‘Jessie cam in for them that night, busked up like ony lady, wi’ her white gown an’ flounces an’ spangles, her neck and arms bare, and her head dressed out wi’ artificial flowers, and her white satin shoon tied up in her pocket napkin, to put on when she gaed into the ball-room. I could scarcely believe my ain een—I glanced at her, and syne at Willie—he looked as if he could have fa’en down and worshipped her—and for a moment I was proud to think that my son should hae sic a sweetheart: but when I thocht on what micht be the upshot o’ a’ this, I couldna help sighin’ an’ sayin’ to mysel’, “I wish this mayna end in breakin’ my puir laddie’s heart.”
‘Weel, they gaed to the ball, but it was a waesome ball to Willie: he was obliged to sit lookin’ on, while she was skimmin’ through the dance wi’ ither lads. This he bore wi’ some patience, but when she rose up to dance some new-fashioned dance, (a waltz, I think she ca’d it,) and he saw a strange lad’s arms twined aboot her in a manner that he would have thocht it sacrilege to attempt, he couldna bear longer—his head grew confused, and the measure o’ his vexation was filled up by a lad coming owre an’ asking Mary to stand up to dance wi’ him; poor Mary was obliged to tell the truth. “Canna dance!” said the lad in surprise. Willie didna wait for ony mair, but takin’ Mary’s han’, “Come awa,” said he, “we canna stay here to be affronted.” I was surprised to see them come hame sae soon, and asked him the reason: he made some trifling excuse; but when he gaed to his bed, Mary told me the hale story.
‘Next day he was dowie an’ thochtfu’, his pride was hurt, an’ he was jealous o’ Jessie, but he didna speak. When he cam hame at night she was in, an’ before he had time to speak, she cried out, “O Willie, what gart ye gang awa an’ leave me; I waited lookin’ for you through the room when I wanted to gang hame, but I couldna find ye. Ye wad be vext seein’ a’ the rest dancin’, an’ you no able: what a pity you canna dance, Willie; if ye could, I’m sure naebody should be my partner but yoursel’, for I couldna see onybody there that I liked sae weel.” This was plenty, Willie’s een brightened, an’ he took her hand—“Will you be sure to keep your promise, Jessie, if I learn before the next ball?” “As sure as I have life,” said she. He looked at me. I kent what he meant. O ay, Willie, you have my consent to gang to the school, an’ tak Mary wi’ ye—it’s no against the dancin’ itsel’ that I have sae much objection, as what it leads to. My mind tell’d me I was doin’ wrang, but I couldna help bein’ pleased to think it was makin’ him sae happy. Weel, to the dancin’-school they gaed, an’ books, an’ drawin’ an’ every thing was laid aside. He was clever at ony thing, but his mind was so much set on this, that he couldna but learn fast, and by the next ball he was able to dance wi’ Jessie himsel’. But, poor fellow, a’ his endeavours seemed vain, for Jessie was asked that night to dance wi’ a lad who was the brag o’ the country side. He was a fine-lookin’ chiel, I believe, but puffed up wi’ vanity. The twa gaed through some new-fangled dance by themsel’s—every body roosed them to the skies, and they turned the prouder the mair they heard themsel’s praised. Instead o’ comin’ owre beside Willie when it was finished, Jessie sat down beside her new partner. Willie, you may be sure, was unhappy enough before, but his heart was like to burst within him when he saw her hearkening wi’ delight to some nonsense the chiel was sayin’ to her. He could thole nae langer, and he gaed owre to her and asked if she would stand up wi’ him the next dance; but she answered (in a way as if she was ashamed of being seen speaking to him) that she was engaged. Willie said nae mair before the lad, but he sat patiently until the ball was ended, thinking he might have an opportunity of speaking to her on the road hame; but her new lad saw her into her father’s door. That night Willie didna close an eye, and my heart was like to break for him, the way he sighed the hale nicht lang. Like maist folk, when they do wrang, they think they have the best right to be offended, so Jessie didna look near our house the next day, until Mary gaed in for her. “What ailed you at Willie last night?” said Mary, willing to bring about some explanation; “I fear you vext him unco sair by leavin’ him to dance wi’ yon ideot.” “’Deed then,” replied Jessie, “he needna fash to be vex’d about it, for I wadna tie mysel’ down to please him or ony ither body; does he really think, because I consented to be his partner at the ball, that I obliged mysel’ no to dance wi’ ony body but him?” “It was na because you danced wi’ ony ither body,” said Mary, “although he had your ain promise for that, but because you left his company a’thegether, that he wad fin’ vex’d.” “Tuts, I canna be fash’d wi’ him aye rinnin’ after me frae place to place, and aye sittin’ beside me.” “You didna aye think sae,” said Mary, looking her in the face; “but although ye couldna be fashed wi’ him, there was ither folk there, far inferior to him, that you could sit beside till the last minute.” “Wha is’t you ca’ inferior to him? I am sure the lad I was wi’ is a far bonnier lad, and a far better dancer, than ever he’ll be in his life.” This observation o’ hers brought the tears in my een, for I saw my poor laddie’s heart was gien to ane that wad tread it under her feet, and laugh while she did it.
