conversation upon the weather, the state of the roads, and some other subjects of the same kind. Each wished to appear witty and amiable in the eyes of the other; but somehow their wits seemed to have forsaken them, and they appeared to be perfectly ignorant of the means by which their wishes could be accomplished. Perhaps the former conversation had awakened, or rather called into a state of activity, some feelings which they knew not how to express; and it might be that, while these feelings predominated, they could not think of anything else in such a manner as to talk of it to the purpose; or perhaps it was only the mere awkwardness of finding themselves, for the first time since they were children, thus left to each other, which in a great measure locked up their conversational powers. Be the matter as it may, with the "eldern dames" it was otherwise.
When they got to the byre, Margaret appeared more willing to resume the former subject than to look at her neighbour's chattels. "Ye would maybe think," said she, "that I didna seem sae frank as I micht hae done when ye spoke about Jenny and Sandy; but, for a' that, I've aften thought, if ever it were the laddie's luck to get a wife, Jenny would mak a better ane than ony ither young woman I ken. But after him that's now awa began to tak death till himsel," she continued, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper, "when he made owre the tack to Sandy, he left me as a burden upon Gairyburn. Noo, the place is but sma, as ye ken, and there's but ae house on't, and, if he were to marry, I dinna ken how a'thing would answer."
"Hoot, woman," rejoined the other, "ye've a butt and a ben; the house would haud ye a' brawly. And, though our lassie's owre young to be a wife to onybody, and I was only passin a joke about her and Sandy, if she were a year or twa aulder, and if a'thing were agreeable, I canna say but I would like weel to see them gang thegither. For it's just the gate o' a' mithers—they would aye like to see their ain bairns gettin guid bargains. No that I would care a snuff for the lassie gettin a man wi' a hantle riches; but I would like to see her get ane that would ken how to guide her, and how to guide the warld too. Noo, Sandy is baith a canny and a carefu chield; and, if they dinna thrive, I'm sure it wouldna be his faut."
"It's a' true ye say," responded Margaret; "and weel it pleases me to hear your guid opinion o' my son. He has a wark wi' the lassie already, if I'm no far deceived; for ony time when she comes owre to our house, I've remarkit that he's aye kinder to her than to ony ither body. But there's a proverb that says, 'young wives seldom like auld guidmithers'—and that's what troubles me."
"But that needna trouble ye owre muckle either," was the reply; "for—what's this I was gaun to say, again?—ou ay—wi' respect to Jenny, puir thing, if it were her guid fortune to draw his affection, I'm sure she would strive, as far as lay in her power, to mak ye comfortable."
"I dinna doubt a single word o' what ye say," rejoined the other. "Jenny is a dutiful and a kind-hearted lassie; I ken that weel. But, as the auld sayin is, ilka body kens their ain sair best; and, though it's nae doubt a weakness, I maun e'en tell ye a'. When I was married—I mind as weel as yesterday—baith David and me thought we could live happy wi' his mither; and we did live happy, for aught days or sae; but, after that, I could do naethin to please her. If I tried to 'earn the milk, it was either owre het or owre cauld when I put in the 'earning; if I began to wash the dishes, she aye milkit the kye first, and then she wondered how some folk had sae little sense. I could neither mak the parritch, nor wash, nor spin, nor mak up a hasp o' yarn—no, nor soop in the very house, to please her; and, though I tried, as far as was in my power, to do a'thing her way, it gae me mony a sleepless nicht, and cost him that's awa nae little vexation. And weel do I mind mony a time I wondered what pleasure she could tak in distressin me; but I think noo it was just a frailty o' our nature—a something that auld folk canna help. And I think, too, I've discovered the cause o' her grumlin since I began to see the prospect o' Sandy takin a wife. Now, ye'll nae doubt think it strange," she continued, in a hesitating tone—"ye'll nae doubt think it strange, Nelly; but, dearly as I like my ain son—and weel as I would like to see him happy wi' a woman wha loved him better than a' the warld beside—still there's a something in the idea o' anither comin in to be the mistress o' the hoose whaur I've had the management sae lang, that aye distresses me when I think on't."
"I dinna wonder ava at what ye say," responded Nelly. "If I were in your place, a' that troubles you would trouble me. But there's naebody without something to distress them; and we maun just look upon things o' that kind as a crook in our lot, a something that maun be borne. But, after a', woman, if the twa were to gang thegither, could ye no come owre here? Ye have only him, and we have only her; the little gear we hae maun a' gang to him at last; and, if the young folk could live thegither in ane o' the places, the auld folk micht surely do the same in the tither."
"Thank ye, Nelly—thank ye!" said Margaret; "ye're aye the same guid-hearted creature yet. But a body's ain hame's aye kindly. And yet, if sic a thing were to happen, I would rather come here, than gang to ony freend I hae." As she uttered these words, she made an involuntary motion forward, and would have fallen, had she not supported herself by the wall.
"Dear me, Margaret, what's the matter wi' ye?" said Nelly, in a tone of evident alarm.
