Вальтер Скотт
The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Complete
“He did not,” he said, “state the impression upon his own mind with the purpose of biassing theirs. He had felt no less than they had done from the scene of domestic misery which had been exhibited before them; and if they, having God and a good conscience, the sanctity of their oath, and the regard due to the law of the country, before their eyes, could come to a conclusion favourable to this unhappy prisoner, he should rejoice as much as anyone in Court; for never had he found his duty more distressing than in discharging it that day, and glad he would be to be relieved from the still more painful task which would otherwise remain for him.”
The jury, having heard the Judge’s address, bowed and retired, preceded by a macer of Court, to the apartment destined for their deliberation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD
Law, take thy victim—May she find the mercy
In yon mild heaven, which this hard world denies her!
It was an hour ere the jurors returned, and as they traversed the crowd with slow steps, as men about to discharge themselves of a heavy and painful responsibility, the audience was hushed into profound, earnest, and awful silence.
“Have you agreed on your chancellor, gentlemen?” was the first question of the Judge.
The foreman, called in Scotland the chancellor of the jury, usually the man of best rank and estimation among the assizers, stepped forward, and with a low reverence, delivered to the Court a sealed paper, containing the verdict, which, until of late years, that verbal returns are in some instances permitted, was always couched in writing. The jury remained standing while the Judge broke the seals, and having perused the paper, handed it with an air of mournful gravity down to the clerk of Court, who proceeded to engross in the record the yet unknown verdict, of which, however, all omened the tragical contents. A form still remained, trifling and unimportant in itself, but to which imagination adds a sort of solemnity, from the awful occasion upon which it is used. A lighted candle was placed on the table, the original paper containing the verdict was enclosed in a sheet of paper, and, sealed with the Judge’s own signet, was transmitted to the Crown Office, to be preserved among other records of the same kind. As all this is transacted in profound silence, the producing and extinguishing the candle seems a type of the human spark which is shortly afterwards doomed to be quenched, and excites in the spectators something of the same effect which in England is obtained by the Judge assuming the fatal cap of judgment. When these preliminary forms had been gone through, the Judge required Euphemia Deans to attend to the verdict to be read.
After the usual words of style, the verdict set forth, that the Jury having made choice of John Kirk, Esq., to be their chancellor, and Thomas Moore, merchant, to be their clerk, did, by a plurality of voices, find the said Euphemia Deans Guilty of the crime libelled; but, in consideration of her extreme youth, and the cruel circumstances of her case, did earnestly entreat that the Judge would recommend her to the mercy of the Crown.
“Gentlemen,” said the Judge, “you have done your duty—and a painful one it must have been to men of humanity like you. I will undoubtedly transmit your recommendation to the throne. But it is my duty to tell all who now hear me, but especially to inform that unhappy young woman, in order that her mind may be settled accordingly, that I have not the least hope of a pardon being granted in the present case. You know the crime has been increasing in this land, and I know farther, that this has been ascribed to the lenity in which the laws have been exercised, and that there is therefore no hope whatever of obtaining a remission for this offence.” The jury bowed again, and, released from their painful office, dispersed themselves among the mass of bystanders.
The Court then asked Mr. Fairbrother whether he had anything to say, why judgment should not follow on the verdict? The counsel had spent some time in persuing and reperusing the verdict, counting the letters in each juror’s name, and weighing every phrase, nay, every syllable, in the nicest scales of legal criticism. But the clerk of the jury had understood his business too well. No flaw was to be found, and Fairbrother mournfully intimated, that he had nothing to say in arrest of judgment.
The presiding Judge then addressed the unhappy prisoner:—“Euphemia Deans, attend to the sentence of the Court now to be pronounced against you.”