‘For twa or three days after this, he gaed about like a ghaist; he couldna tak’ his meat through the day, nor his sleep at night, and I was fear’d that he wad bring some trouble on himsel’. He had tried twa or three times, I understood, to get a word o’ Jessie by hersel’, but she refused to see him. Mary had seen her ance or twice walkin’ wi’ her new sweetheart. Willie had heard this, and ae night he watch’d her until she parted wi’ him, and met her comin’ through her ain entry. I happen’d to be gaun out, but seein’ a glimpse o’ twa folk in the passage, I stopped short and o’erheard Willie say, “Jessie, I wish to speak to you.” “I have nae time to speak to you,” said she, pressing to get past him. “I’ll no keep you lang, and as it is likely it may be the last time I’ll request it, I hope you’ll hear me.” “Weel, what hae ye to say.” “I find by your manner of speakin’ that it’ll no be necessary to say much. I only wish to know whether, considering what has passed between us, you have any excuse to make for your conduct to me of late?” “No; what business have I to make any excuse to you? Let me go.” “O Jessie, your words would signify little, if I didna ken that your conduct was like them. Like a fool, I ance thought your heart was a’ my ain. You have deceived me, Jessie, broken my heart; but I canna wish you ill. May you never have your conduct to me returned on your own head. Although you have deserted me, you will never find one to love you as I have done; but I don’t say this to make you feel for me, or to bring back your lost affections. You never could be to me what you have been, and I wouldna lay my heart, broken as it is, again at your mercy, for any consideration. Farewell, Jessie, I wish you every happiness.” She appeared to be affected, for I could hear her sabbin’; but she didna mak’ ony reply.
‘Although he pretended that he was heart-hale again, I cou’d see that the battle my poor laddie was fightin’ in his ain breast was owre hard for him. Two or three days after he was beyond his usual hour o’ comin’ in to his dinner, and I fand mysel’ unco uneasy about him, for he was aye particular to the hour. It was sax o’clock before he cam hame. “What keepit ye, my laddie?” says I, “ye’re far ayont your time.” “I was busy,” says he, careless like,—and I didna think ony mair about it. Next day he cam hame in the middle o’ the day, “What’s wrang now, Willie?” says I, “are ye no weel, that you are hame at this hour?” He sat for a long while without saying a word, and then burst into tears,—“O no, mother! I’m no weel, nor have na been weel this mony a day; but there will soon be an end o’t, for I’m gaun to leave the town.” “My goodness! laddie, whare are ye gaun? what do ye mean?” “I canna hide it ony langer, mother; 1 am listed for a soldier, and I have to march this night to join my regiment.” “Listed!” said I, and the word stuck in my throat, “O! no, Willie, that canna be sae;” but I could see by his face that it was owre true—he wasna guilty o’ telling lees. “O! then, for Godsake, for my sake, if ye dinna wish to send your auld mither to her grave, gang and gie them back their siller. I’ll sell every thing I hae to get ye free. O haste ye, William, and pay them the smart.” Willie shook his head,—“It’s owre late for that.” “Then ye’re lost, my bairn—my a’ that I have for your father—my only dependence! O! and where is your regiment?” “In Portugal.” I didna hear ony mair, my head grew dizzy, the cauld sweat broke on my face; I thought I was dyin’, and I was happy at it.
