Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XIII Part 24

"Thanks, dear Richie!--this is more than I deserved. Now I shall die happy."

"Speak nae mair, Ned; ye heard what the doctor said."

"But I _must_ speak, Richie, while time is mine. Oh, that a few years were allowed me, to prove my repentance sincere! But I feel that is not to be. Death is before me, Richie, and I see things in a very different light now. You were always better than me; you were frank, and open, and confiding; I was a proud, revengeful hypocrite, and I hated you because I always _felt_ myself to be one when you were near me. When you struck me to the earth, the feeling of revenge was aroused within me; but it was long before I could contrive how to gratify it. At last I thought of Ellen Grey; I knew you loved her, and I fancied she had deserted me for you; I determined to be revenged upon you both. I wooed and won, and then deserted her. But the terrors of an accusing conscience went with me, and I had resolved to return homewards, when the accident occurred.

Richard, I am dying! Cruel and revengeful as I have been, can you still forgive me?"

"I do, I do, from my heart," sobbed Richard.

"Bless you for saying so! Now leave me to my own thoughts, that I may make my peace with Heaven."

Next morning Edward c.u.mmin was no more. Goldie was with him in his last moments, and was gratified by the conviction that he departed in a happy frame of mind. After having attended the remains to their last home, he gave up his intention of going abroad, and turned his steps homeward.

Having arrived, he sought Ellen, and communicated to her the sad news.

His love for her was as strong as ever; and all obstacles to their union having been removed, they were soon afterwards wedded--a union very different from the former marriage into which Ellen had been betrayed.

THE DREAM.

The war of reason against the prejudices of superst.i.tion has been a long one. It followed on the heels of the crusades of superst.i.tion against reason. How different the spirit, tactics, and results of the two!

Cruelty, injustice, blood, the burning stake, and an _increase_ of the strength of the persecuted, on the one side; on the other, argument, persuasion, and, at the worst, a harmless satire, with the almost _total extinction_ of the cowardly foe, who, having no refuge but in the dark recesses of ignorance, required only to be brought to light to suffer extermination. Auguries and divinations ruled the world for two thousand years, and were put an end to by the Christian faith, which left untouched the power of witches, ghosts, and dreams. The first of these, notwithstanding all the probation of King James, have perished; the second, maugre the arguments of Johnson, have left this earth; but the third, which has had a thousand supporters between Artemant Milesius and Lord Monboddo, still retain some authority in the world. We support them not; but we subscribe to the opinion of Peter Bayle, who stated, in reference to the reality of the dream of the Spanish Jesuit, Maldonat, there are many things appertaining to dreams which have troubled and perplexed strong spirits more than they have been ever willing to confess. We are now to add one instance more to those of which the same author has said the world is almost already full; but we again protest against the inference of our own belief in oneirology.

About half-way between the towns of Hamilton and Glasgow, there stand, at the distance of about a quarter-of-a-mile from the highway, and on the left as you approach the latter place, the remains of what was once a small farmhouse. It is now long since the last inhabitant left this little humble domicile, whose handful of ruins would perhaps excite but little attention from the pa.s.ser-by, were they not so delightfully and conspicuously situated. They stand on the very extremity and summit of a beautiful green promontory, of considerable height, that projects into and overlooks a lovely strath, skirted with wood, and through which winds one of the prettiest and best trouting streams in Scotland. The situation, therefore, of these humble ruins invests them with an interest which would by no means attach to them, were they situated in a less romantic locality.

Of the farmhouse of which we speak there now remain only one of the gables and a portion of the side-walls; but, if your curiosity tempt you to further investigation, you may still trace the limits of the little _kail-yard_, which lay immediately behind it; and, struggling for an obscure existence with the rude bramble, which has now usurped the place of the homely but civilised vegetation of the little garden, may be seen a solitary rose, the last and almost only trace of its former cultivation. The little garden, in short, is now all but obliterated, and can only be distinguished by the low irregular green mound--once its wall--that forms the boundary of its limits.

There is nothing in all this, perhaps, to excite any particular interest; for we have rarely any sympathy for the humble and the lowly.

In the case of such vestiges of bygone days as those alluded to, it is only the ruined castle, the half-filled moat, and the crumbling walls of mighty masonry, that excite our curiosity, and set our imagination to work--not the handful of loose stones that once formed the cottage of the obscure peasant, not the little rudely-cultivated patch that formed his Eden. These are by far too commonplace and too undignified to attract a moment's notice, or to excite a moment's interest. Yet the cottage has its tale as well as the castle, as we will presently show.