She rose from her seat, and with a composure far greater than could have been augured from her demeanour during some parts of the trial, abode the conclusion of the awful scene. So nearly does the mental portion of our feelings resemble those which are corporeal, that the first severe blows which we receive bring with them a stunning apathy, which renders us indifferent to those that follow them. Thus said Mandrin, when he was undergoing the punishment of the wheel; and so have all felt, upon whom successive inflictions have descended with continuous and reiterated violence.55
“Young woman,” said the Judge, “it is my painful duty to tell you, that your life is forfeited under a law, which, if it may seem in some degree severe, is yet wisely so, to render those of your unhappy situation aware what risk they run, by concealing, out of pride or false shame, their lapse from virtue, and making no preparation to save the lives of the unfortunate infants whom they are to bring into the world. When you concealed your situation from your mistress, your sister, and other worthy and compassionate persons of your own sex, in whose favour your former conduct had given you a fair place, you seem to me to have had in your contemplation, at least, the death of the helpless creature, for whose life you neglected to provide. How the child was disposed of—whether it was dealt upon by another, or by yourself—whether the extraordinary story you have told is partly false, or altogether so, is between God and your own conscience. I will not aggravate your distress by pressing on that topic, but I do most solemnly adjure you to employ the remaining space of your time in making your peace with God, for which purpose such reverend clergymen, as you yourself may name, shall have access to you. Notwithstanding the humane recommendation of the jury, I cannot afford to you, in the present circumstances of the country, the slightest hope that your life will be prolonged beyond the period assigned for the execution of your sentence. Forsaking, therefore, the thoughts of this world, let your mind be prepared by repentance for those of more awful moments—for death, judgment, and eternity.—Doomster, read the sentence.” 56
When the Doomster showed himself, a tall haggard figure, arrayed in a fantastic garment of black and grey, passmented with silver lace, all fell back with a sort of instinctive horror, and made wide way for him to approach the foot of the table. As this office was held by the common executioner, men shouldered each other backward to avoid even the touch of his garment, and some were seen to brush their own clothes, which had accidentally become subject to such contamination. A sound went through the Court, produced by each person drawing in their breath hard, as men do when they expect or witness what is frightful, and at the same time affecting. The caitiff villain yet seemed, amid his hardened brutality, to have some sense of his being the object of public detestation, which made him impatient of being in public, as birds of evil omen are anxious to escape from daylight, and from pure air.
Repeating after the Clerk of Court, he gabbled over the words of the sentence, which condemned Euphemia Deans to be conducted back to the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, and detained there until Wednesday the day of –; and upon that day, betwixt the hours of two and four o’clock afternoon, to be conveyed to the common place of execution, and there hanged by the neck upon a gibbet. “And this,” said the Doomster, aggravating his harsh voice, “I pronounce for doom.”
He vanished when he had spoken the last emphatic word, like a foul fiend after the purpose of his visitation had been accomplished; but the impression of horror excited by his presence and his errand, remained upon the crowd of spectators.
The unfortunate criminal,—for so she must now be termed,—with more susceptibility, and more irritable feelings than her father and sister, was found, in this emergence, to possess a considerable share of their courage. She had remained standing motionless at the bar while the sentence was pronounced, and was observed to shut her eyes when the Doomster appeared. But she was the first to break silence when that evil form had left his place.
“God forgive ye, my Lords,” she said, “and dinna be angry wi’ me for wishing it—we a’ need forgiveness.—As for myself, I canna blame ye, for ye act up to your lights; and if I havena killed my poor infant, ye may witness a’ that hae seen it this day, that I hae been the means of killing my greyheaded father—I deserve the warst frae man, and frae God too—But God is mair mercifu’ to us than we are to each other.”
With these words the trial concluded. The crowd rushed, bearing forward and shouldering each other, out of the Court, in the same tumultuary mode in which they had entered; and, in excitation of animal motion and animal spirits, soon forgot whatever they had felt as impressive in the scene which they had witnessed. The professional spectators, whom habit and theory had rendered as callous to the distress of the scene as medical men are to those of a surgical operation, walked homeward in groups, discussing the general principle of the statute under which the young woman was condemned, the nature of the evidence, and the arguments of the counsel, without considering even that of the Judge as exempt from their criticism.
The female spectators, more compassionate, were loud in exclamation against that part of the Judge’s speech which seemed to cut off the hope of pardon.
“Set him up, indeed,” said Mrs. Howden, “to tell us that the poor lassie behoved to die, when Mr. John Kirk, as civil a gentleman as is within the ports of the town, took the pains to prigg for her himsell.”
“Ay, but, neighbour,” said Miss Damahoy, drawing up her thin maidenly form to its full height of prim dignity—“I really think this unnatural business of having bastard-bairns should be putten a stop to.—There isna a hussy now on this side of thirty that you can bring within your doors, but there will be chields—writer-lads, prentice-lads, and what not—coming traiking after them for their destruction, and discrediting ane’s honest house into the bargain—I hae nae patience wi’ them.”