‘I minded naething mair until I wakened as it were frae a sleep, and looking up saw Mary and Willie hanging owre me greetin’. My mind during the rest o’ that day was a’ confusion; I mind something about soldiers comin’ for Willie, and me takin’ fareweel o’ him, and gieing him this Bible, and seein’ his sister clasped in his arms; but there was something cauld at my heart, I had lost my natural feelin’. I fand as if I had swallowed laudanum. In the middle o’ the night I wakened frae a fearfu’ dream—I had seen my Willie torn frae me, and stretchin’ out his hands to me for help; but he was dragged frae my sight—again he appeared to me, pale and bluidy, and his claiths dreepin’ wat. I sprang forward to catch him in my arms; but before I could reach him he fell on the floor; the scream that I gied wakened me, and I fand mysel’ standin’ at my bedside, for I had jumped out in the distress o’ my mind. I had nae clear notion o’ ony thing; but I had a confused thought that there was something wrang wi’ my Willie, and I staggered into the wee room where he sleepit—I hearken’d to hear his breath, but a’ was hush’d—I grew fearfu’ anxious, and to satisfy mysel’ I stretched my hand on the bed, to feel if he was there; but there was naebody in’t—the claes were na ruffled, and the cauld feel o’ the quilt affected my heart, as if it had been squeezed between twa pieces o’ ice. I sunk on the bed—What can a’ this mean? said I to mysel’, and the truth gradually opened on my mind. O ay, it’s owre true,—ye’re gane, Willie,—ye’ve left me; what for did ye no tell me before ye took sic a rash step? O Willie, will I never see you again?—What mischief that glaiket, heartless hizzie has done. May she be made to suffer—but I stopped mysel’ in the rash wish—there was nae need for’t—poor wretch, she was fast fillin’ the bitter cup for hersel’.
‘I was sittin’ in this way, mournin’ for my bairn, until I had forgotten where I was, when I was started by somebody sabbin’ by my side. “In God’s name, wha’s that?” “It’s me, mother,” said Mary, “are ye no comin’ to your bed?” “O ay, my bairn; I wish the Lord may keep me in my natural senses, for I find my head no right ava.” Mary tried to comfort me, but, poor thing, she needed comfort as much as mysel’. I need scarcely gang farther wi’ my story, my heart never raise aboon’t.
‘About a week after he left us, we had a letter frae him, wi’ an order for ten pounds in’t. It was his bounty. He said he was weel and happy, and begged that I would buy claes for mysel’ and Mary wi’ the siller. Although I was proud of his affection and his mindfu’ness, yet before I would have used a penny o’ that siller, I wad have starved. I couldna consider’t in ony light but as the price o’ his bluid. Mary saw what was passin’ in my mind when we read the letter—her feelings were the same as mine.—“I’ll tell you what we will do, mother,” said she, “we’ll put the siller in the bank, and we’ll work hard, and put something till’t if we can, and by the time that he comes hame again, he’ll hae forgotton a’ this business between Jessie and him, and we’ll buy his discharge, and get him hame beside us again.” I couldna help claspin’ my kind-hearted lassie to my bosom. “Weel, Mary, my dear, we’ll just do that, and we’ll maybe be a’ happy yet.”
‘The next letter we had frae Willie, he was in France wi’ the army? he had joined his regiment the day before a battle, and escaped without scaith. The neist we had frae him, he was in high spirits: “The war,” he said, “couldna be lang o’ bein’ ended, and he would see us again.” We were quite uplifted. We had added sae much to the ten pound we had in the bank by our hard workin’, that it was now nearhand twenty, and we were plannin’ how we would surprise him by gettin’ his discharge, when he cam hame.
‘We had gi’en up our house, intendin’ to remove to anither quarter o’ the town, to be awa frae Jessie and her friends; but that wasna necessar’. Jessie had been courtin’ wi’ the lad that she had gi’en up Willie for ever since he had gaen awa. It was reported for a lang while that they were to be married; but when a’ thing was prepared, and the day appointed, he set aff and wasna heard o’ for some weeks. They were in an awfu’ way about it, but at length they got word frae a near friend o’ his, that he had sailed for America wi’ his wife, having married anither lass twa or three days before he sailed. This was dreadfu’ news to poor Jessie, she couldna haud up her head after’t, and her father and mother removed to a different part of the country, takin’ her wi’ them—I hae ne’er heard what becam o’ them since.