Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XVII Part 18

"Oh, how can you say so?" she returned, and bending down her head, became visibly agitated. And yet poor Christina knew not, even now, that she loved Charles Gordon: she understood not the true cause of the beatings of her disturbed heart. He looked at her. As he looked, a momentary smile pa.s.sed over his features, which was soon exchanged for an expression of deep sorrow, as he thought of the lonely widow, bending over the lifeless form of her lost son. The sad story was related to the rest of the party, and all cheerfulness for the time was at an end.

This was destined to be an eventful day. Another calamity--and one that, although it was not attended with fatal results, affected Charles more than that which had occurred--was yet to take place. We have said that there were some remarkable caves at this place, which had long been objects of interest to the traveller and excursionist. One there is in particular, called the Devil's Cave, which penetrates far into the heart of the rock, on the face of which lies its entrance. From the steepness of the path which leads into this cavern, it is rarely visited by tourists. The party, however, with perhaps more curiosity than prudence, determined to explore and visit this cave. A female guide was procured, and a candle supplied to each person. All being ready, in single file they entered the mouth of the cavern, carefully groping their way, not without difficulty. Miss Anderson soon lost courage, and turned back, stating that she and Mr Cunningham would return to the inn at Elie, and prepare tea; the other two resolved to proceed along with the guide. The aperture through which they had to pa.s.s became at length so low, and so narrow, that a consultation was held, and it was agreed that it would be prudent to return. Charles now led the way as they retraced their steps. He had not proceeded far when he heard a heavy fall, and turning quickly round, beheld, to his horror, Christina stretched upon the humid soil of the cavern; her eyes were closed, and her candle had fallen from her hand. Whether bad air had struck her down or not, he could not tell. For an instant he believed her to be dead, but, bending over her, he perceived that she breathed. What was now to be done?

Only one plan lay before him which he could adopt. Giving his candle to the guide, and directing her to keep in front of him, holding the light so as he could see, he raised Miss Cunningham in his arms, and with all the strength he was master of, bore her along in the direction of the entrance.

The roof of the cave was so low, that it was impossible to maintain an upright position, and his strength so entirely failed him that he was obliged to stop and take a rest before he could proceed with his precious burden. On reaching the mouth or entrance of the now detested cave, signs of returning consciousness began to appear in the poor sufferer. On breathing the fresh air of heaven, she opened her eyes for a moment, then closed them again, drawing several long and apparently painful respirations. Charles placed her on a gra.s.sy bank, and seating himself beside her, supported her by placing his arm round her waist. The guide was despatched for water. By and by, Christina, looking round, said with her own sweet smile, "I am better now." Charles pressed the form of her whom he already loved so well, to himself, and then a.s.sisting her to rise, with slow and measured steps they returned to Elie.

"You are very tired, I fear, and I am the cause," said Christina, as she leaned on Charles's arm, turning her face to his.

For a moment their eyes met, those of Christina fell, while a shade of colour tinged her still pallid face. She had met a look in Charles's face that she had never seen there before. She again relapsed into silence.

Charles, in reply to her remark, uttered something that was inaudible; the name of "Christina," however, was subst.i.tuted for that of "Miss Cunningham."

Any endeavour to conceal what had occurred would have been useless. The pale face of the sufferer plainly told that she had been ill, and general was the consternation of all on hearing what had happened. Charles resigned her to the care of Miss Anderson and the hostess, and, pa.s.sing to the little parlour of the village inn, flung himself on the sofa in a state of complete exhaustion.

Long he remained buried in thought. At length his good nature and compa.s.sion prompted him to visit once more the poor, childless widow, while preparations were being made for their return to Anstruther. She was alone with the body of her idiot son. Carefully had she cleansed away the blood and dust from his face, which now appeared to exhibit more intelligence in death than it had done in life.

