Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XIII Part 26

"In that case," said the soldier, "I would advise you to leave this directly, and go to some place of greater safety."

The sisters told him that they had, for some time, meant to do so, and that they intended going to Glasgow to reside.

What subsequently pa.s.sed, on this eventful night, between the sisters and their gallant protector, we will detail as briefly as we can, in order to get at a more interesting part of our story. Having again secured the door, the soldier sat with his hostesses by the fire till daylight, when, having previously partaken of a plentiful breakfast, he prepared to take the road. Just as he was about to leave the house, the youngest sister approached him, and, after again expressing her grat.i.tude for the protection he had afforded them, slipped ten guineas into his hand. The soldier looked at the glittering coins for an instant, with a significant smile, and laying them down on a table that stood by--

"Not a farthing," he said--"not a farthing shill I take. I consider myself sufficiently paid by the shelter you afforded me. I was bound to protect you while under your roof. By admitting me last night you saved my live--and I have saved yours; so accounts are clear between us. This, at any rate," he added laughingly, "will balance them." And, soldier-like, he flung his arms around Jane's neck, and, ere she was aware, had robbed her of half-a-dozen hearty kisses.

This theft committed, he ran out of the door; but was almost immediately after called back again by the elder sister, who, on his return, informed him, that, as Jane intended going into Glasgow on that day, to inform her uncle of what had happened, and to make arrangements for their instant removal from Braehead, she thought her sister could not do better than avail herself of his company to the city, and go in with him just now. "Besides," she said, "I should like you to see our uncle, if you would be so good as take a step that length with Jane, as you will be able to give a better account of the occurrences of last night than she can, and may better convince him of the necessity of our leaving this instantly. Indeed, I do not know if he would believe our story at all of being attacked last night, unless you were to corroberate it. He would think it was just an invention to get away, as he knows of our anxiety to leave this."

The soldier was delighted with the proposal, and did not attempt to conceal the satisfaction he felt at having Jane, who, as we have already said, was a very pretty girl, for a companion into the city.

In a few minutes Jane was prepared for the journey, and in a very few more she and the young soldier were upon the road; and, as the storm had now entirely subsided, they got on without much difficulty. What conversation pa.s.sed between them on this occasion, we know not, and can only conjecture from the result, which will be shortly laid before the reader. That it was of a description, however, very agreeable to both, there can be no doubt.

In the meantime, our business is to follow them into Glasgow, where they arrive in little more than a couple of hours.

On reaching her uncle's with her companion, Jane was greatly disappointed and rather surprised, to learn from one of her little cousins--its mother being out of the way at the moment--that Davidson was not at home, that he had gone to the country on the previous night, and had not yet returned.

"Then where's your brother;" inquired Jane.

"He's gone to the country, too," said the child.

"Is he with your father?"

"Yes."

"Did he go last night also?"

"Yes."

"And don't you know where they went to, or when they will be home?"

The child could not tell.

At this moment the mother of the child came in, and at once accounted for the absence of her husband and son, by saying that they had got work at a distance of some miles from the town, naming the place, and that she expected them home that day, although she could not say when.

As the days were short, and her uncle's return uncertain, Jane resolved on going straight home again, and proposing to her sister that they should, for that night, at any rate, remove, taking all their money along with them, to the friend of their father's already alluded to, whose name was Anderson. And this step the sisters accordingly took.

Leaving them thus disposed of for a short time, we shall return to their uncle's house in Glasgow; and, by doing so, we shall find there some things of a very extraordinary character occurring. Shortly after Jane had left her uncle's that person came home, but he returned a very different man from what he had set out. Strong, hale, and erect, though somewhat stricken in years, when he went away he now appeared, as he approached his own house, ghastly pale, bent nearly double, and dreadfully weak and exhausted. He seemed, in short, to be suffering from some excruciating pain. He could hardly get along without supporting himself by the walls of the houses he pa.s.sed. On entering his own house, he went directly to bed, without speaking to any one, further than telling his wife that he was very ill--that he had received a severe injury by falling down amongst some loose timber, a pointed piece of which, he said, had penetrated his chest. His wife, in great alarm, proposed sending instantly for a surgeon; but this the wounded man would by no means allow--saying that his wound, though painful, was not, he thought, very serious, and that he had no doubt he would soon recover. A few hours afterwards, however, finding himself getting much worse, he not only allowed, but desired, that a surgeon should be sent for. One was immediately procured. On examining the wound, he inquired of Davidson how he had met with it. He was told, in reply, the same story which we have just related.

