“Robert,” cried the now weeping woman, “if that love had been aince less, what misery I would have been spared! Ay, and my father, and mother, and poor George Lindsay; a’ helped awa to the grave by my crime, for it stuck to us to the end.” And she buried her head in his bosom, sobbing piteously.
“My crime, dear Effie, not yours,” said he. “It was you who saved my life; and if Heaven has a kindlier part than another for those who err by the fault of others, it will be reserved for one who made a sacrifice to love. But we have, I hope, something to enjoy before you go there, and as yet I have not got your forgiveness.”
“It is yours—it is yours, Robert,” was the sobbing answer. “Ay, and with it a’ the love I ever had for you.”
“Enough for this time, dear Effie,” said he. “My horse waits for me. Expect me to-morrow at this hour with a better-arranged purpose.” And folding her in his arms, and kissing her fervently, even as his remorse were thereby assuaged as well as his love gratified, he departed, leaving Effie to thoughts we should be sorry to think ourselves capable of putting into words. Nor need we say more than that Stormonth kept his word. Effie Carr was in a few days Mrs Stormonth, and in not many more the presiding female power in the fine residence of Kelton.
The Story of Mary Mochrie and the
Miracle of the Cod.
IT was said that David Hume’s barber, who had the honour of shaving the philosopher every morning, was so scandalised by David’s Essay on Miracles, that he told him to his face—which he was smoothing at the time—that Mary Mochrie’s miracle shut his mouth. And no doubt this was so far true, for the shaver took care while he was telling the story to hold David’s lips close with his left hand, while he was plying his razor with the other. David, we are informed, used to tell this anecdote himself along with the story of the modern miracle appended to it; and as the latter is a good example of the easy way by which the blind sentiment of wonder groping for light comes to refer strange things to Divine interposition, and consequently the facility of belief in those darker times, we may include among our stories for the amusement of our readers that of the miracle, which, goes in this wise:—
On a fine day in the month of June a certain Miss Isabella Warrender, the daughter of a respectable burgess, bethought herself of the luxury of a plunge in the Forth, on the sands to the west of Newhaven, and with a view to safety, as well as companionship, she behoved to take with her her father’s trusty servant, Mary Mochrie. The blue bathing-gowns were accordingly put into the basket, and away they went on their journey of two miles with heads “as light as lavrocks,” and thinking of no other miracle in the world than that of enjoyment—a veritable miracle to many, insomuch as it is to them in this world of doubtful happiness and real misery miraculously scarce. Nor was it long, with their light feet, ere they reached their destination; all things, too, being otherwise propitious, for the sun was shining in a clear sky, the surface of the sea was as smooth as glass, and like a mirror reflected the rays of the sun; so that, to speak figuratively, Apollo and Neptune were on the best of terms, as if they had resolved to favour specially on that day so fair a specimen of an earthly maid, who, for a time, was to become a water nymph. So, after looking out from beneath her curls for Peeping Toms,—of whom, by the way, to the honour of Scotland, our Godivas in these parts have little to complain,—Isabella got herself made as like Musidora as possible, in which condition she remained only for that single moment occupied by Mary in investing her with the said blue gown. Whereupon, Mary having also divested herself of her clothes, was as quickly reclaimed from the searching eyes of the upper of the two propitious gods by her young mistress helping her on with her sea dress.