As Charles entered, the poor Irish widow exclaimed,--"May the blessing of the Great G.o.d, who is above us this day, be about ye, and wid ye for ever and ever, my jewel young gentleman!" She held in her hand the money that he had left for her, and added, "Sure isn't there enough here for the poor lone widow, to buy her darlint son a dacent coffin for to lay him in the could earth, in the land of the stranger, before she goes far, far away, to a land beyant the rowling say (referring to America). You've given me money when I wanted it sore, an' the blessin' of the lone widow woman will be wid you wherever ye go; but none can give me back my boy! Oh, Patrick, jewel!

why did ye die? Och, my poor boy! my poor boy! my poor boy!"

The tears came into Charles's eyes as he listened to this pathetic lamentation, but longer he could not remain. He succeeded, however, in learning that she had resolved to accede to a proposal of her sister's, to join her in America, which his gift had provided her with the means of accomplishing.

The drive to Anstruther was speedily made out, and in few days Miss Cunningham was quite restored to her usual state of health and enjoyment.

Time rolled on. The _Arethusa_ has sailed. Mr Gordon has returned to Deptford, and resumed his ordinary duties. Has all intercourse ceased between him and Miss Cunningham? a.s.suredly not. Many a kind letter has pa.s.sed between them. She has been to England visiting his sister, at that sister's kind invitation, and is come back to Anstruther. Charles has proposed to her, and been accepted, and has obtained a special licence for their marriage. He comes back to Anstruther to claim his bride.

If you, my reader, were at this moment greedily perusing a modern novel, you would here be gratified by a very romantic and touching account, three or four pages long at least, of the meeting of the two ardent lovers after a long separation; smiles and tears, sighs and sobs, broken accents, protestations of eternal love and fidelity, and all that sort of thing.

Here you will find nothing of the kind. I very much doubt myself as to whether anything of the kind took place in this instance at all; I rather imagine the meeting was a calm and quietly happy one, without anything strikingly romantic or stage-like about it. But even suppose there had been, and that I had been present to see, (which, by the by, would have been an awkward enough situation for me, or any other third party, to have found himself in) ought we to have disclosed it? Certainly not; such a scene, every one knows, ought to be strictly private and confidential Suffice it then to say, that doubtless both, parties found themselves extremely comfortable and happy.

Let me now convey you, in thought, backwards one hundred and fourteen years, and place you in the street of Pittenweem, opposite the Scottish Episcopal Chapel. We see a crowd; let us inquire what is the occasion of it.

"What is this crowd collecting for, so early this morning?"

"There's going to be a wedding, ma'am."

"Do you know whose wedding it is?"

"No ma'am, I don't; I'm only here to keep order--nothing else to do with it."

It is some time since we have seen a wedding, suppose we go into church.

Here we are. We shall have a nice view of them from that front pew in the gallery. How tastefully the chapel is decorated with foliage and flowers!

Make haste! I hear the carriages coming, that will do. Wait! here they come, only fancy, it's Christina Cunningham, and--Who? Charles Gordon, I declare. How nicely he looks in his naval uniform. Then the reports were all true. Poor Christina! she's very much agitated. I suppose being married must be rather nervous work. The clergyman who is marrying them is a relation of the bridegroom's--he's rector of a large parish near Deptford--how beautifully he reads. And there is our dear old clergyman, Mr Spence, a.s.sisting him, how happy he looks. They say he has known the bride since she was an infant, and the bridegroom for some time. There!--she's no longer Christina Cunningham! I wonder where they are going to after breakfast? Blessings on them both!

FOOTNOTES:

[I] On account of the many accidents which happen almost yearly at the Carr Rock, some plan for marking its dangerous locality has long been an object of deep solicitude. The writer recollects of a round tower of some height having been built on the rock, on the same principle as that on the Bell Rock, but it was soon overthrown by the first winter's storm, because there was not a sufficient surface of rock at the base to admit of a strong enough building being placed upon it. But might not an erection be made of strong bars of iron, and a large bell placed on its summit, with an iron cylinder in the centre, perforated with holes to admit the sea water?