"That cannot be true," said the surgeon. "Your wound has not been inflicted by a splinter of wood, but by a sharp three-edged instrument.

It is a clean wound, and has all the appearance of having been inflicted with a bayonet or some such weapon. Indeed I feel quite a.s.sured of this, whatever may be your motives for concealing it."

Davidson repeated his a.s.severations of having come by his injury by falling on a pointed piece of wood.

"Well, well, sir, my business is not how or by what means your wound has been inflicted, but how it is to be cured," (During this time he was examining the injury.) "But I fear," he added, "it is beyond my skill, or that of any other human being. Your wound, I have every reason to think, is mortal."

"Do you think so?" said the patient with great calmness and composure.

"I certainly do," replied the surgeon, "and I think it my duty to tell you, that, if you have any worldly affairs to settle, the sooner you set about it the better."

The patient made no reply for some time, but seemed absorbed in thought.

At length he said--

"Could you, sir, procure me a visit from a clergyman? I know none myself, and it may be of consequence that I should see one. I have something of importance to communicate."

The surgeon readily undertook to bring such a person as the dying man desired to see, and immediately departed for that purpose, having previously promised, at the earnest request of the sufferer himself, that he would return along with him. "I wish to have you both together,"

he said, "It will be better that there are two."

In less than half-an-hour after, the surgeon returned with one of the clergymen of the city. The moment they entered, Davidson requested the former to shut the door, and to see that it was properly secured. This done, he requested them to draw near him, when he began, in a low voice, the astounding confession that it was he who had attempted to break into the house of his nieces, and that it was he whom the soldier had stabbed on that occasion. All this, indeed, the surgeon had previously suspected; for he had heard of the attempted robbery, and of one of the ruffians having been stabbed with a bayonet by a soldier; but did not, till now, know anything of the relationship of the parties. Thus much the dying man confessed; but he would not say, though pressed to tell, who was his a.s.sociate in the crime. This person, however, was subsequently ascertained, beyond all doubt, to have been his son, as he never came home, nor was ever afterwards seen or heard of by any one who knew him. Having made this confession, the wretched man expired, and that even before one word of intercession could be offered up in his behalf by the attending clergyman.

Having brought this incident to a close, we return to the two sisters, who were now residing with their father's friend, Anderson. This worthy man now took an active interest in their affairs; and, approving of their original intention of removing to Glasgow, did all he could to further their views in this respect, by selling off the cattle, farming utensils, &c., and stock of every kind.

Some days after their settlement in Glasgow, their friend Anderson called on them, and remarked, in the course of conversation with them, that he thought, now that they were all snug and safe, something ought to be done for the soldier to whom they owed, not only a great part of their little fortune, but in all probability their lives. At this moment the young soldier entered. During the conversation that followed, Mr.

Anderson discovered that the young man would willingly be quit of the army. This discovery he kept in recollection; and, when the soldier left them, he proposed to the sisters to purchase his discharge, and to do so without his knowledge. This was accordingly done on the very next day; and in three weeks afterwards, Henry Johnston (which was the young soldier's name), and Jane Edmonston were united in the bands of holy wedlock. The former, whose dislike of the army, it subsequently appeared, applied only to its subordinate situation--more definitely speaking, to the condition of a private--soon after purchased a lieutenant's commission with part of his wife's money, and finally died a lieutenant-colonel, leaving behind him the reputation of a good man and a gallant soldier.

END OF VOL. XIII