"It's a dizziness i' my head, woman," was the reply. "I've never been mysel since that illness I had afore the term. Thae curious turns come owre me aye, noo and then," she continued, her voice sinking and saddening as she spoke; "and, for the last six weeks, it's been borne in upon me, that I'm no to be lang to the fore. Now, if I was taen awa, Sandy would be sair to mean wi' naebody about the house but a servant; and that gars me sometimes think I would maist like to see him married to some carefu lass like your Jenny afore my head be laid down."
"Wheesht, Margaret!" said the other; "never let thae thoughts come owre ye, for there's an auld proverb that says, thought can kill and thought can cure. And I doubt I've driven the joke owre far already. But, though it's natural aneugh for young lasses to like to get husbands, and natural aneugh, too, for their mithers to like to see them weel married, I would ten times owre see our Jenny live and dee without a man a'thegither, rather than see her married to the best man on earth, if her marriage were to gie you real vexation, or be the means o' shortenin your days."
"It's no that," said Margaret, in the same low solemn tone in which she had before spoken—"it's no onything ye have said that has hurt me, for I've thought about a' thae things afore. When I had that ill turn afore Martinmas, when folk thought I was deein, I began to consider wha would be maist likely to keep a comfortable hame to my ain bairn; and then, I confess, my thoughts turned upon your Jenny. This made me look mair attentively at baith him and her than I had ever done before; and twa or three times, when she cam owre to see how I was, I thought I saw something like the first symptoms of affection in his manner as weel as hers; and I felt glad at the sicht. But, as I began to get a little better, and to be able to gang about again, the things that had happened wi' my ain guidmither came fresh to my memory, and I thought I would like to manage the house mysel, and do for the best as lang as I was able. But I fear," she added, with a deep sigh, "this complaint, whatever it is, will weather me afore it's lang."
"Na, Margaret; I hope better things," said the other; "and ye maun strive to hope for better things too. Though ye mayna be sae stout through the winter, when the warm weather comes in ye'll gather strength again; and, if ance ye had yer fit on a May gowan, ye'll be as hale and hearty as the best o' us."
"It's lang to the month o' May," said Margaret, in a voice unwontedly solemn; "and, afore that time come round, hundreds that are laughin and makin muckle sport the nicht may be cauld in their graves. But promise, if I'm taen awa, that ye'll do yer best to supply my place, and to bring the twa thegither if ye can."
Nelly was really distressed to think that this gloomy presentiment had taken such firm hold of her neighbour's mind; but, fancying that it had been in some measure suggested by their former conversation, and hoping that it would soon pass off, she promised to comply with her wishes, and then urged her to rejoin the company within.
They accordingly went into the house, where they found the little party—which, in their absence, consisted of only three—engaged in a cheerful conversation. Freed at length from that embarrassment which they had experienced while alone, the others soon recovered their spirits and their freedom of speech. Margaret, however, could not so easily recover her former cheerfulness. She strove, indeed, to appear as merry as the rest; but her late indisposition, though only of a momentary nature, seemed to have left an effect upon her spirits which did not immediately pass away. There was also a something in the fitfulness of her manner, and the expression of deep solemnity into which her countenance frequently relapsed after a laugh, which told too plainly that her merriment came not from the heart. These symptoms were soon observed, and by degrees her sadness appeared to communicate itself to the rest of the company.
In this state of things, they seemed to feel as if an early separation would have been a relief, and almost the only relief of which the case would admit. When the propriety of a measure is felt by a whole company, some one or other of their number in general stammers upon the wishes of the rest; and here, shortly after the above-mentioned feeling had begun to prevail, Margaret Crawford said that—"As the nicht was dark and micht end in rain, she thought it would be best for her and Sandy to gang hame afore it was late." To this proposal Nelly and her husband made a friendly show of resistance such as is common on these occasions, and urged, as reasons for delaying their guests, that "it was not late yet," and that "they would be hame in braw time, though they staid anither hour." But this resistance, though reiterated, was so faint, that it was at once felt to be formal; and Margaret, who had no very great temptation to do otherwise, seemed inclined to adhere to her first intention. She therefore repeated her reasons for going home; and, at the same time expressed a hope, "if naething extrordinar cam i' the way, that she would see John and Nelly, and Jenny too, at Gairyburn, some nicht neist week, to spend the e'enin wi' her"—after which, the little company broke up.