Within the cylinder let a powerful floater be placed, which by the perpetual action of the tides' ebb and flow, would cause the bell to ring, and so give timeous warning of danger near. Or, another method might be adopted, viz., Let a steady officer be stationed at Fifeness, whose duty it should be to fire a gun, say a six or eight-pounder, at short intervals in snow storms, or in thick and foggy weather, when neither the land during the day, nor the stars or lights at night, can be seen. In either way the expense would be trifling, and the benefit might be great. Captains of steamers and of other vessels enveloped in the fog would then, on hearing the sound of the bell or gun, know where they were, and would take their bearings from Fifeness accordingly.

[J] The principles of banking seem to have been imperfectly understood in our fathers' days, for it appears that, at the Anstruther branch, there was a certain fixed sum _per month_ allotted for bills to be discounted. When that sum was exhausted, it mattered not what further sum was wanted, there were no more discounts allowed that month. It followed, that the most _needy_ were always, at the beginning of the month, the _earliest_ customers, and, consequently, post-due bills became the rule, retired bills the exception. Under these circ.u.mstances, it is not difficult to foresee what would be the result. The bank was closed at no distant period, and the agent, it is said, lost L1500 of his own money. No other banking company attempted to establish a bank in Anstruther till May 1832, when the National Bank of Scotland opened a branch under the management of Mr F.

Conolly, town-clerk, which he conducted successfully for twenty-five years.

A handsome new building has lately been erected for the use of this bank.

Two other branch banks have been opened in the town.

[K] There were two vessels belonging to the company, one named the _Hawk_, and the other the _Rising Sun_. The _Hawk_ was lost on her first voyage, and Bailie Meldrum--some time chief magistrate of Anstruther-Wester--one of the crew, lost the toes of both his feet by frost-bite. The undertaking did not prove a successful one; the company was dissolved; and the premises, which were sold to the late John Miller, senior, shipowner in Anstruther, afterwards became, as I said, the property of Mr Todd.

A LEGEND OF CALDER MOOR.

It was a beautiful evening in the month of September--the air still and serene, forming a delightful change from the sultry heat of the day, which had been oppressive in the extreme. Nature seemed to have redoubled her energies; the swallows twittered cheerfully over the small pond; the bees returned laden with the rich fruits of their industry, humming their satisfaction; the heath sent its fragrance around; and the few sheep that Simon Wallace attended were nibbling earnestly the stunted gra.s.s, having spent the greater part of the day in the shade of a small knoll, listless from the heat which oppressed them. In the midst stood Simon, enjoying the scene around him, which, barren and desolate as it might be in the eyes of a stranger, was to him the loveliest spot in the universe; nor would he have bade it farewell to dwell in the most fertile vale in the Lothians.

Here he had been born sixty summers before, and here he had enjoyed as much of happiness as falls to the lot of man. Humble and content, his wishes were bounded by the few acres of moss land that his fathers had reclaimed from the waste, and his knowledge of the busy world that lay beyond the hills that bounded the horizon around his humble cottage, was derived from a few books. Farther than the next market-town, Mid-Calder, he had never been, save upon one occasion--an important epoch in his life--when, upon some business of importance, concerning his lease, he had visited the capital, the wonders of which had been a never-failing subject of discourse at his humble hearth; yet, Simon was not ignorant, for he made good profit of the few books he could procure; and there was one--the fountain of all knowledge--he knew so well, that even Esdras, the holy scribe, could scarcely have found him at fault, in pointing out all the most beautiful of the inspired pa.s.sages. His constant companion, he had been reading it on the hill for the last hour, and now, before retiring to his home for the night, he stood there in mental prayer, his face turned to the setting sun, which sunk beyond a sea of clouds, tinged with the most gorgeous colours, and his mind away among the bright realms of eternal felicity. A faint breeze had arisen, and the heavy clouds began to sail along, denoting rain, when he gave his orders to his faithful dog, to gather his sheep for the night, and urged him to be active, to enable him to proceed home before the shower came on. Looking along in the direction of the road that led through the moor, he thought he could perceive, at a considerable distance, three objects, urging their way forward; and, through the gloom, he with difficulty made them out to be a man and two females upon horseback. A feeling of surprise crossed his mind, as he saw travellers journeying over the moor, at a period when it was not usual, except upon urgent business, to leave Mid-Calder at a late hour, and proceed along roads almost impa.s.sable, with no other prospect than a night journey, in dangerous and troubled times. Musing on the circ.u.mstance, he had just reached the road on his way to his cottage, when the travellers came up and accosted him with an inquiry if they could find shelter for the night, as they had been overtaken by the storm, and one of the females had been taken suddenly ill since they had left the last town. With an apology for the poorness of his accommodation, Simon made them welcome to his home, and led the way homewards. Neither of the females spoke; but he thought he heard one of them utter, at intervals, a stifled groan, while the other supported her on her saddle, and the male led her horse over the rough path to prevent its stumbling. A few minutes brought them to the house, and they were soon seated by the blazing hearth, while Helen Wallace was busy preparing for them some humble refreshments; but the lady continued to become worse--she had been taken in labour, prematurely, as the female said, from the fatigue of travelling. She appeared to be of a rank far above her companions, who treated her with lowly attentions; but there was something harsh and forbidding in the manner and appearance of the man, which made Helen quail, and feel uneasy in his presence; and the female, who was above the middle age, and of a masculine appearance, had a harshness of voice and manner, that was disagreeable, even to the rustic wife of the moorland farmer. The young and beautiful female they attended--apparently not above eighteen, pale and dejected, her eyes red and swollen with weeping--had not, as yet, uttered a single word; but, apparently fearful of her attendants, especially the female, who sat close by her at the fire, had cast several stolen and imploring glances at Helen, and seemed anxious to speak, but afraid to give utterance to her thoughts.

