Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 18

by Unknown

As Betty finished her impressive admonition to Effie, who acknowledged its force, and inwardly determined on complying with the request of her mother, an unusual noise at the door of the cottage startled her anxious ear. It seemed that a number of people were approaching the cottage, and the groans of one in deep distress and pain were mixed with the low talk of the crowd, who, from those inexpressible indications which the ear can catch and analyse ere the mind is conscious of the operation, seemed already to sympathise with one to whom they were bearing a grief. Housed by that anticipative fear of evil which all unfortunate people feel, Betty ran to the door, followed by her daughter, and opened it—to let in the mangled body of her husband; who, in felling an oak, on the property of Burnbank, had fallen under the weight of the tree, and got his leg broken, and one of his arms dislocated at the shoulder-joint. He was conveyed, by the kind neighbours, to a bed; and, by the time they got him undressed, for the purpose of his wounds being submitted to the curative process of the doctor, that individual arrived, and proceeded to perform the painful operation of setting the broken bones. The full effect of this misfortune to Effie and her mother was for a time suspended by the call made upon them to relieve the sufferings of the father and husband; and it was not till the bustle ceased, and the neighbours (excepting two women, whose services, in addition to those of the wife and daughter, might still be required) went away, that they felt the full force of the gigantic evil that had befallen them, the consequences of which might extend through the remaining years of their existence.

A period of no less than eighteen months passed away, and David Mearns was still unable to do more than, with assistance, to rise from his bed, and sit, during a part of the day, by the fire, or at the window. During the whole of this time, he had been tended by his daughter with assiduous care. Her filial sympathies, called into active operation by the sorrows of her parent, filled up the void that had been made in her heart by the departure of her lover; and a new source of grief effected (however paradoxical it may seem) a change in the morbid melancholy to which she had been enslaved, which, although not for mental health or ease, was so much in favour of exertion and remedial exercise, that she came to present the appearance of one inclined to endeavour to sustain her sorrow, rather than resign herself to the fatal power of an irremediable woe. Among the visitors who took an interest in a family reduced by one stroke to want and all its attendant evils, Laird Cherrytrees evinced the strongest concern for the fate of his friend; and, by a timeous contribution of necessary assistance, ameliorated, in so far as man could, the unhappy condition of virtue under the load of misery. The many visits of the good old laird, and the long periods of time he passed by the bedside of the patient, enabled him to see and appreciate the devoted attention of Effie to her parent; and often, as she flew at the slightest indication of a wish for something to assuage pain, or remove the uneasiness produced by the long confinement, he would stop the current of his narrative, and fix his eyes on the kind maiden, so long as her tender office engaged her attention and feelings These long looks, not unaccompanied at times with a deep sigh, were attributed, as they well might, to admiration and approbation of so much filial affection and devotedness exercised towards one whom the old laird respected above all his friends.

The visits of Laird Cherrytrees were at first twice or thrice a-week. His infirm body already begun to exhibit the effects of old age, prevented him from walking; and such was the anxiety he felt for the unhappy patient, that he mounted his old pony, Donald, nearly as frail as his master, to enable him to administer consolation so much required. He came always at the same hour; Effie, who expected him, was often at the door ready to receive him; and, while she held old Donald's head till he dismounted, welcomed her father's friend with so much sincerity and pleasure, that if she had failed in her ostlership, he would have felt a disappointment he would not have liked to express. Even when at a distance from the cottage, he strained his eyes to endeavour to catch a glimpse of the faithful attendant; and, if he did not see her, the rein of Donald was relaxed, and he was allowed to saunter along at his own pleasure, or even to eat grass by the roadside, (a luxury he delighted in from his having once belonged to a cadger,) so as to give Effie time to get to her post.

