Leila at Home / a continuation of Leila in England

by Ann Fraser Tytler

“Ay, that’s true, I was telling about the storm; but waes me, words are weak to tell o’ that awfu’ scene. Weel, naething would serve me but I maun be upon deck to see the warst o’ it; and there I stood, clinging aye to John, and Dash at my side, wi’ the sense o’ a man o’ fifty, holding me fast by the gown; but it was na waves I saw, but mountains rising to the black heavens, and the white foam o’ them looking ghastly white in the darkness o’ the night, and every now and then a flash o’ fire like a curtain o’ flame in the sky, and a sound like guns mingling wi’ the roar o’ the awfu’ blast; and there was the captain again, wi’ a lang thing like a trumpet in his mouth, and he thinking, wi’ his puir feckless breath, to lift his voice above the anger o’ Heaven. I could na stand that, so I turned down to the cabin again; but oh, my bairns, never while the breath o’ life is in my body will I forget the sound that ere I was at the foot o’ the stairs met my ear. I canna speak o’ it, I dare na think o’ it. Them that had stood at my side the minute afore in life and strength, sent to their last account, and without the power o’ a hand being stretched out to save them. I am no clear in my mind o’ what happened for a while after that; but then there was a cry that the wind was no just sae strong, and that a boat had come off from the shore for the passengers for Scarborough; it was for Scarborough John was bound, to take up his abode wi’ a sister, a widow-woman weel to do in the world, and he was loath to part wi’ me, and leave me in sic tribulation; and the bairns they aye cried that mammy maun gang too, and I was down the side o’ the ship, and in the boat wi’ the wee babby in my arms afore I kent where I was, and Dash holding on again by my gown as he did afore; and how we e’er reached the shore was the gracious providence of God, for man had nought to do wi’ it; and we were up in the air the one minute, and in the watery pit o’ destruction the next, and no a dry stitch upon us when we were lifted out wi’ scarce the breath o’ life in our bodies; but all but gratitude to Heaven was forgotten when we sat that night in quietness and in comfort by that widow-woman’s cheerful fire-side. And to see the bairns round the table at their tea, wi’ their bit blythe faces, and ilk are wi’ a jolly piece in its hand, for, as I said afore, she was well to do in the world that widow-woman, and had all things in a superior way. ’Deed it was a scene to lift the heart wi’ gratitude and joy, and at night when I found myself in a quiet comfortable bed, and nae mair heizing up and down wi’ all thae outlandish sounds in my ear, ’deed I could na sleep wi’ very pleasure, so I took to musing on the uses o’ the sea, and I could na make it weel out at all; it seemed to me as if it was a fearfu’ scourge, aye ready to be let loose on our sinfu’ heads, and made for naething but our destruction; but then I minded me o’ the fine caller haddys, and thae herrings at ten a penny, sic a blessing for the puir, and then I thought that there might be a measure o’ comfort in it after all, so wi’ that I fell asleep. The next morning I thought to hae gone on my way, but they would nae hear o’ it, and the bairns they aye clung to me, and said I was to stay and be their mamma. ’Deed, auld as I was, I could nae but think o’ sic a proposal afore John’s very face; and he, honest man, no ways willing. The day after that John set out wi’ me to put me on my road, and he wrote me out a paper o’ all the towns I was to gang through, and sae we parted, and I gaed on my way, thinking it wad be but a pleasant walk; but waes me, I had little thought or comprehension o’ what was afore me. But I am thinking I have said enough for this present time; you will be weary wi’ sic a lang tale.”

“Oh no, Peggy,” Leila exclaimed, “I am quite sure none of us are weary. Do go on, for we wish so much to hear how you got here at last.”