About the year 1760, the farmhouse of which we have spoken was inhabited by John Edmonstone--a man of excellent character, and who, humble as his station was, had contrived, in the course of a long life of industry and economy, to sc.r.a.pe together a very considerable sum of money, besides a good deal of property invested in stock, such as cattle, grain, farming implements, &c. The former--namely, the cash--according to the good old custom of Scotland, amongst John's cla.s.s, was stowed into a stocking-foot, which again was stowed into a certain hole in the wall, known only to the members of the family. But, ign.o.ble and odd as this depository may seem, it yet contained no inconsiderable treasure, and that not a whit the worse or less valuable for the homeliness of its abode. In one end of the stocking aforesaid was a bulbous swelling, as large as a well-sized fist. This contained a tempting store of bright and shining guineas, to the number of about, perhaps, 250. These being at once confined and secured by a string tightly tied round the stocking, produced the appearance above alluded to. Next followed, but in the same general depository--namely, the stocking--a huge conglomeration of crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, to the amount of about 50 more, which were also secured by a tight ligature--thus giving, if there had been another link or two to the stocking, something the appearance of a string of sausages.

At the period of our story, John Edmonstone was a widower, with two daughters--the one, at this time, about twenty, the other some four or five years older. They were both unmarried, and lived with their father.

Jane Edmonstone, the younger of the two, was a very pretty and interesting-looking girl. Her sister Mary did not possess such striking personal advantages; but this was amply compensated by a pleasant manner and a kind and gentle disposition. For many years these relatives lived happily together, in their little, lonely cottage at Braehead. They led a sober, industrious, and pious life; for, duly as the evening came round, the "big ha' Bible" was placed on the kitchen-table, and, by the light of a clean and well-trimmed lamp, aided by the blaze of a cheerful fire, John read aloud to his daughters from the sacred page. But the best regulated life must have an end, as well as the most reckless and abandoned. John was suddenly seized with a mortal illness, of which he shortly died, leaving his two daughters sole and equal inheritors of his wealth. The death of their father was a grievous calamity to the two unprotected girls; for they were without relatives--at least, there were none near them--though certainly not without those who wished them well, as they were universally respected in their own neighbourhood, both on their father's account and their own. Yet did they feel, on the death of their only parent, a sense of loneliness and of inability to cope with the world, which at once alarmed and dispirited them, notwithstanding the considerable resources which their father's industry and economy had secured to them. Nor did their local situation tend to lessen the former feeling; for it was a solitary one--the house in which they lived being at a considerable distance from any other habitation. The neighbourhood in which they resided, moreover, was a loose one. It was filled with coal-miners and coal-carters--the latter, in particular, a brutal, ruffian race; and to all these the poor solitary women believed it to be well known, as it certainly was to a great many of them, that their father had left them money, and that it was in the house; and thus, to their other fears, was added the dread of their dwelling being broken into, and themselves robbed and murdered.

It was while living in this state of feverish alarm and utter helplessness--for they found they could not conduct the business of the farm--and about a fortnight after the death of their father, that Jane, the youngest of the sisters, suddenly awoke, early in the morning, from a troubled sleep, and sprang from her bed, in an agony of terror and affright, exclaiming, as she hurried on her clothes--

"O Mary, Mary! we'll stay here no longer. Not another day--not another day. I'll go into Glasgow this forenoon, and consult with our uncle about selling off, and removing into the city. We will not stay here, Mary, to be robbed and murdered."

"I am as uneasy remaining here as you can be, Jane," replied her sister, now more than ever alarmed by the latter's wild looks and unusual excitement; "but what is the meaning of this sudden outcry?"

"It does not matter, it does not matter, Mary," said Jane, in great agitation, and still hurrying on her clothes; "but I'll go this day to Glasgow, and consult our uncle." And, without vouchsafing any explanation of the cause of this sudden determination, so peremptorily expressed, she shortly afterwards took a hasty breakfast, and, in a few minutes more, was on the road to Glasgow, a distance of from four to five miles.

The uncle whom Jane proposed to consult on this occasion was a brother of her mother's, named James Davidson. He was in poor circ.u.mstances, and had been so all his life; and, whether from this or some other cause, he had never stood high in the favour of his brother-in-law. He was a hard-featured old man, stern and morose, and without any of that patient forbearance of disposition and manner which gives to age so pleasing and amiable a character. Davidson, as we have said, was poor. He had never been able to improve his circ.u.mstances, or to rise above the condition of a labourer. There he started, and there he was still. Nor did his eldest son promise to be more fortunate in the world. He inherited his father's disposition, which was an unhappy one; was idly inclined; and, somehow or other, could never gain the good-will of any one. Neither Jane nor Mary Edmonstone had ever seen much of their uncle; their father's dislike to him prevented this. Neither did they know much about his circ.u.mstances or character; the same cause preventing all intercourse between the families. They, in short, only knew of their uncle's existence by his frequent applications to their father for the loan of money, which he invariably refused. Still, he was their uncle, and the nearest relative they had, and, in their present circ.u.mstances, they naturally looked on him as the fittest person to consult regarding their affairs, their wishes and intentions. These Jane now laid before the old man, who received her kindly, notwithstanding his usual asperity of manner; telling him, at the same time, that she and her sister were resolved, at all hazards, and at whatever loss, to sell off at Braehead, and take up their residence in Glasgow; "for," said she, "we are day and night in danger of our lives yonder; and besides, we are wholly unable to conduct our father's business--buying and selling cattle--or to carry on the affairs of the farm. These are things that we cannot do--and neither need we, as we have enough to live upon without it. All that we want is safety."