“Hout, neighbour,” said Mrs. Howden, “we suld live and let live—we hae been young oursells, and we are no aye to judge the warst when lads and lasses forgather.”
“Young oursells! and judge the warst!” said Miss Damahoy. “I am no sae auld as that comes to, Mrs. Howden; and as for what ye ca’ the warst, I ken neither good nor bad about the matter, I thank my stars!”
“Ye are thankfu’ for sma’ mercies, then,” said Mrs. Howden with a toss of her head; “and as for you and young—I trow ye were doing for yoursell at the last riding of the Scots Parliament, and that was in the gracious year seven, sae ye can be nae sic chicken at ony rate.”
Plumdamas, who acted as squire of the body to the two contending dames, instantly saw the hazard of entering into such delicate points of chronology, and being a lover of peace and good neighbourhood, lost no time in bringing back the conversation to its original subject.
“The Judge didna tell us a’ he could hae tell’d us, if he had liked, about the application for pardon, neighbours,” said he “there is aye a wimple in a lawyer’s clew; but it’s a wee bit of a secret.”
“And what is’t—what is’t, neighbour Plumdamas?” said Mrs. Howden and Miss Damahoy at once, the acid fermentation of their dispute being at once neutralised by the powerful alkali implied in the word secret.
“Here’s Mr. Saddletree can tell ye that better than me, for it was him that tauld me,” said Plumdamas as Saddletree came up, with his wife hanging on his arm, and looking very disconsolate.
When the question was put to Saddletree, he looked very scornful. “They speak about stopping the frequency of child-murder,” said he, in a contemptuous tone; “do ye think our auld enemies of England, as Glendook aye ca’s them in his printed Statute-book, care a boddle whether we didna kill ane anither, skin and birn, horse and foot, man, woman, and bairns, all and sindry, omnes et singulos, as Mr. Crossmyloof says? Na, na, it’s no that hinders them frae pardoning the bit lassie. But here is the pinch of the plea. The king and queen are sae ill pleased wi’ that mistak about Porteous, that deil a kindly Scot will they pardon again, either by reprieve or remission, if the haill town o’ Edinburgh should be a’ hanged on ae tow.”
“Deil that they were back at their German kale-yard then, as my neighbour MacCroskie ca’s it,” said Mrs. Howden, “an that’s the way they’re gaun to guide us!”
“They say for certain,” said Miss Damahoy, “that King George flang his periwig in the fire when he heard o’ the Porteous mob.”
“He has done that, they say,” replied Saddletree, “for less thing.”
“Aweel,” said Miss Damahoy, “he might keep mair wit in his anger—but it’s a’ the better for his wigmaker, I’se warrant.”
“The queen tore her biggonets for perfect anger,—ye’ll hae heard o’ that too?” said Plumdamas. “And the king, they say, kickit Sir Robert Walpole for no keeping down the mob of Edinburgh; but I dinna believe he wad behave sae ungenteel.”
“It’s dooms truth, though,” said Saddletree; “and he was for kickin’ the Duke of Argyle57 too.”
“Kickin’ the Duke of Argyle!” exclaimed the hearers at once, in all the various combined keys of utter astonishment.
“Ay, but MacCallummore’s blood wadna sit down wi’ that; there was risk of Andro Ferrara coming in thirdsman.”
“The duke is a real Scotsman—a true friend to the country,” answered Saddletree’s hearers.
“Ay, troth is he, to king and country baith, as ye sall hear,” continued the orator, “if ye will come in bye to our house, for it’s safest speaking of sic things inter parietes.”
When they entered his shop, he thrust his prentice boy out of it, and, unlocking his desk, took out, with an air of grave and complacent importance, a dirty and crumpled piece of printed paper; he observed, “This is new corn—it’s no every body could show you the like o’ this. It’s the duke’s speech about the Porteous mob, just promulgated by the hawkers. Ye shall hear what Ian Roy Cean58 says for himsell.
My correspondent bought it in the Palace-yard, that’s like just under the king’s nose—I think he claws up their mittans!—It came in a letter about a foolish bill of exchange that the man wanted me to renew for him. I wish ye wad see about it, Mrs. Saddletree.”