“And ’deed, my bairn, that’s no easy to tell, for I have but a confused thought o’ all that happened. Every day I walked on and on, and when I came to the towns, I sleeped at big houses that they call houses o’ entertainment: but ’deed it was no diversion to me, the money they aye asked frae me in the mornings; so I took to sleeping at farm-houses, and that answered better. To be sure sometimes I had but the barn or the hay-loft, and but a short word o’ welcome; but others that were mair civil let me sleep in the big chair by the kitchen fire-side; and clean and comfortable mony o’ the kitchens were, dishes and platters on the walls shining like silver, and big hams hanging from the roof, wi’ the greatest plenty to eat and drink, and blythe bairns running about, looking sae like their meat, that it did my heart good to see them. I was aye happy when I got to a farm-house at night; but sometimes I was not just sae lucky; and what wi’ paying for a night’s lodgings, and for a ride in a wagon or a cart now and then, and for a loaf o’ bread and a draught o’ beer, my money was fast melting away, and my heart no that light; for aye when I asked if I was near London yet, they said it was a weary way, and ower far for sic an auld woman as me to compass. But it was only when the days were fast shortening, and the long nights setting in, that the like o’ thae reflections crushed my spirit; yet the morning’s sun made all right again and warmed my auld heart, and I felt there was a Providence abune that could make the roughest way plain and the langest way short to me. I was aye fond o’ the song o’ the robin, and whiles I would sit down by the side o’ a hedge and hearken to them in the trees abune my head, and then I would throw them some crumbs frae my loaf o’ bread to pleasure them puir things; and the bonnie creatures would come down to the ground and look up in my face, as if I had been a kent friend. And Dash, the wise animal, he would keep his distance, and lie as if the breath o’ life was out of his body, till they had ta’en their breakfast wi’ comfort and discretion. From all that I hae experienced in my lang travel, I think the robins are o’ the same nature as in my ain land, just as frank and as kindly. But oh, my bairns! sic a difference in the rivers; instead of the clear bonnie Esk that I had been used to, wi’ the sand lying at the bottom sparkling like diamonds in some parts, and in others springing over the big stones like bairns let loose frae the school, there I came to rivers as quiet and lazy as mill-ponds, and looking as black and drumlie as if they had washed all the dishes in thae big towns in them; but ’deed it’s no wise discreet in me to be making thae reflections; for if their waters are no just sae clear, surely I am come to a land flowing with milk and honey, and need na mind. But I am wandering from my road again.”

“Yes, Peggy,” Matilda said, “you are forgetting to tell us how your money lasted, and what you did when it was done. Oh! it must have been so dreadful when you began to be starved to death.”

“ ‘Deed, and it was no ways pleasant; but it was no just sae bad as that; and I aye keepit a thought on Him who feedeth the fowls o’ the air, and was no that down-hearted; still it was a serious thought, and I was at my last shilling when the pedlar was graciously sent to me.”

“The pedlar, Peggy, how was that?”

