Night came, and she retired to rest, but her innocent breast was too much agitated to allow her eyes to close in sleep; and the return of morning only brought with it an additional burden to her heart, by a renewed discussion of the events of the previous day. This was more than she was able to stand, and she took the first opportunity to escape from that roof where, till now, she had never known aught but delight, to go to pour her complaint into the ear of one who seemed to love her almost to distraction,—her youthful admirer, Henry Williams. Their interview, though not long, terminated in the proposal on his part to relieve her from her embarrassed situation by forthwith making her his own. Whether this was what she desired, in having recourse to such an adviser, cannot be known, but, at all events, she acceded with blamable facility to his wishes. She could not endure the thought of being without a friend, and she knew not that the friendship and affection of her parents had suffered no abatement, though their great concern for her innocence and welfare had pushed their reproofs further than they intended, or than prudence under such circumstances would warrant.
Henry was little more than her own age, of but moderate capacity, handsome in person, and ill provided with the means of making matrimony a state of enjoyment; and too much addicted to the frivolities of his years to be fitted for the serious business of being the head of a family. Youth and inexperience seldom consider consequences, and the desire of the one to receive, and of the other to afford relief, under existing circumstances, made them resolve neither to ask parental consent to their purpose, nor wait the ordinary steps prescribed by the Church. The connection was therefore no less irregular than it was precipitate, and Jeanie never so much as sought to see her father’s house till the solemn knot was tied.
In her absence many inquiries were made respecting her by the villagers, who had witnessed or heard of what had happened to her on the previous day. Her truth and innocence being thus put beyond the shadow of a doubt, consternation at the long absence of their child, and compunction for the severity of their reproofs, drove the unhappy parents almost frantic. When the news of the re-appearance of their daughter dispelled their direful apprehensions as to her safety, though they felt a momentary gleam of joy, yet they experienced nothing like heartfelt satisfaction.
Jeanie made as sweet and loving a wife as she had been a daughter; but the cares of providing for more than himself soon made Henry regret his rashness, and the prospect of these cares speedily increasing made him more and more dissatisfied with his new state of life. All Jeanie’s care and anxiety to soothe and please him were unavailing. It is not in the power of beauty, youth, and innocence, to check and control the sallies of ignorance and caprice. Chagrined because his youthful wife had not prepared his morning meal to his liking, on a day when he was to visit a neighbouring city for some trifling purpose, he determined to free himself from the yoke into which he had so heedlessly run, and returned home on the evening of the following day somewhat altered in dress and appearance, and with the king’s money in his pocket. The grief and agony of Jeanie, and of her affectionate parents, were past all description; and the consideration of her rashness and imprudence having been the occasion of so much distress to herself and others, rendered her almost desperate.
Henry was not long in the hands of the drill sergeant till he became nearly as penitent and full of regrets as his lovely young wife, and he willingly would, had he been permitted, have returned to a faithful discharge of the duties of a husband; but the country was at that time in too great need of men such as Henry, to part with him either for money or interest. When he began to reap the bitter fruits of his own folly, his affection for Jeanie, if it ever deserved so sacred a name, returned with redoubled intensity; and that object, for the abandonment of which he had plunged himself into the hardships of which he complained, he thought he could not now live without. He was shortly to be marched off to his regiment, and poor Jeanie, whose attachment remained unshaken amidst the severe treatment she had suffered, determined to follow him through all the casualties of the military life; and at any rate preferred hardship to the disgrace which she thought she had brought upon herself by her own imprudence. She had at this time been a mother for little more than two months; but even this could not change her resolution to follow the father of her child, exposed as she must be to all the privations and hardships of the soldier’s wife. She saw her father and mother on the morning of her departure, but neither she nor they were able to exchange words, so full were their hearts; save that the old man said, “God help and bless you, Jeanie!” Scarcely a dry eye was to be seen in the village that morning, and a crowd of youths, amidst silent dejection, saw her far on her way, carrying her baby and her bundle by turns. The toils through which she passed in following her husband were too many and too severe to be here related. He was ultimately one of those who assisted to decide the dreadful conflict at Waterloo, and received a severe wound when the day was just about won. In a foreign hospital, though he suffered much, he at length recovered; but upon returning home, his wounds broke forth afresh, and at last carried him off. Jeanie was now left quite unfriended. She had seen her two eldest children laid in the dust, the one in a distant clime, and the other, though on British soil, yet far from the tomb of her fathers. She still had three surviving, and her parents being gone to their long home, her only resource at the time I met her was dependence on public charity.—“The Athenæum,”—Glasgow University Annual, 1830.