The night was far advanced before Jenny could close her eyes; and when at last she did sink into the arms of the "leaden god," it was only to dream of having lost her way, along with Sandy Crawford, in some wide and wildering desert which she had never seen before. At first the scene seemed solitary, shaded with lofty yews, and tangled with trailing shrubs; dark clouds spread a gloom over it; mists rested on the top of every rock; and the night-dews hung heavily from every branch and every blade of grass. Then the prospect appeared to brighten: the landscape assumed a variety of charms; every hour disclosed some new beauty, or opened up some glowing vista which she had not before seen. The sun gradually dissipated the clouds which hitherto had concealed him, and, bursting through, dried up the superfluous moisture from the earth; the air became pure, and the day delightfully warm; and, though as yet she had discovered no road by which she could return, she did not feel greatly perplexed. But the pleasing prospect was soon overcast: clouds appeared to gather round them; anon she was separated from her companion by rocks and unfathomable gulfs, the nature and extent of which she could not distinctly see. At times she fancied he was lost, and felt inclined to weep at the thought that she should never see him more; then she obtained a glimpse of him, as if he still waited for her, and then her heart panted to come up with him; then he disappeared, and she knew not which way to turn. At last she thought Betsy Braikens came up to her, and offered to conduct her to where he was; but at that moment the sky grew dark, and the storm raged so terribly, that she could not stir a step to follow her. It soon ceased, however; the day again cleared; she seemed to see him advancing to meet her, with a smile of welcome upon his countenance; and, just as he was about to throw his arms around her waist, she started aside to avoid his embrace, struck her arm upon the post of the bed, and the pain which the circumstance occasioned, aided by an importunate knocking at the door, awakened her. On being thus made aware that some one wanted admittance, she started up, threw on a part of her clothes, snatched up the poker, broke the gathering-coal, and stirred the fire, which instantly burst forth in a blaze; and then she hastened to open the door.
The present visiter was Sandy Crawford, in most respects the very same as she had seen him in her dream; but the smile with which that illusion had presented her was wanting, and in its stead she thought she could discover, by the light of the fire, marks of anxiety, perturbation, and fear, upon his countenance. The contrast was so striking, that she almost forgot one part of it was only a dream. At the very first glance, she felt certain that something was wrong; and she would have inquired what it was, but, before she could speak, he told her, in terms which betrayed his own agitation, that his mother, without having previously complained of being worse than her ordinary, had been struck with what appeared to be palsy in the course of the night, that she was now wholly deprived of speech, and nearly deprived of motion in one side, and that he had hastened thither as soon as she could be left, to beg either her or her mother to come over and watch her till he could procure further assistance. He would have said something more—he would have hinted the probability of the fatal termination of his mother's disease, and the further probability that this termination might occur in a few hours, both of which were painfully impressed upon his heart; but he shrank from the idea of speaking on such a subject, as though he apprehended some mysterious connection between his own words and the fate of his mother, and that what he was about to say might hurry on the crisis which he wished to avert. He was therefore silent; while Jenny, between the effects of her dream, and the alarming intelligence which she had just heard, knew not what to answer, or what she should do. In general, she possessed activity, and all that was necessary to enable her to render assistance in any case with which she was acquainted; but she was susceptible of strong impressions—those who are so seldom act with ease in an untried situation—and she was now placed in one which was perfectly new to her. In her agitation, she would have stood where she was, like a statue, or she would have accompanied him without taking time to put on what remained of her clothes, had he repeated his request; but her mother, who had been awakened by the opening of the door, on overhearing the conversation which followed, had dressed herself with characteristic despatch, now came to her daughter's relief.
"Dinna forget to milk the cow, lassie," said she, "nor to mak yer father's parritch about eight o'clock, and I'll rin owre mysel, and see what's the matter wi' puir Margaret Crawford. But, if I'm no back afore dinner-time, mind ye to come and see how she is." With these brief orders, Nelly wrapped herself up in her cloak, and hastened to carry her services where they were most wanted.
On reaching Gairyburn, they found Margaret, as she had been represented, very ill. The shock, however, did not, as there was at first some reason to fear, prove immediately mortal; and about noon, when Jenny arrived, her mother proposed that she herself should go home, leaving her in constant attendance, and promising, at the same time, to return as often as possible, and give them all the assistance in her power. This arrangement appeared satisfactory to all parties; but, at the end of three weeks, a second shock brought rest to the sufferer, and mourning to the house of Gairyburn.
This mournful event, as is common in such cases, brought together the whole of the friends and relations of the deceased; and among the rest came Betsy Braikens and her brother. Betsy had been for some time past residing with that brother in Perth; but, as soon as it was known that she had arrived, those who pretended to take an interest in the affairs of her cousin hastened to represent to her in the strongest terms the necessity of her coming "to keep his house;" and, yielding to their representations, she did offer her services. These were declined, however, from the consideration that it would be inconvenient for her brother to want her assistance. But, as soon as it was understood that she had made such an offer, the very individuals who had advised her to make it began to search for other motives than their own advice, and they soon discovered what they considered a sufficient reason for her doing so, in the embarrassed circumstances of her brother. It was generally believed that his trade had never been very flourishing, and some surmises had lately reached them of the failure of a merchant in Glasgow, with whom he was understood to be connected, which would involve him in very considerable pecuniary difficulties. Putting these things together, they deemed them a sufficient warrant for supposing that Betsy had her cousin's hand as well as his house in view, and that, if she did not succeed in securing one of them at least, she might soon have no house to keep.
This supposition was not altogether without a foundation; for all his endeavours had been so unsuccessful of late, that her brother had now come to the determination of dropping business, as soon as he could sell off his stock, and wind up his affairs; but, as it would be several months before this could be done with any prospect of advantage, he still continued to keep his intentions a perfect secret. And this being the case, it was agreed on the evening of the funeral that he and his sister should set off, early next morning, for Perth.