“You see, Miss Matilda, I was sitting by the road-side one morning, taking counsel wi’ my ain thoughts and looking at the shilling, and turning it round and round in my hand wi’ a serious countenance, nae doubt, when an honest man wi’ a pack upon his back came up to me. ‘Mistress,’ he said, ‘you are looking at that shilling as if there werena mony ahint it, and you were loath to part company.’ ‘’Deed,’ I said, ‘you hae made a gude guess and are no far wrong; for it’s the very last shilling I hae in the world, and a long journey, I reckon, is still afore me.’ Wi’ that we fell into discourse, and I telt him all my story; for he was frae my ain country, and my heart warmed to him. He said that for that day and the next our road lay in the same direction, and that he would be blythe o’ my company. Was I to refuse sic a civil invitation?—by no means. So we gaed on our way thegither, and had muckle pleasant discourse; for he was far travelled, and had great learning and experience o’ the world, and was, forbye, a God-fearing and civil man, and had but one fault that I could discern, he was ower fond o’ beer; preserve me, but I would hae sleepit sound, and ower sound, as he, puir man, found that night, if I had ta’en all he offered me, for he was no ways niggardly; and when I spoke o’ asking up-pitting for the night at a farm-house, he would na hear it; he would treat me, he said, baith to a supper and a bed, and be blythe to do so. Weel, when night came on, we turned into a comfortable-looking house by the road-side, where they selt the beer he was ower fond o’; and it was a canty scene that big kitchen, that lifted the very heart o’ me. There was the mistress frying bacon on the warm red fire, and mair than one hungry man sitting on low stools, listening wi’ delight to the hissing sound o’ it; and a wee baby in a cradle, no thinking o’ sleep, but lying so pleased, wi’ the great een o’ it wide open, and staring at its brothers and sisters, dancing in a corner o’ the room to the music o’ a blind fiddler; they were near to a table where some men were drinking, and there was a man sat there wi’ a face I could no get out o’ my mind at all. He had a down look and an ill look to my thought; and I noticed that though he had his tankard o’ beer afore him like the rest, when he thought nae body was looking that way, he lifted the tankard that had been put down afore the puir blind fiddler, and took a lang pull out o’ it. I would na hae been that sorry if it had choked him, and I felt in my mind that the man would surely come to shame and want. Aweel, when the mistress showed me the room I was to sleep in, I could na get this man’s ill face out o’ my mind, and I asked her if the men that were drinking at the table were to bide all night. ‘Some of them might,’ she said, ‘and some might not; but I need not be frightened, for my friend the pedlar was to sleep in the next room to me, and there was a door through frae my room to his. You see,’ she said, ‘there is only a latch to it, for the key has been lost; but as he is an honest man nae doubt, and your friend, you will no mind that; but this is a decent house, and you need fear no disturbance;’ and wi’ that she left me. I had not been long in bed afore I heard the pedlar, honest man, snoring soundly. I was weary, weary, and yet for a lang time I could no get to sleep, for the fiddle seemed aye sounding in my ears, and the bit bairnies dancing afore me, and that man’s ill face aye taking anither look at me, but after a time I heard steps passing up the stairs, and the front door was barred in, and quietness fell upon the house; and then, though it was no just sleep that came over me, it was a kind o’ a dover, and how lang it lasted I canna tell, but suddenly it seemed to me as if I heard a step in the passage and some one stopping at my door,—I started up in my bed and listened; a lock turned, but it was na in my room, but in the next; and then I saw a light under the door that had the latch. I sprang up and looked through the key-hole; the ill face o’ that awfu’ man seemed glaring on me, I could scarcely breathe, for I felt sure he saw me, but he turned away and went straight up to the bed; he seemed to listen for a moment, bending over it, then softly lifting up a worsted plaid that was lying over a chair by the bed-side, he seized the pack which the plaid was covering, and turned to the door again. He had his back to me then; I lifted the latch and sprang in, and the next moment I had him by the throat, the ill rascal, wi’ a scream that wakened the whole house. He let fall the pack, shook me off as if I had been a feather, and darted along the passage. He took me for a ghaist, nae doubt; for, for decency’s sake, I had put the white sheet about me. Aweel, we looked for him all over the house, but saw naething but a window wide open, and doubtless out o’ that window the ill-conditioned creature had gone on his evil way. It was na muckle sleep that either the pedlar or me got that night, I reckon, for I heard nae mair snoring.”

“Oh, Peggy!” more than one voice exclaimed, “how frightful and how interesting; but go on, go on, tell us more.”