The lady rapidly grew worse, and was put into their only spare bed, while Helen requested her husband to take one of the horses and ride to the town for a.s.sistance. This the man promptly forbade--saying, that the other attendant, a skilful woman, was capable of doing all that was required at such a time, with the a.s.sistance of the farmer's wife; that they were on their way to the residence of his master when the present unfortunate illness had occurred much sooner than was expected; that he had in the _valise_ with him everything requisite; and that for any trouble the farmer or his wife might be put to, they should be amply rewarded. The cottage consisted of only one apartment, divided by a hallen or thin part.i.tion, which did not extend beyond the centre of the floor, to protect the fire-place from the blasts of winter; and Simon and the stranger retired to a small distance from the door, where they stood and saw the full moon rising in grandeur in the east. In vain the farmer endeavoured to gain any information from his companion of who the strangers were, and whither they were going. He got only an evasive answer. His position was extraordinary and uncomfortable. Three hours had pa.s.sed: no person appeared from the house; his unsocial acquaintance scarcely spoke; a scowl in his eye, and a shade of ferocity in his countenance, alarmed him; his whole soul, sometimes intent upon some signal from the cottage, at other periods became absent; and he clutched at the sword that hung by his side, as if he meant to draw it and attack the farmer, endeavouring again, in a husky voice, to make an apology for the inconvenience they had put him to. At length Helen came to the door, and requested them to come into the house, for the lady was now better.

"What has she got?" inquired Simon.

"Two beautiful boys as ever I saw," answered the wife; "--but one of them is dead, and the mother is very weak."

While this and some other conversation pa.s.sed between the farmer and his wife, the man and the woman were busy whispering at the other end of the house; but they at length approached the hearth and partook of some refreshment which had been prepared for them. The farmer offered the female, for the remainder of the night, the use of their only other bed; but both the man and the woman objected to this proposition--saying, that they preferred to sit by the hearth and attend to their mistress, and requesting that their hosts should retire to it themselves. This they did, and soon both fell into a sound sleep. Helen awoke about two hours afterwards, and, to her astonishment, found that neither of the two attendants was in the cottage. She arose and went to the bed of the sick lady, who lay apparently in a deep and troubled sleep, with the babe in her bosom. She looked for the body of its brother; but it was gone. She felt alarmed, and gently awaking Simon, in a whisper told him to arise. He was soon dressed, and, on going out, found that the strangers were gone, the horses were away, and with them everything that had been brought, even to the dress the lady had worn upon her arrival. In great anxiety they approached the bed: the lady still appeared in a deep sleep; her breathing was heavy and laborious, every attempt to awaken her was in vain; her eyes were opened and closed unconsciously, and without a word of utterance.