The weather, however, did not appear to favour their intentions. For the last eight days it had been fair, and uncommonly mild, with slight frosts during the night, so that, in the estimation of the country people, "the earth was prepared for a storm." But, on the day alluded to, the atmosphere had become loaded with stagnant vapours; a continuous mass of dark, leaden-coloured cloud, which seemed to rest upon the nearest hills, arched the concave; not a single speck of blue sky had been visible since morning; and in the evening, one of those dense and wildering falls of snow, which have frequently misled the traveller, came on.
The night was one which, in most respects, seemed to accord with the sorrowful feelings of the little party at Gairyburn. It was gloomy and silent; while the snow continued to accumulate around the house, as if to exclude everything which might have a tendency to disturb their recollections of the solemn scene in which they had been so lately engaged. At times, a sort of conversation, carried on in subdued tones, prevailed for a season; and then it was followed by considerable intervals of silence, broken only by an occasional sigh, a casual observation on the stillness of the night, or an injunction to stir the fire. Anon, the colloquial powers of the party seemed to gather strength from the repose which they had been permitted to enjoy; and the discourse was again renewed, to continue for a season, and then to flag, as it had done before. In most respects, this conversation bore a striking resemblance to the evening fire of the poor widow, which is only kept alive by an occasional handful of brushwood thrown upon the expiring embers; after which it emits a flickering flame for a short while, and then gradually decays, till the last spark is scarcely perceptible, and it is only prevented from utter extinction by a repetition of the same process.
In one of these intervals of silence, Betsy Braikens had gone to the door—partly to pass the time which hung so heavily, and partly to see if there was any prospect of being able to travel in the morning. While thus reconnoitring, her attention was attracted by a whistle, followed by a faint cry for assistance, which, though evidently at a distance, was, owing to the stillness of the night, distinctly heard. This made her listen more attentively. The whistle and the cry were repeated, which satisfied her that they proceeded from some one in distress; and she now thought it time to give notice of what she had heard to those within. On hearing the circumstance, her brother and cousin immediately set off in the direction which she had pointed out; and in a short time they returned, bringing along with them a stranger, who had lost his way when it grew dark; and, after having wandered for several hours among the hills, without knowing where he was going, had at last stumbled over a bank into a miry slough, where, as he was unable to extricate himself from the mud, he would in all probability have perished, but for the assistance which he had received.
The care of ministering to the new guest devolved principally upon Betsy Braikens, who had been the first to give notice of his previous distress; and for such an office she was better qualified than any other female who, at the time, could have been found, within several miles—both from that knowledge of the conventionalities of society which she had acquired during her residence in Perth, and from a disposition which was naturally kind. With that alacrity which is common to her sex, she made the necessary preparations for enabling him to shift such parts of his clothes as were wet. A repast calculated to refresh him, after the fatigues of his journey, was next provided; and, as there was no inn or other place of accommodation within reach, and the night was one in which no stranger could find his way, she represented the necessity of his remaining where he was till morning; and then he might travel with her and her brother, if he chanced to be journeying in that direction; and, if his road was different, he would at least have the advantage of daylight to direct his steps.
To this proposal the stranger did not seem to be averse. In such circumstances, men are often more grateful for a mere trifle than, in others, they would be for the greatest favours. He seemed highly sensible of the kindness with which he was treated, and soon began to regard his entertainers with a feeling of respect. Upon further conversation, it was discovered that his name was Robert Walker—that he was the son of the Glasgow merchant whoso failure has been already noticed as having been prejudicial to the interests of James Braikens; and, on learning that he was in the society of one who had been in the habit of dealing with his father, he proceeded to give them a brief sketch of his story.
After his prospects had been obscured by the bankruptcy of his father, he had succeeded in procuring for himself a situation in Aberdeen; and, as he was a good pedestrian—and had, moreover, a liking for rural scenery, rural manners, and unfrequented roads—these considerations, backed by motives of economy, had induced him to undertake the journey on foot. He had accordingly proceeded by Kinross, intending to make his line as straight as possible, without paying much attention to the highways; and, on reaching the village of Strathmiglo, he had been directed across a part of the Ochils as the nearest road to Newburgh—at which part he intended to cross the Tay. He had taken these directions, and pushed forward, in the expectation that he would reach the last-mentioned place before it was late; but the snow coming on, he soon lost all traces of the road, and, what was worse, he soon after lost everything like an idea of what direction he was travelling in. He had, however, no alternative but to proceed. Exertion was indispensable to prevent his limbs from being benumbed with cold; but the dense fall of snow prevented him from seeing any distant object upon which he might direct his course, and thus arrive at some place of shelter. In this state of uncertainty, he had wandered he neither knew where nor how long, when—stumbling over the bank, as already noticed, and being unable to extricate himself—he was beginning to fear that he had reached the end of his journey before his deliverers reached him.