The old man heard her patiently, and it was some time before he made any reply. At length he said--

"Yes, enough to live upon, I daresay you have. How much did your father leave, Jane?--in money, I mean."

"Somewhat about three hundred pounds," replied his niece.

"A good round sum," said the old man, "to be all in hard money. And is it all past you--all in the house?"

"All."

Davidson thought for a moment. Then--"Well, I'll tell you what it is, Jane," he said: "I do not at all approve of your leaving Braehead. If you do so, you throw yourselves at once upon your little capital, which will not last you very long in a town like this, where all would be going out, and nothing coming in--and where would you be when it was exhausted? Now, your byres and farm in the country are a certain source of emolument to you; and, by keeping these, you will make a decent maintenance of it, without encroaching on the funds left you by your father. My advice to you, then, Jane, is, by all means to remain where you are. Hire persons to do your heavy out-of-door work; and, as the distance is not great, I will come out myself once or twice a week, and a.s.sist you with both my personal services and advice."

"Thank you, uncle," replied his niece; "but we really cannot remain at Braehead, on any account. I would not remain in it another week for any consideration."

"No! what for, Jane? What are you afraid of?" said her uncle.

"Of being murdered," replied Jane; "and I have but too good reason to fear it."

"Nonsense, Jane. Who would murder you? What ridiculous fears are these?"'

"But I have a reason, though, for fearing it, uncle," replied his niece, with emphasis.

"Reason!--what reason can you have but your own idle and absurd fears?"

"Yet I have, though, uncle," said Jane, pertinaciously, but appearing somewhat confused and embarra.s.sed.

"What do you mean, girl?" said her uncle, fixing his keen grey eye upon her countenance scrutinisingly; for he observed her embarra.s.sment. "What _is_ this reason of yours for so unreasonable a fear?"

"Well, uncle, I'll tell you what it is at once," replied Jane: "I had a most frightful dream last night. I dreamed that a soldier--a tall, fierce-looking man--broke into our house in the middle of the night, with a drawn bayonet in his hand; that he murdered my sister before my eyes--I saw her blood streaming on the floor; and that, having done this, he seized me by the hair of the head, and was about to plunge his bayonet into my heart, when I awoke. It was a horrible dream, uncle, and has made such an impression on me--it was so fearfully true--that I cannot think of abiding longer in the house. It was this frightful dream that urged me in to see you to-day. I have not told my sister of it; for it would put her distracted."

Jane's uncle listened patiently, but with a smile of contemptuous incredulity, to the strange dream of his niece; and when she had done--

"Pho, pho! what stuff!" he said--"what absurd stuff! How can you be so silly, girl, as even to speak seriously, let alone putting any faith in such nonsense as this?"

"I cannot help it," interrupted Jane.

"Well, well--perhaps you cannot," continued Davidson; "but it is not the less ridiculous for that; and, if it were known, it would certainly get you laughed at. Pay no attention to such trash, Jane. Think no more of it; but return to Braehead, and proceed with your usual occupations, and I will come out in a day or two, to see how you get on."

To this he added the advice which he had already given, and in nearly the same words, but in vain. Nothing could drive the girl from her purpose--from her determination to leave Braehead. Finding this--

"Well, then," said her uncle, "at least remain where you are for a day or two, when I will come out and a.s.sist you in your arrangements, and in the disposal of your effects; you cannot manage these matters yourselves."

To this proposal Jane yielded a reluctant consent, but repeated her determination to leave the place as soon as possible, and to come into Glasgow to reside.

On this understanding, then--namely, that Jane and her sister should remain at Braehead until their uncle came out--the former returned home, when she told Mary of all that had pa.s.sed, excepting what related to her dream, to which, for the reason she had herself a.s.signed, she carefully avoided all allusion. By a very strange coincidence, however--but, though strange, by no means unprecedented--the considerate caution of Jane, in the particular just spoken of, was soon after rendered unavailing. On the very next morning, the elder sister awoke, in an exactly similar state of perturbation with that in which Jane had arisen on that preceding, exclaiming--

"O Jane, Jane! I have had a frightful dream!"

"What was it, Mary?" inquired her sister, in great alarm, recollecting her own frightful vision.

"O Jane!" replied the former, still trembling with terror, "I dreamed that a person in the dress of a soldier broke in at our back-window, and murdered us both. O G.o.d! it was horrible! I think I see you on the floor there, struggling with your murderer, who held a naked dagger in his hand, with which he had already stabbed you in several places."

"Gracious G.o.d protect us!" exclaimed Jane, leaping to the floor, in a state of alarm exceeding even that of her sister. "This is dreadful! Oh, these are fearful warnings! It can no longer be doubted--it can no longer be doubted! O Mary, Mary! I dreamed precisely the same thing last night; and it was that, though I did not tell you, that hurried me in to our uncle yesterday. I told him of my dream; but he treated it with contempt. He will surely now acknowledge that it is a warning not to be slighted."