"Surely," said Helen, with clasped hands, "that woman hasna poisoned the puir young creature wi' that mixture she requested me to gie her just before I ca'ed you into the house. She said it was to compose her to sleep.

She had offered it to the lady hersel, who, being afraid o' her, wadna taste it. Then she gave me the cup, and I offered it. O Simon! what a piteous look she threw upon me, as she said, 'From you I will take anything; you, I know, will not do me harm'--and she drank it from my hands. Surely, surely, I am not guilty of her blood, if death was in that cup!"

Here the poor woman sank upon the side of the bed in a pa.s.sion of tears, while Simon stood the image of horror, gazing alternately upon his wife and the unconscious lady in the bed. Sinking upon his knees, he prayed for counsel in this hour of distress, and his mind became more calm and collected.

"Helen," said he, "you will not be afraid to stay by the poor young creature, while I go and catch Mally, and ride as fast as she can carry me to the manse, and bring the minister, who is a skilful man, and who, perhaps, may be able to do something for the sufferer; at least, he will advise us what is best for us to do in this hour of need."

"I will, indeed, be eerie," answered Helen--"very eerie; but do mak all the haste ye can, and I will tent baith mother and bairn until ye return."

In a very short time, the farmer was on his way to the manse, and soon, along with the minister, on his return to his cottage; but, before they arrived, the victim had breathed her last sigh.

Helen was at the door, weeping and wringing her hands. She blamed herself as being the cause of the young mother's death; nor was it until after the minister had prayed, and a.s.sured her that no guilt could attach to her, that she became composed. On his way to the cottage, the farmer had informed him of every circ.u.mstance, as far as it had happened under his own eye:--That the young lady had been very ill; that the female appeared expert at her duty, and kept Helen as much at a distance from her patient as she could; that the young creature wished her much to be near her, as if she had something to communicate; but the attendant always told her, in a harsh manner, that it was improper for her to speak, and found always some excuse to send her from the bedside; that the lady appeared to be in great awe of her; and that the first boy, the one that was alive, Helen kept at the hearth until the other came; that she heard it cry once, and inquired what it was, when the a.s.sistant said it was also a boy, but dead, and she threw it from her upon the bed; that, after a time, she took a vial from her pocket, and poured it into a cup, requesting the lady to drink it, as it was a composing draught, but she put it away from her; and that the poor murdered creature was persuaded by Helen to accept it at her hands.

The minister having drawn up a circ.u.mstantial detail of all the circ.u.mstances narrated, bade the sorrowing couple adieu, and departed, to send one of his maids to a.s.sist Helen, and to stay with her through the day. He vowed to make the horrid transaction as public as possible, in hopes of discovering the two wretches and their employer, and promised to call in the evening, and direct what was further to be done. He rode direct to Mid-Calder; and, on inquiry at the hostelry, if any such travellers had been there the day before, found that they had pa.s.sed through the town, only stopping to bait their horses, and no particular attention had been paid to them by the landlord of the house. Here his inquiries necessarily terminated. In the meantime, Helen and her a.s.sistant had been employed laying out the corpse of the murdered woman, and tending the orphan boy.

Tied by a silken cord, a curious gold ring, of ma.s.sive workmanship, was suspended from her neck, and lay resting upon her bosom.

"A true love-gift," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Helen, "an exchange o' plighted faiths.

Dearly had you loved the giver, for, even in sore distress and death it lay upon thy bosom. Cruelly has your love been requited; but rest in peace--your sorrows are past. I will keep this for your babe, and, as soon as he can speak, I will tell him where I found it. I fear it will be a' I will ever be able to inform him of either father or mother." She then placed the ring in her own bosom, until she could shew it to her husband; renewed her offices to the dead; took the babe in her lap, and, weeping over it, resolved, as she thought of its desolate state, without a relation in the world, that, so long as she had life, she would be a parent to it--for death had been a spoiler in her own family of three sons, all of whom it had been her misfortune to bury.