On the following morning, which was fair, though the clouds still appeared to be far from having discharged the whole of their contents, the stranger was easily induced to accompany Betsy Braikens and her brother to Perth—alleging, as his reason for doing so, a wish to see the town, and the possibility of his being there able to procure some mode of conveying himself to Aberdeen less laborious than travelling had now become. They accordingly set forward together; but before they had reached the head of Abernethy Glen, the snow again began to fall, accompanied by gusts of wind, which whirled whole wreaths into the air at once, and drove the dazzling particles before them with such violence, that suffocation seemed to be the inevitable consequence of being long exposed to the fury of the storm. In a short time the snow had accumulated to such a depth in the hollows as to render travelling a most laborious operation; and it was with some difficulty that the party reached the domicile of Andrew Braikens, where they thought it best to take shelter for the present, and postpone their further journey till the weather should be more favourable. The storm continued for nearly forty-eight hours without intermission, so that, dating from the time at which they set out, it was not till the evening of the third day that they reached Perth.
Whatever loss in the way of business this delay might have occasioned, the merchant found, on his arrival, that it was only his absence which had saved him from being declared bankrupt, and, in all probability, imprisoned for debt at the same time. But, on the previous day, one of his most clamorous creditors had been suddenly taken ill. A temporary respite was thus obtained; and, with the assistance of Robert Walker, who exerted all his oratorical powers in his behalf, matters were again patched up, and he was allowed to go on with the concerns of his shop as before. These things being settled, this new friend strenuously advised him to retain his business if possible, assuring him, at the same time, that there was nothing like perseverance, and then went on his way, whither we follow him not.
At Gairyburn things went on much in the same way as they had done before, except that the management of the house was now committed to the care of a servant-girl. But some circumstances soon transpired which led the people around to suppose that the girl might, in due time, be promoted to be mistress of what at present she only managed for another. Sandy Crawford had bought rather a better suit of mournings for Jenny Jervis than it was common to give to a servant; and this, along with a number of other incidents and occurrences, too minute to be enumerated here, but not so minute as to escape the notice of a country population, was made the subject of discussion at the firesides of the neighbouring cottages. But as neither men nor women, since the world began, were ever known to agree about either religion or politics, or any other important matter whatever, so here there was a difference of opinion; and many were the conferences and disputes which ensued. With one party, the buying of the gown, and the other corroborating circumstances, were deemed incontestable evidence; and they affirmed that Sandy and Jenny only waited till the proper season for laying aside their mournings, to be married. In this marriage they saw, or at least fancied they could see, such a number of advantages as would render it most desirable. "Jenny," they said, "was a thrifty lassie, and wad mak a guid wife. She kenned a' about the management o' the kye, and she wad aye hae her mither at hand to apply to in ony strait." Another party differed from them entirely, both as to the conclusiveness of the evidence, and the advantages to be derived from the marriage. "The buyin o' the gown," they maintained, "was naething. Jenny Jervis was a young, thoughtless lassie, wha wad be soon aneugh married four or five years hence; and they were sure Sandy wad be far better wi' his cousin Betsy, wha was baith a weel-faured and a weel-conditioned cummer, and had some experience in the management o' a house." They said, further, that "Betsy, they were sure, wad be the woman; for Sandy was a thoughtfu callant; and though he might be led awa, for a time, wi' twa blue een, a slender waist, and the red and white on a lassie's face, he wad soon come to see that ither things were needfu to a man fechtin for his bread, and strugglin for the rent o' a farm." A third party presumed to differ from both of these in every particular save one. They admitted, indeed, that Sandy "was a thoughtfu callant;" but from that very admission they drew a quite contrary conclusion. "Baith Betsy and Jenny," they averred, "might remain single lang aneugh for him; and if he ever took a wife ava, they were sure it wadna be in ony hurry." They also pointed out several advantages which were likely to accrue to him from adopting this theory, and several disadvantages which would infallibly result from his adoption of any other. "The place," they said, "was but sma', and the rent high; and as lang as he had only a servant, he had naething but her bit year's wage to pay at the term. But, were he to tak a wife, he wad hae to get new beds, and new chairs, and a hantle whigmaleeries forby, that wad cost him nae little siller; he wad hae to buy fykes to her in ilka market, and in ilka shop he cam past—not to mention bairns' meat and bairns' claes—mair o' baith, maybe, than the place wad afford." Thus, as the great political world is at present divided into Tories, Whigs, and Radicals, this little sequestered district was divided into parties, which, for the sake of distinction, we shall denominate Jervisines, Braikenites, and Malthusians.
Though Betsy Braikens had not been at Gairyburn for several years before the death of her aunt, after that occurrence she continued to pay occasional visits there; and it was observed, by those who knew and could interpret the signs of the times, that her cousin always looked more thoughtful for a day or two after she went away, than was his usual. This seemed to favour the theory of the Jervisines, who said that he was pestered with her visits, and did not know how to get quit of her. The Braikenites, on the other hand, maintained, that, if he did not give her some encouragement, she would not return so often; and that his thoughtful looks were occasioned by regret at her absence.
Several months after the death of Margaret Crawford, and just as the first party were beginning to be certain that their theory was the correct one, and that they would, ere long, obtain a notable victory over their opponents, both Betsy and her brother paid a visit to Gairyburn. They stayed a night and a day with their cousin; and, after they had taken their departure, it was observed that he looked more thoughtful than he had done on any former occasion, with the additional aggravation of his thoughtfulness not passing away in a day or two, as it had done before. At the end of a fortnight, the neighbours said to each other—"Preserve us a'! saw ye ever sic an alteration as has come owre Sandy Crawford! He's surely seen something that's no canny, and daurna speak aboot it." At the end of a month, they might have made the same observation; but by that time they had become accustomed to the change, and they only said—"Puir fellow! he's as sair altered as though that cummer frae Perth had ta'en awa his last penny."
