Many of our readers will still recollect the disastrous harvest of 1817: October was begun before harvest-work commenced at all; and, after it did commence, day after day the rain poured down as if the sky had been an ocean supported by a sieve. It was after an evening of storm and darkness had succeeded to one of these distressing days, that a stranger arrived at Nettlebank, and requested lodgings for the night. The servant girl, who opened the door, said, "She wouldna let him in, but she would tell her master." Her master accordingly came, and, without ceremony, told him to begone, for he harboured no wandering vagabonds about his town.
The stranger attempted to plead his ignorance of the country and the darkness of the night, as excuses for being allowed to remain; but Mr. Black cut him short, by telling him, in a tone which was distinctly heard at the farthest corner of the house, to march off, or he would instantly unchain the house-dog and set loose the terriers, and let them make a supper of him. Oaths and abusive language followed; but the stranger did not wait to hear more. He had proceeded as far as the corner of the garden wall, where a wicket gate communicated with the front door, and was muttering vengeance to himself, when he was accosted by Nancy.
"I am sorry," said she, "we cannot give you lodgings for the night—my father is so passionate; but here is something to help you on your journey." The stranger seemed unwilling to take the shilling, which she was attempting to put into his hand. "It is hardly worth your acceptance," said she; "but it is all I have at present. I cannot tell how much I feel on your account—exposed as you have been to the rain. But, as this is no night for a stranger to be abroad in, only come with me a few steps, till I can procure a guide to conduct you to the next farm, where you will find shelter."
"The farmer of the next farm may perhaps treat me like the farmer of this—and what then?" inquired the stranger, whose wrath had not yet altogether subsided.
"God forbid!" was Nancy's reply; "but he will not—I know he will not." She then led the way to a low door, through the seams of which light was visible, and, tapping gently, pronounced the word "Andrew." As soon as the door was opened—"Here is a stranger," said she, addressing the young man who acted as porter; "and when I grow richer I will endeavour to reward you, if you would get your greatcoat and shew him the road; or rather go with him to Sunnybraes, and tell them he wants lodgings for the night"—then, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, and drawing closer as she spoke, she added—"and, if they seem to hesitate, draw George aside, and tell him I sent you." The lad was hastening to obey his mistress's orders, when she called after him, "Stay—I had forgot—bring a greatcoat for him also."
The stranger, who had now caught a full view of her in the light which issued from the open door, thought he had seldom seen a fairer face or a finer form, and, wet as he was, he felt a wish to cultivate her acquaintance by farther conversation; but she gave him no time; for, almost before the last word was spoken, she disappeared.—"Tell George!" muttered he, as he listened to her retiring footsteps—"this is something, however."
At Sunnybraes, Andrew found his young mistress's provisionary clause altogether unnecessary; for, no sooner had he announced his errand, than the old farmer rose to make way for the stranger: "Get up, George," said he to his son; "an' you, Meg," turning to his wife, "lift out owre your wheel, an' let the poor lad in by to the fire. An' d'ye hear?—if ever whisky did mortal creature guid, it maun be on a night like this; sae, though I drink nane mysel, gang ye and gie him a glass."
The stranger was accordingly placed by the fire, and a glass was brought; but still it was considered that, as he must be drenched to the skin, a shift of clothes would be necessary. On this proposal being made, Mrs. Chrighton cast a significant look, first at her son, and then at her husband:—
"Hoot, woman," cried the latter, interpreting her look, "bring the duds, an', if ye hae ony fear about them, the lassie Kate can gie ye a help to wash them, some weety day. An' weety days are like to be owre rife noo, for ony guid they're doin.—Our guidewife," he continued, addressing their guest, "has aye been fear'd for infectious diseases since a beggar-wife brought the fever to the town mair than fourteen years back. But, though ye had five-and-twenty fevers—ay, fifty o' them—that's no enough to let you get your death o' cauld wi thae weet claes on; sae ye maun e'en consent to shift yoursel."
The stranger's language was a strange mixture of the best English and the broadest Scotch; and this circumstance, after exciting a degree of surprise in the minds of all, induced the guidwife to make some indirect inquiries concerning his profession and station in society.