The minister arrived again in the evening. They shewed him the ring, and told where it had been found. He examined it closely; but there were neither armorial bearings nor cypher upon it, to lead even to a guess of the person to whom it had belonged--yet the make and chasing were peculiar, and might lead a person who had once examined it to remember it. The mother was interred; the babe baptized by the name of William, put out to nurse; and the usual routine of the cottage once more restored. The boy grew up under the roof of his kind protectors. To his education the minister paid particular attention, and was proud of his pupil--for William Wallace, as he was called, did honour to the labour bestowed upon him. He was quick to learn, yet his mind was not given to literary pursuits--for he delighted in feats of strife, and dwelt with rapture on the feats of the warrior. Sir William Wallace was the hero of his youthful imagination--and he longed to be of man's stature, only that he might be a soldier. Thus years rolled on.

William was now eighteen years of age; the labour of the farm, in which he engaged, was irksome to him; yet he restrained his inclinations, and toiled on for his benefactors, who had both become so frail that they required his aid. By the time he arrived at his twentieth year, his foster parents died within a few months of each other, and left him possessor of their little wealth. When spring returned, he made known to his benefactor, the minister, his resolution of leaving the moor and going into the busy world.

The stock was turned into cash, and William, bidding a long adieu to the scenes of his youth, set off for the capital, accompanied by the prayers of the good man for his success. Since the death of his protectors he had worn his mother's ring, and he had a vague hope that it might, by some way or other, lead to a discovery of his parents, and enable him to avenge her murder. All the mild lessons of his teacher upon this point had been vain.

His mind dwelt with a gloomy satisfaction upon a just retribution. At times his feelings rose to agony--the idea that the guilty individual might be his own parent, often flashed across his mind and made him love his ignorance; but, nature prevailing, his wonted desire recurred again, and, musing thus, he rode on towards Edinburgh, now with the reins resting upon his horse's neck; and then, when urged by his troubled mind, urging forward his steed. He stopped at the borders of the moor, and turned towards the scenes so dear to him, where he had pa.s.sed what of his life had gone by in innocence and peace. For the first time, he felt alone in the world; and a few involuntary tears fell from his eyes--a token of regret due to the memory of departed worth, and a pleasing recollection of scenes endeared to him by many tender a.s.sociations. Thus in pensive meditation he rode on, undetermined as to his future mode of life. Prior to his setting out, everything had appeared to his imagination of easy execution; but now he began to encounter difficulties he had never dreamed of before; and the sight of Edinburgh, which he reached before nightfall, did not diminish them. The vastness of the city overpowered him; the stateliness of the buildings appeared to him the work of giants; and he almost shrank from entering it, through a feeling of his own littleness. In his approach, his eyes had been constantly fixed upon the buildings of the Castle, perched high above the town, and crowning the almost circular, bold, and craggy rocks on which it stands. Along the line of houses to the east, that stretched farther than his eye could trace, the setting sun threw his departing rays, and innumerable windows glanced like burnished gold; while the diadem-shaped spire of St Giles', towering above all, in the centre, seemed to proclaim her the queen of cities. With all the impatience of youth, he urged on his horse, expecting to see all the inhabitants of so fair a place themselves fair. But scarce had he entered the West-Port gate, when his feelings were shocked to witness, on every side, squalid misery and wretchedness, and every token of poverty and vice. He put up for the night at one of the many inns of the Gra.s.smarket; and, revolving in his mind what he had already seen, retired to bed.

Early next morning, he arose, dressed, and sallied forth to gratify his curiosity; but, with no one to whom he could communicate the feelings that every new object awakened, he felt solitary among the surrounding crowds.

On the second day after his arrival, as he walked in the Meadows, he observed among the crowd of well-dressed pedestrians that thronged the walks, an elderly gentleman, who eyed him with marked attention. William's curiosity was excited, and he threw himself again in his way. The old gentleman bowed.

"I beg pardon," said he--"may I be so bold as to request your name?--for I feel as if you and I had not now met for the first time. Yet it cannot be; for it is now above twenty years since that time, and you do not appear to be more than that time old."