He was indeed changed, though not to the extent which they seemed to suppose. He managed the whole of his concerns as he had done before; in company or conversation there was little perceptible difference; but, when silent or alone, there was frequently an expression of resignation on his countenance, as if some misfortune were impending which he could not avert, and which, if it should fall, he had determined to endure with patience. Strict observations were now made on his conduct towards Jenny; and here, too, an alteration was discovered, though that alteration did not seem to admit of being explicitly expressed in words. It was agreed, however, by the wise women who had made the observations, that he appeared like one who had determined never again to urge his suit, and that he had certainly made up his mind to see her give her hand to another. This conclusion was favourable to the Malthusians: they repeated their assertion, that "he was a thoughtfu callant, and that he had determined not to marry at all;" while the others, if they did not "hide their diminished heads," were at least compelled to hold their peace.
But of all who were puzzled by the mysterious change in the manners of the should-be bridegroom, none were more so than poor Jenny herself, who really loved him, and who had been led to suppose that he loved her in return, though hitherto he had never directly declared his intention of marrying her. Her mother was equally puzzled to assign a satisfactory reason for the change; but she was not equally affected by it. In her younger years, she had learned, from experience, that there is nothing more mutable than the heart of a lover; and she fancied, even in ordinary cases, that it was only by practising a great deal of art and finesse that a husband could be secured. This, in her estimation, being the case, she determined that—if the experience which she had acquired in these matters could be rendered available—her daughter should not remain so long unmarried as she had done herself; and she immediately set her head to work to contrive the means of bringing about a marriage as speedily as possible. Nelly recollected some years ago having had a young pig, which could not be prevailed upon to take its victuals. She had tried to feed it, or, in other words, to thrust meat into its mouth, in the hope that it would then swallow it; but this only served to make it more obdurate in its resistance. It seemed determined to starve itself to death, and she knew not what to make of it. Her husband, however, bethought him of a scheme which proved successful: on the following day, he brought home another, which was put in beside its refractory kinsman, and afterwards, when she came with the victuals, they immediately commenced fighting about their respective shares. It was then who should get most; and each would have eaten up the whole, if its skin would have contained as much. The bee is said to gather honey from every flower; and there are some people who will learn something from every incident. Nelly instantly discovered a strong analogy between the case of the single pig and its victuals, and the case of a young woman with a single sweetheart; and, having discovered an analogy in the cases, she felt certain that there must also be an analogy in the cures. The present emergency seemed to be a most favourable opportunity for trying the correctness of this theory by that best of all possible tests—an experiment; and she forthwith resolved, were the thing practicable, that Jenny should have a new sweetheart, if peradventure his presence would produce a favourable revolution in the sentiments of the old one.
Measures were accordingly adopted, and the most feasible schemes were laid—schemes which, with proper management, could hardly have failed of success. Jenny also received such hints and instructions as were deemed necessary to enable her to act her part. But Jenny was, as her mother phrased it, "an even-forrit, silly, simple lassie;" and in her hands nothing succeeded. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could be brought to give the slightest encouragement to a new lover, and if at any time she did muster sufficient resolution to smile upon a rival in the presence of Sandy Crawford, her eye immediately turned upon the latter, to see if he approved of what she had done; and when, in his guarded look, she could read neither approbation nor disapprobation, a deep sigh commonly revealed her apprehensions for having done wrong. The preposterousness of such conduct needs no remark; its evident tendency was, to keep him free from the slightest suspicions of having a competitor for her hand, and the most distant idea that he was in any danger of losing her—and all this in the midst of schemes intended to produce a contrary effect!
It is probable that other schemes might have been devised, or the same ones might have been prosecuted to a still greater extent; but what had been already done, aided by his own observation, had opened his eyes to some things of which he was not before fully aware. Hitherto, he seemed to have supposed that he was himself the only sufferer; but he now discovered that there was another whom he was making unhappy, and her unhappiness evidently pained him, adding, at the same time, to his other causes of anxiety, whatever they were, and consequently to the thoughtfulness of his looks. But still he seemed to fear coming to an explanation, as much as if he had been certain that such a step would destroy his last remains of hope. He could not, however, long endure such an idea; and adopting what had become the least painful alternative, he seemed to have made up his mind to the unfolding of that secret which, hitherto, he had kept to himself.
"Jenny," said he, one day, after a long and thoughtful silence, "for some months I have scarcely known what it was to be happy for a single hour; and, strange as ye may think it, love has been one of the principal causes of my misery. Had it not been for that, I could have thought lightly of poverty and everything else. I have acted foolishly, perhaps, and made myself altogether unworthy of the woman whom I love; but, yet, I would fain hope that she will not despise me, and I am now resolved——"
At hearing these words, Jenny's heart had begun to palpitate violently. But, just as he uttered the word "resolved," a rap was heard at the door; and, on its being opened, Betsy Braikens came in, and saluted her cousin with a profusion of smiles; while poor Jenny, to conceal her own agitation, was glad to make an excuse for leaving the house.