“Aweel, in the morning he could na be grateful enough, honest man, for what I had done for him. ‘For himself,’ he said, ‘he did na’ fancy riding much, but it would be a rest to me; so all that day we rode thegither in a wagon like ladies and gentlemen, he treating me to the best o’ every thing, and himsel’ no taking just sae muckle o’ the beer. The next morning after that, when we parted, he would force upon me twa bonnie white half-crowns, and telt me aye to ride when I could, for that he did not think I was that strong for sic an undertaking as I had still before me. I would fain hae refused the money, for it seemed to me like taking payment for doing only what was natural to do; but I thought also that pride might have something to do wi’ refusing, and pride was na’ for a Christian woman, so I took the siller. I took his advice too, for I felt that I was not that strong; so I aye rode when I could get a cart or a wagon, but it took mair money than I could weel spare. Many o’ the wagoners and carters spoke a language I could na’ weel make out, but they aye contrived to make it plain to me that they wanted siller. Every day my pocket got lighter and lighter, and my heart heavier; for I came to my last penny, and still a lang way lay afore me. I need na’ vex your hearts wi’ all I suffered wi’ want and lang travel. Some of the folk were kind to me, and some were not; I dinna weel mind all that happened, I ken only that aye when I was at my last extremity, He that I serve had pity upon me; and I aye remembered that ‘He had not where to lay His head,’ and took courage. One night I came to a farm-house, the door was shut, but I looked through the kitchen window, and, oh! but it was a cheerfu’ canty scene. There was a cat as big and as sleek as a fat lamb lying afore the warm fire, and the mistress and the gudeman, and the bairns, and the farm servants, all round a big table at their supper, and the greatest plenty o’ every thing, and sic a smoke from the big dishes o’ meat and o’ potatoes, and sic a speaking and laughing, that I had to tap many a time afore they heard me; but at last the mistress hersel’ came to the door, and wi’ her a bonnie wee lassie at her side. I was all in a tremble, and I telt her my story, and asked for a night’s lodging; but the pleasant face o’ her entirely changed. ‘And how am I to know,’ she said, ‘that there is a word of truth in all this? always the story that they have lost their way, or lost their money, or some such thing. It was but last night that I gave lodging to an old woman, who looked as respectable as you do, and she was off this morning by daybreak with two of my best night-caps that were drying before the fire. No, no, you must take the road again, and be thankful you have a clear moon above your head.’ ‘Oh, mother, mother!’ I heard the wee thing say, but she shut the door in my face. I was weary, and I was faint wi’ hunger too, for I had tasted little that day; to gang on my way was no possible, for the very life seemed sinking out o’ me; so I crept round by the back o’ the house to seek some sheltered nook to lie down in, no wishing ever to rise again. All my desire was to lay myself down in a quiet corner and there to be found dead in the morning. I was leaning against a wall sair spent, and Dash keeping close at my side, as he aye did, striving, puir thing, to keep me warm, when a mist came afore my eyes—it cleared away, and I seemed to see my ain bonnie bairns wi’ the faces o’ angels beckoning to me, and I heard my husband’s voice speaking words o’ comfort, and then a door at the back of the house softly opened, and the bonnie lamb I had seen afore stepped out into the moonlight; she looked about her for a moment on every side, and when the light fell on the face o’ her, it seemed to me as if she too was a kind spirit frae anither world. She was passing to the front o’ the house when she saw me, and, oh!—but it was a sweet voice that sounded in my ear when she took my hand, and said,—‘There is a sixpence and a penny for you, it is all the money I have, but maybe it will get you a bed at a house you will soon come to on the road-side; and here is some bread and cheese for your supper, for I am sure you are hungry.’ I was trying to say something, when a voice cried out, ‘Alice, Alice, where are you?’ and the mistress hersel’ came up to where we were standing. ‘Oh, mother!’ the dear bairn said, ‘do not put her away for she looks so sorrowful and she can scarcely walk; do let her sit at the kitchen fire all night—I am sure she is an honest woman.’ The mistress looked in my face. ‘Well,’ she said, I may have judged you wrongfully, so I will take Alice’s word for it; for it’s not my usual custom to turn my face from the poor of the land, so come in, old woman, and you shall have some supper.’ She took me into the warm kitchen, and seated me at the fire, and the best o’ every thing was set afore me, and bonnie wee Alice took a low stool and set herself down at my feet, and she aye looked up in my face wi’ her kindly smile, and seemed to enjoy every morsel I put in my mouth; and she could na make enough o’ Dash, and was sae pleased when the mistress hersel’ set a plate o’ bones afore him that might have served a king. Aweel, we took our supper wi’ thanksgiving, and in a closet off the kitchen I had a clean comfortable bed to lie down on, which was a great refreshment. The mistress took to me in an uncommon way. I telt her where I was going, and all about it; and in the morning she gave me my breakfast and a white shilling out o’ her ain pocket. I was fain to gie little Alice back her sixpence and the penny, but she was affronted and would na hear tell o’ it; so I laid them down on the wee pillow o’ her bed when she was looking anither way.”

The tears were in Leila’s eyes: “Oh, Peggy,” she said, “what a dear little girl Alice must have been! how I wish I could thank her for being so very kind to you; but you are not to stop yet, you have more to tell us.”