My mither then asked if the major cam hame at that time. The woman said, “No, he had gane to Italy, and aye kept sendin’ letters to his faither every noo and then, makin’ apologies about his health being in a delicate state, and declaring his resolution to abide by the advice o’ his doctors to remain in a warmer climate, in spite o’ the auld laird’s anxious entreaties for him to come hame. I often used to wonder at the major’s continued absence; an’ it lookit strange that he didna come to lay his faither’s head in the grave, though he’s comin’ hame noo. As for the slave that did the deed, they raised a hue an’ cry after him for a while; but the murderer was never gotten, an’ it’s not likely he ever will be noo. It seems the major had been gi’en his brither an airing in a gig, when they were attacked by the slave frae behind, wha fired a pistol at his brither oot o’ revenge, and then fled, wounding him mortally. The major pursued, but when he had gane a lang distance and fand he couldna mak up to him, he cam back to the spot where the murder had been committed, expecting to see the body; but, astonishing to relate, the body had disappeared. And the man that did the deed, as I said before, was never gotten; nor is it very likely he ever will be, after sic a lang lapse o’ time. It seems he fled awa to the mountains among the Maroons, as they ca’ them.”
“That’s hard, hard to say,” said my mither; “but God has his ain ways o’ workin’, lass, an’ maybe the deed’ll be brocht to licht in a way that you an’ me little dream o’.” Then she rose up, an’ spoke o’ gaun hame; but the woman wadna hear o’t, sayin’ the nicht was ower far gane, an’ she wad mak her very welcome to a bed beside the bairns. At that moment the gudeman himsel’ cam in, an’ seeing her anxiety to gang awa, he said the mail-coach wad be gaun by in half an hour, an’ he had nae doot the guard wad gie her a lift into the toun. Sae she waited till the coach cam by, an’ fortunately got a ride in.
Aweel, when my mither had composed hersel’ a bit, after she had telt this, she filled her cutty-pipe, an’ begoud to blaw. “Lassie,” says she to me, after a wee, “fetch doun yer faither’s Bible frae the shelf.” It aye got the name o’ my faither’s Bible, though he had been deid an’ gane mony a year. Sae I gied her the Bible; an’ then I heard her slowly readin’ ower thae verses frae the Book o’ Proverbs—“Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it cometh; for the Lord shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot from being taken.” This she read ower twa-three times to hersel’, an’ syne put a mark at the place, and gaed awa to her bed. And lang after that, as the puir body lay half doverin’, I heard her comin’ ower and ower thae bonnie verses, till she was fast asleep. The first thing she did, when the mornin’ cam in, was to tell Joe o’ her journey an’ its result. The puir African lifted up his hands in astonishment when she telt him the murder had been laid to his charge. But she took doun the Bible again, an’ read ower the verses that had sae powerfully arrested her attention the nicht before; and as she read them, a gleam o’ triumphant exultation shone in the e’e o’ the puir nigger—a look o’ conscious innocence, that dispelled every vestige o’ doot in my mither’s mind, if she ever had ony, an’ made her sympathise a’ the mair wi’ the lingerin’ agony he had endured since the murder was committed. He noo declared his readiness to lodge an accusation against Major Gilroy; for the fear o’ his word being misdooted vanished as if by magic frae his mind, mair especially when my mither led him to understand that, being in a free country, nae slave-owner could touch him, and that his word would be ta’en wi’ the best white man among them a’. Hooever, my mither advised him no to be rash, but to bide a wee till the major’s arrival, as an accusation preferred against him in his absence micht be construed into an evidence o’ guilt on the part o’ the accuser; for the wily, lang-headit bodies o’ lawyers were fit for onything, an’ siller could do an awfu’ lot, an’ mak black look white ony day. Besides, Great Britain was at this time deeply engaged in the Slave Trade, and micht be ower glad to tak the major’s part. Sae Joe took her advice, an’ prayed that Job wad teach him patience.