THE VILLAGERS OF AUCHINCRAIG.
By Daniel Gorrie.
In one of the eastern counties of Scotland, there is a pleasant secluded valley, known by the name of Strathkirtle. It is well cultivated, growing good grain crops, abounding in rich pasture-land, and beautified by the water of Kirtle, which winds smoothly along between its fertile banks, and loses itself at last in the German Ocean. Strips and roundels of woodland, snug farm steadings, and the sheltering hills on either side, impart an air of peace and an aspect of comfort to this secluded Scottish strath, such as may rarely be witnessed in other countries. Spring nurses there her sweetest wild-flowers, on the meadows, in the woods, and by the water-courses; summer comes early with choirs of singing-birds, and the voice of the cuckoo; autumn adorns the fields with the mellowest beauty, and touches the green leaves into gold; and winter ever spares some gladsome relics of the sister seasons, to cheer the hearts of the inhabitants at Strathkirtle.
In the centre of the valley, and close beside the stream, there formerly stood the ancient village of Auchincraig; but the progress of improvement has, I am told, almost swept its last vestiges away. It was, without exception, the oddest, old-fashioned place in which I ever resided for any length of time. The dwelling-houses were of all shapes and sizes, and they had been built, whether solitary, in rows, or in batches, in utter contempt of all order and regularity. One might almost have imagined that they had fallen down in dire confusion from the clouds, and been allowed to stand peaceably where they fell. Some had their gables to the street, some were planted back to back, some frowned front to front. The roofs of not a few rose in ridges like the back of a dromedary, while the appearance of others betokened a perilous collapse and sudden downfall. Auchincraig could boast of styles of architecture unknown to Grecian and Roman fame. The primitive builders had not been particular regarding the situation of the doors, and evidently considered windows as useless breaks in the walls. Houses two storeys high, with weather-worn and weather-stained slate roofs, stood beside humbler dwellings, low and long, and covered with thatch. The parish church was situated in the burial ground at the east end of the village. It was an old edifice, with ivy-mantled spire, which seemed ready to sink down and mingle with the dust of the many generations who slept around. Jackdaws congregated on its summit, and swallows, unmolested, built their nests in all the windows of the hoary pile. The parish manse, which appeared scarcely less ancient than the church, stood about a stone’s cast from the place of graves. Primeval trees hung their foliage over it in summer, shading its roof and windows from the sunrays, and groaned mournfully throughout all their bare bulk when the bitter blast of winter swept over the exposed churchyard. A beechen hedge encircled the manse and the garden attached. The residence of the minister was by far the pleasantest abode in Auchincraig.
Queer and old-fashioned as the village was, it was far surpassed in these respects by the villagers. I could scarcely have believed that it was possible to find so many odd characters and strange mortals collected together in one locality. Nothing astonished me more than the number of old people, male and female, who, “daunered” about the village streets, or sat dozing on three-legged stools at the doors of their dwellings. It seemed as if the promise, “Thou shalt live long upon the land,” had been specially vouchsafed to them. The old men wore knee-breeches, home-made stockings, blue coats with metal buttons, and red Kilmarnocks; while the old women looked the very picture of sedate, sagacious, and decent eld, with their white coifs and black ribbons, and bone spectacles bestriding their attenuated noses. The village children had an “auld-farrant” appearance; and the young men and women, whose principal employment was weaving and spinning, partook somewhat of the gravity of their elders with whom they associated so much. It was only at such festive seasons as Hallowe’en, Hansel Monday, and the annual summer Fair, that the natural hilarity of youth displayed itself in any remarkable degree.