As soon as Betsy's coming was known, people were on the alert. On Sabbath she accompanied her cousin to the church, and, on the road thither, it was observed that the thoughtful expression of his countenance had passed away—that, after making the proper allowance for the solemnity of the day, he was to all appearance as cheerful as ever he had been in his life; and that he behaved to his relation with the greatest kindness, accompanied by an easiness of manner for which the wise women could only account by supposing that a still nearer relationship was in contemplation, or, in other words, that the marriage-day was already set. The star of the Braikenites was now in the ascendant; they began to feel certain that their opinions had all along been correct; and they upbraided their opponents for their slowness of belief, and their backwardness to place implicit confidence in the understanding of those who were evidently wiser than themselves.
The Tuesday following was that on which Auchtermuchty Market occurred. Betsy remained until that important day; went to the market with her cousin like a betrothed damsel; while Jenny, who had also been invited to accompany him, preferred staying at home; and, to place the matter beyond further dispute, he bought and presented the former with a gown, so fine and so costly, that those who had seen it declared "there wasna anither like it selled that day i' the town." No man, it was affirmed, would thus throw away money in buying gowns, unless he expected to be benefited by the wearer—and the triumph of the Braikenites was now almost complete.
While these important events were passing, it was not to be expected that Jenny should remain an unconcerned spectator. She had been the first to notice that remarkable change for the better which his cousin's presence had produced in the looks and manners of Sandy Crawford. She saw his cheerfulness restored—she saw his kindness to Betsy; and, for the first time in her life, she believed that he really loved her.
On the day after the market, Betsy Braikens was to go home, and her cousin gallantly offered to accompany her as far as her father's. Shortly after they were gone, Jenny hastened to tell her mother what she had seen and heard. Nelly now considered that her own character for prudence and management was at stake; and Jenny was prevailed upon to adopt her views, and to promise to be directed by her advice.
In the evening, when Sandy Crawford returned from escorting his cousin, he was in high spirits; it was also evident that he had drunk a glass or two more than was his usual, though not so much as to injure his understanding; and he now appeared most anxious to obtain a private conference with Jenny. Between her and the herd laddie a sort of tacit understanding appeared now to exist, for he did not leave the house to follow his pastime, as was his wont; and, when his master bade him "gang and clean out his byre," the boy told him that he had done so already. He next desired him to "bring some water from the well for a drink, as he was thirsty." But Jenny, who answered for him, said that, "as the cow had been tigging in the afternoon, he would be tired with chasing her;" and she took the pitcher and went to obey the order herself. The individual who had given it followed her out; but she was at the well, and had filled her pitcher, before he could come near enough to speak. When he had almost come up with her, he repeated her name, in that low, earnest tone, which people sometimes use when they wish to draw the attention of a listener; but she either did not hear, or did not wish to hear him. He made certain of meeting her, however, as she returned; but here also he was deceived, for she went round by the other side of the kailyard, for the purpose, as it appeared, of taking with her a handful of sticks, with which to kindle up the fire next morning. On seeing this manœuvre, he jumped over the dike, repeating her name as he had done before; but, on the present, as on the former occasion, she either heard him not, or pretended not to hear him; and, by hastening her pace, she had reached the house-door before he could intercept her. As a dernier resource, the last-mentioned personage was now ordered to "gang and water the horse." And he rose to obey; but here again Jenny seemed to sympathise with him in his labours. "As the cow had tiggit i' the afternoon," she said, "it was like aneugh the horse micht rin awa i' the e'enin; and, as the laddie, puir thing, had chased the cow till he was ready to fa' down, it couldna be expeckit that he would be able to chase the horse, and sae she would gang and help him."
If ever Jenny Jervis had been puzzled to account for the conduct of Sandy Crawford, he was now as much puzzled to account for the change which had come over her. He thought of the subject without being able to come to any conclusion, and then thought of it again to as little purpose as he had done before, till at last, wearied out with vain conjectures, he flung himself upon his bed in a state of mind not easy to be described; and when Jenny, who was in no great haste to return, came in, his heavy breathing told that he was already asleep. On stealing a glance into the apartment where he was, she saw that he was still lying with his clothes on, and that his sleep was of that profound sort which commonly lasts for the night.
Sandy Crawford had fallen asleep, little dreaming of either alarm or danger; but, about midnight, he was disturbed by an indistinct and inarticulate sound, which, though it conveyed no meaning to his ear, was loud enough to awake him. Slowly and heavily he opened his eyes; but it was not dark, as he expected it to be. On the contrary, a strange light glimmered around him, and, on turning his head to see whence it proceeded, he saw in the middle of the floor a spectre, which might have well appalled the heart of a hero. The ghost of Howdycraigs, to which his present visiter bore a striking resemblance, rushed back upon his memory, and he would have trembled, but that he did not recollect any bad consequences which followed that memorable event. Thus, in time, even ghosts might fail to terrify, were they to repeat their visits too often. In the present instance, it were difficult to say if Sandy was not strengthened for the sight by some faint hope that this might be a second marriage-making expedition of the same benevolent spirit, and that it might eventually help him to a wife, the getting of which thing he had begun to regard as no easy matter.