The three days of the week on which Laird Cherrytrees was in the habit of visiting David Mearns, were Monday, Thursday, and Saturday; and he seldom came without bringing something to the poor family—either some money for old Betty; some preserves, prepared by Lucy, for the invalid; or a book, or a flower from Burnbank garden, for Effie. When his conversation with David was finished—and every day it seemed to get shorter and shorter, though there seemed no lack of either subjects or ideas—he commenced to talk with Effie, chiefly on the nature and contents of the books he brought her to read; and nothing seemed to delight him more than to sit in the large arm-chair by David's bedside, and hear Effie discoursing, ex cathedra, (on a three-footed stool at the foot of the bed, opposite to the Laird's chair,) with her characteristic simplicity and good sense, on the subjects he himself had suggested. But, notwithstanding all her efforts to appear well-pleased in presence of the man who was supporting her family, her train of thoughts was often broken in upon by the recollections of Lewis Campbell, and she would sit for an hour at a time, with the eyes of the Laird fixed on her melancholy face, as if he had been all that time in mute cogitation, suggesting some remedy for her sorrow. His ideas and feelings seemed to be operated upon by the same power that ruled the mind of the maiden; for his face followed, in its changing expressions, the mutations of her countenance. Her melancholy seemed to be communicated by a glance of her watery eye, as the thought of Lewis entered her mind; and when she recovered from her gloomy reverie, a corresponding indication of relief lighted up the grey, twinkling orbs of the old Laird. This custom of "glowrin," for whole hours at a time, on the face of the sensitive girl, at first painful to her, became a matter of indifference; and the position and attitudes of the three individuals—Betty being generally engaged about the house—undergoing, while the Laird was present, no change, came to assume something like the natural properties of the parties, as if they had been fixtures, or lay figures for the study of a painter.

Every time the Laird came to the cottage, he extended the period of his stay, and, latterly, he did not stir till a servant from Burnbank, sent by Lucy, came to take him home. It seemed as if he could not get enough of "glowrin;" for, latterly, all his occupation, which at first consisted of rational conversation, merged in that mute eloquence of the eye, or rather in that inebriation of the orb, "drinking of light," which lovers of sights, especially female countenances, are so fond of. The visits had been so regular, not a day being ever missed, that, as Effie held the stirrup till he mounted Donald, during all which time the process of "glowrin" went on as regularly as at the bedside of David, she never thought of asking, and he never thought of stating, when he would call again. Time had stamped the act of calling with the impress of unchangeable custom. The caseless clock of David's cottage was not more regular; the only change being that already observed—that the time of the Laird's stay gradually and gradually lengthened.

The homage paid by Effie to Laird Cherrytrees was, as may easily be conceived, the respect, attention, and kindness of an open-hearted girl, filled with gratitude to the preserver of the lives of her and her parents. Every evening she offered up, at her bedside, prayers for the preservation and happiness of the man but for whose kindness starvation might have overtaken the helpless invalid, and not much less helpless wife and daughter. In their prayers the "amen" of David and his wife was the most heart-felt expression of love and gratitude that ever came from the lips of mortal. This feeling, however, did not prevent David Mearns and Betty from sometimes indulging, in the absence of Effie (in all likelihood giving freedom to her tears, as she sat in some favourite retreat of her absent lover,) in some remarks on the extraordinary conduct of Laird Cherrytrees. They soon saw through the secret, and resolved upon drawing him out; for which purpose Effie was to be called away on the occasion of the next visit.

The Laird came as he used to do, took his seat, and resumed his gazing. Effie pleased him exceedingly, by an account she gave him of the last book he brought to her; and, throwing himself back in the arm chair, he seemed, for a time, wrapped in meditation. Effie obeyed, in the meantime, her mother's request, to come for a few minutes to the green to assist her in her work; and, when the Laird again applied his eyes to their accustomed vocation, he was surprised, but not (for once) displeased, at her disappearance. A great struggle now commenced between some wish and a restraint. He looked round the cottage, and then turned his eyes on David; acts which he repeated several times. Incipient syllables of words half-formed died away in his struggling throat. He moved restlessly in the large chair, and twirled his silver-headed cane in his hand. He even rose, went to the door, looked out, came back again, and took his seat without saying a word. Holding away his face from David, he at last made out a few words, uttered with great difficulty.

"She's a fine lassie, Effie," he said.

"A bonnier an' a better never was brocht up in Bramblehaugh, savin yer ain Lucy," replied David.

"Hoo auld is she noo?" said the Laird, still holding away his face.