Three weeks had passed away, when Joe, unable ony langer to control the wild tumult that reigned in his breast, gaed awa oot to Hawkesneb Hoose, carryin’ his drum an’ pan-pipes wi’ him as usual. It had been a drizzly sma’ rain a’ day; an’ when he reached his journey’s end, as nicht set in, he was wet through an’ through. The place was a’ in darkness, and as he stood at the gate, an’ looked up the lang dusky avenue, he half resolved to gang back, an’ trust to time an’ the retributive justice o’ Heaven to prove his innocence. But an impulse he couldna resist chained him to the spot, an’ he rang the gate-bell. Nae answer was returned; a second time’ he rang, but still wi’ the same result. Then he pushed the gate forward, and to his surprise it swung heavily back on its hinges. Wi’ an unsteady, tremblin’ step, he advanced up the dark avenue till he reached the mansion. The hoose seemed silent an’ deserted, binna a sma’ licht that twinkled in ane o’ the lower windows, an’ as he drew nearer, the sound o’ voices reached his ear. Then the resolve to gang back again took possession o’ him; but the strange impulse to advance gained the mastery, an’ he lifted the kitchen knocker. A lass wasna lang in makin’ her appearance at the door wi’ a lichtit candle in her hand; an’ nae sooner did she see the black man stannin’ oot in the dark than she gied a roar as if Joe had been the very deevil himsel’. This brocht ben a’ the rest o’ the servants; an’ a bonnie hurly-burly was set up as this ane an’ the ither ane wondered hoo he had got in.
“That’s your negligence, Willie Johnston,” said an auld leddy dressed in black, that appeared to be the hoosekeeper; “I’m sure ye needna hae been sae thochtless as that, particularly at a time when the major’s lookit for every minute.”
This was addressed to the keeper o’ the lodge, that had come up to the big hoose wi’ his wife at the hoosekeeper’s invitation, to while awa the nicht wi’ a cup o’ tea an’ a dram. Willie Johnston fell a swearin’, an’ was aboot to lay violent hands on Joe, when the butler, a wee fat birsy body, but no bad-hearted, ordered him to desist; and seeing the nicht was sae cauld an’ wat, he brocht Joe into the kitchen, and thinkin’ him a cadger, he set doun baith bread, meat, an’ beer before him, tellin’ him to look alive, for it wadna do to stay lang there. The hoosekeeper didna offer ony objection to this, as mony a ane wad hae dune; but to tell the truth, it seems that the twa were unco gracious, for when the tane took whisky, the tither took yill—sae that settles that. When Joe had sat for a while preein’ the mercies set before him, ane o’ them—the laundry-maid—gi’en a wistfu’ look at Joe’s drum an’ pan-pipes, said she hadna haen a dance since gude kens the time, an’ the cook, an’ the kitchen-maid, an’ a young crater o’ a flunkey, expressed themsel’s in a similar manner.
“A dance!” cried the hoosekeeper, makin’ a pretence o’ being angry. “A bonnie daft-like thing it wad be to welcome hame the laird wi’ a drum an’ pan-pipes, as if he were the keeper o’ a wild-beast show. A fiddle michtna be sae bad.”
Joe saw what was wanted. It was only a quiet invitation to play for naething; sae he took a lang heavy pull at the beer-jug, an’ syne struck up a lilt that set them a’ up on their feet thegither. An’ sae on he played, tune after tune, until a breathin’ time was ca’ed; an’ the whisky an’ beer in plenty were again gaun round, when the gate-bell was rung wi’ great violence.
“Flee for yer life to the gate, Willie Johnston,” cried the hoosekeeper, “an’ stop that skirlin’. I’m sure I never expected him the nicht noo, when it’s sae late. What’s to be dune? Haste ye, Sally, to the major’s room, an’ on wi’ a fire like winkin’!” and in an instant a’ was confusion, an’ every ane stannin’ in each ither’s road.
The soond o’ carriage wheels was heard comin’ up the avenue, and the lood gruff voice o’ Major Gilroy cursing the carelessness o’ the lodge-keeper startled every ane there, but nane mair sae than Joe; for that voice brocht back the past in a’ its terrible reality, an’ he kent the crisis was comin’ wi’ a crash either for him or his auld relentless oppressor. But him and his pan-pipes were then as completely forgotten by the servants as if they had never been there. But as quietness was at last restored, an’ the major had shut himsel’ up in his room, wi’ a stern injunction to the butler that he wasna to be disturbed wi’ supper or onything else that nicht, an’ threatenin’ instant dismissal to the first that gied him ony cause o’ annoyance, Joe asked the hoosekeeper, wi’ a palpitatin’ heart, if he micht gang noo.