The ghost of Gairyburn, however, at first bade fair for being as famous in its day and generation as the ghost of Howdycraigs had been; and doubtless it had succeeded in a less hazardous enterprise. Like the other, its head was tied up in a white handkerchief, its body was carefully wrapped in the folds of an ample winding-sheet. On its feet it wore white stockings, but no shoes—the absence of which exhibited a finely-turned ankle to such advantage, that any male onlooker might have been excused for wishing it a substantial woman. But then its face and hands were as white as the finest flour or the whitest chalk could have made them—thus setting every earthly feeling, except fear, at defiance. In one hand it carried a candle, which burned as blue as any spiritual light ever burned, while with the other it managed its apparel, which was scrupulously clean—thus making it appear that it had been washed since it left its subterranean abode, from which circumstance it were reasonable to infer that it was either a female ghost, or had got a wife to do these things for it.
Though we have thus detained the reader, by describing it, it detained not its auditor; for, as soon as he appeared to be fully awake—"Sandy Crawford," it said. But it was evidently an apprentice in the task it had undertaken, and knew but little of the manner in which a message should be delivered; for here its voice faltered, and its hands trembled in a most curious manner—thus making it evident that ghosts have feelings as well as mortals, and that they may sometimes be sent upon errands they dislike. The shaking of its hands caused the blue flame to fall from the candle, which immediately burned out with a clear and natural light; while that which had fallen hissed and sputtered on the floor. In attempting to remedy this mistake, by restoring the blue flame to its proper place, it seemed to burn its fingers—at least it drew back its hand with the appearance of pain, drawing in its breath, and starting up rather hurriedly at the same time. While performing the last mentioned of these operations, it unfortunately struck its head against the back of a chair, which chanced to be standing near, and ruffled its head-dress, from under which a most enchanting ringlet of fair hair escaped, and began to play about its white temples. One mistake followed another: in attempting to replace the hair, it passed a portion of the winding-sheet, in which it was muffled up, over its face; and when it was removed, its lips were no longer pale, but provokingly red—one cheek was of the same hue, and the deep blush of the other was now beginning to shine through its treacherous covering. As a further proof of its inexperience, it heaved a deep sigh, and was about to retire in apparent confusion, when Sandy, who had overcome his fear so far as to look at it steadily for the last minute or two, started up, with a heroism which has seldom been equalled, and, endeavouring to catch it in his arms, he exclaimed—
"Jenny, ye daft limmer, what set ye to playin thae mad pranks at this time o' nicht?"
In this emergency the ghost, confused as it was, contrived to make its escape; but not before it had thrown the winding-sheet which it wore around the very woman for whom he had mistaken it. By some "cantrip slight," it had no doubt brought her there to be ready in case of accidents, and it now left her to be caught in its stead. Jenny, not being a ghost, could not escape so easily; and, though she struggled a little when she found herself in the arms of a man, she did not appear extremely anxious to get away, while Sandy was so much pleased at having got her by herself at last, that he soon forgot the terrors of the ghost.
"Jenny," he continued, still mistaking her for his spiritual visiter, "if I hadna liket ye better than every ither living cratur, since ye was a lassie, I declare I would never kenned ye dressed up as ye are in a' that trumpery. But now that I've gotten ye, I maun keep ye, for I've been wishing to tell ye something this lang time; but ye aye ran frae me as if I had been a ghost, though ye see I've catched you when ye was tryin to act ane."
The candle which the ghost had left was now placed in a candlestick; and as Jenny appeared perfectly willing to listen to whatever he might have to say, he proceeded to give her such information as served in a great measure to clear up the whole of the mystery.
Though he had been long attached to her, and had felt a growing inclination to call her his wife, his mother's death had prevented him from speaking of the subject for a time. During this interval, Betsy Braikens had come oftener than once, soliciting assistance for her brother; upon these occasions, he had always given her what ready-money he could command, and, at last, to save him from bankruptcy, he had become security for a hundred pounds, which was considerably more than his whole effects were worth. No sooner had he done this than he began to doubt the possibility of his cousin ever being able to redeem his debts; in which case his own prospects were ruined. The idea that it would be criminal to involve an unsuspecting female in misery and poverty made him resolve to say nothing of his affections, till he should see what was to be the issue; and for a time he had kept his resolution. But he had determined to make a candid confession of his circumstances, and run any risk which she might be willing to share, when he was interrupted by Betsy Braikens, who had come expressly for the purpose of telling him that her brother had redeemed the whole of his debts, and was now in prosperous circumstances. In a few days thereafter Jenny went to reside with her mother for a short time; and one evening, as Sandy bade her good-night, he gave her a clap on the shoulder, and called her his "spectre bride." On the following week they went to Perth; and Jenny Jervis and Betsy Braikens were married on the same day—the former to Sandy Crawford, and the latter to Robert Walker, who had kept up a regular correspondence with her ever since the night on which he lost his way among the snow.