Mass John’s trance threw him into a heavy and perturbed slumber, which overpowered him for a long space; and even after he awaked, it was long before he could fathom the circumstances of his case, for he imagined he had only been in a frightful and oppressive dream; till, beginning to grope about, he discovered that he was lying on the damp floor with his clothes on; and at length, without opening his eyes, he recovered by degrees his reasoning faculties, and was able to retrace the circumstances that led to his present situation. He arose in great dismay—the day–light had begun to shine into the room, and finding that both doors were locked, he deemed it unadvisable to make any noise, and threw himself upon the bed. The retrospect of his adventure was fraught with shame and astonishment. He had acted a considerable part in it, but he had dreamed of a great deal more, and with all his ingenuity he could not separate in his mind the real incidents from those that were imaginary. He arose with the sun, and rapped gently at the inner–door, which, to his still farther astonishment, was opened by Katharine, in her usual neat and cleanly morning dress. He stared in her face, to mark if he could read any meaning in it—he could distinguish none that spoke a language to him either good or bad—it was a face of calm decent serenity, and wore no shade of either shame or anger—somewhat paler than it was the evening before, but still as lovely as ever. The curate seemed gasping for breath, but not having courage to address her, he walked forth to the open air.
It was a beautiful morning in September; the ground was covered with a slight hoar frost, and a cloud of light haze (or as the country people call it, the blue ouder,) slept upon the long valley of water, and reached nearly midway up the hills. The morning sun shone full upon it, making it appear like an ocean of silvery down. It vanished by imperceptible degrees into the clear blue firmament, and was succeeded by a warm sun and a southerly breeze. It was such a morning as could not fail to cheer and re–animate every heart and frame, not wholly overcome by guilt and disease—Clark’s were neither—he was depraved of heart, but insensible to the evil of such a disposition; he had, moreover, been a hanger–on from his youth upward, and had an effrontery not to be outfaced. Of course, by the time he had finished a three–hour’s walk, he felt himself so much refreshed and invigorated in mind, that he resolved not to expose himself to the goodwife, who was his principal stay and support among his straggled and dissatisfied flock, by a confession of the dreadful fright he had gotten, but to weather out the storm with as lofty and saintly a deportment as he could.
He had not well gone out when the lad of Kepplegill arrived, and delivered to Katharine her father’s letter. She saw the propriety of the injunction which it bore, and that an immediate application to their laird, Drumelzier, who was then high in trust and favour with the party in power, was the likeliest of all ways to procure her father’s relief, neither durst she trust the mission to any but herself. But ah! there was a concealed weight that pressed upon her spirit—a secret circumstance that compelled her to stay at home, and which could not be revealed to mortal ear. Her father’s fate was at present uncertain and ticklish, but that secret once revealed, tortures, death, and ruin were inevitable—the doom of the whole family was sealed. She knew not what to do, for she had none to advise with. There was but one on earth to whom this secret could be imparted; indeed there was but one in whose power it was to execute the trust which the circumstances of the case required, and that was old Nanny, who was crazed, fearless, and altogether inscrutable. Another trial, however, of her religious principles, and adherence to the established rules of church government in the country, was absolutely necessary; and to that trial our young and mysterious heroine went with all possible haste, as well as precaution.
Whosoever readeth this must paint to themselves old Nanny, and they must paint her aright, with her thin fantastic form and antiquated dress, bustling up and down the house. Her fine stock of bannocks had been all exhausted—the troopers and their horses had left nothing in her master’s house that could either be eaten or conveniently carried away. She had been early astir, as well as her sedate and thoughtful young dame, had been busy all the morning, and the whole time her tongue never at rest. She had been singing one while, speaking to herself another, and every now and then intermixing bitter reflections on Clavers and his troops.
“Wae be to them for a pack o’ greedy gallayniels—they haena the mence of a miller’s yaud; for though she’ll stap her nose into every body’s pock, yet when she’s fou she’ll carry naething wi’ her. Heichow! wae’s me, that I sude hae lived to see the day! That ever I sude hae lived to see the colehood take the laverock’s place; and the stanchel and the merlin chatterin’ frae the cushat’s nest! Ah! wae’s me! will the sweet voice o’ the turtle–doo be nae mair heard in our land! There was a time when I sat on the bonny green brae an’ listened to it till the tears dreepit frae my een, an’ a’ the hairs o’ my head stood on end!—The hairs o’ my head?—Ay, that’s nae lie! They’re grey now, an’ will soon be snaw–white if heart’s care can alter them; but they will never be sae white as they anes war. I saw the siller–grey lock o’ age, an’ the manly curls o’ youth wavin’ at my side that day!—But where are they now? A’ mouled! a’ mouled!—But the druckit blood winna let them rot! I’ll see them rise fresh an’ bonny! I’ll look round to my right hand and ane will sae, ‘Mother! my dear mother, are you here with us?’ I’ll turn to my left hand, another will say, ‘Nanny! my dear and faithful wife, are you too here with us?’—I’ll say, ‘Ay, John, I’m here; I was yours in life; I have been yours in death; an’ I’ll be yours in life again.’—Dear bairn, dear bairn, are you there,” continued she, observing Katharine standing close behind her; “what was I saying, or where was I at? I little wat outher what I was saying or doing.—Hout ay; I was gaun ower some auld things, but they’re a’ like a dream, an’ when I get amang them I’m hardly mysel. Dear bairn, ye maunna mind an auld crazy body’s reveries.”
There was some need for this apology, if Nanny’s frame, air, and attitude, are taken into account. She was standing with her back to the light, mixing meal with water, whereof to make bread—her mutch, or night–hussing, as she called it, was tied close down over her cheeks and brow as usual; her grey locks hanging dishevelled from under it; and as she uttered the last sentence, immediately before noticing her young mistress, her thin mealy hands were stretched upwards, her head and body bent back, and her voice like one in a paroxysm. Katharine quaked, although well accustomed to scenes of no ordinary nature.
“Nanny,” said she, “there is something that preys upon your mind—some great calamity that recurs to your memory, and goes near to unhinge your tranquillity of mind, if not your reason. Will you inform me of it, good Nanny, that I may talk and sympathize with you over it?”
“Dear bairn, nae loss ava—A’ profit! a’ profit i’the main! I haena biggit a bield o’ the windlestrae, nor lippened my weight to a broken reed! Na, na, dear bairn; nae loss ava.”
“But, Nanny, I have overheard you in your most secret hours, in your prayers and self–examinations.”
At the mention of this Nanny turned about, and after a wild searching stare in her young mistress’s face, while every nerve of her frame seemed to shrink from the recollection of the disclosures she feared she had made, she answered as follows, in a deep and tremulous tone:—