Honest Mrs. Saddletree had hitherto been so sincerely distressed about the situation of her unfortunate prote’ge’e, that she had suffered her husband to proceed in his own way, without attending to what he was saying. The words bills and renew had, however, an awakening sound in them; and she snatched the letter which her husband held towards her, and wiping her eyes, and putting on her spectacles, endeavoured, as fast as the dew which collected on her glasses would permit, to get at the meaning of the needful part of the epistle; while her husband, with pompous elevation, read an extract from the speech.
“I am no minister, I never was a minister, and I never will be one”
“I didna ken his Grace was ever designed for the ministry,” interrupted Mrs. Howden.
“He disna mean a minister of the gospel, Mrs. Howden, but a minister of state,” said Saddletree, with condescending goodness, and then proceeded: “The time was when I might have been a piece of a minister, but I was too sensible of my own incapacity to engage in any state affair. And I thank God that I had always too great a value for those few abilities which Nature has given me, to employ them in doing any drudgery, or any job of what kind soever. I have, ever since I set out in the world (and I believe few have set out more early), served my prince with my tongue; I have served him with any little interest I had, and I have served him with my sword, and in my profession of arms. I have held employments which I have lost, and were I to be to-morrow deprived of those which still remain to me, and which I have endeavoured honestly to deserve, I would still serve him to the last acre of my inheritance, and to the last drop of my blood—”
Mrs. Saddletree here broke in upon the orator:—“Mr. Saddletree, what is the meaning of a’ this? Here are ye clavering about the Duke of Argyle, and this man Martingale gaun to break on our hands, and lose us gude sixty pounds—I wonder what duke will pay that, quotha—I wish the Duke of Argyle would pay his ain accounts—He is in a thousand punds Scots on thae very books when he was last at Roystoun—I’m no saying but he’s a just nobleman, and that it’s gude siller—but it wad drive ane daft to be confused wi’ deukes and drakes, and thae distressed folk up-stairs, that’s Jeanie Deans and her father. And then, putting the very callant that was sewing the curpel out o’ the shop, to play wi’ blackguards in the close—Sit still, neighbours, it’s no that I mean to disturb you; but what between courts o’ law and courts o’ state, and upper and under parliaments, and parliament houses, here and in London, the gudeman’s gane clean gyte, I think.”
The gossips understood civility, and the rule of doing as they would be done by, too well, to tarry upon the slight invitation implied in the conclusion of this speech, and therefore made their farewells and departure as fast as possible, Saddletree whispering to Plundamas that he would “meet him at MacCroskie’s” (the low-browed shop in the Luckenbooths, already mentioned), “in the hour of cause, and put MacCallummore’s speech in his pocket, for a’ the gudewife’s din.”
When Mrs. Saddletree saw the house freed of her importunate visitors, and the little boy reclaimed from the pastimes of the wynd to the exercise of the awl, she went to visit her unhappy relative, David Deans, and his elder daughter, who had found in her house the nearest place of friendly refuge.
VOLUME II
CHAPTER FIRST
Isab.—Alas! what poor ability’s in me
To do him good?
Lucio.—Assay the power you have.
Measure for Measure.
When Mrs. Saddletree entered the apartment in which her guests had shrouded their misery, she found the window darkened. The feebleness which followed his long swoon had rendered it necessary to lay the old man in bed. The curtains were drawn around him, and Jeanie sate motionless by the side of the bed. Mrs. Saddletree was a woman of kindness, nay, of feeling, but not of delicacy. She opened the half-shut window, drew aside the curtain, and, taking her kinsman by the hand, exhorted him to sit up, and bear his sorrow like a good man, and a Christian man, as he was. But when she quitted his hand, it fell powerless by his side, nor did he attempt the least reply.
“Is all over?” asked Jeanie, with lips and cheeks as pale as ashes,—“and is there nae hope for her?”
“Nane, or next to nane,” said Mrs. Saddletree; “I heard the Judge-carle say it with my ain ears—It was a burning shame to see sae mony o’ them set up yonder in their red gowns and black gowns, and to take the life o’ a bit senseless lassie. I had never muckle broo o’ my gudeman’s gossips, and now I like them waur than ever. The only wiselike thing I heard onybody say, was decent Mr. John Kirk of Kirk-knowe, and he wussed them just to get the king’s mercy, and nae mair about it. But he spake to unreasonable folk—he might just hae keepit his breath to hae blawn on his porridge.”
“But can the king gie her mercy?” said Jeanie, earnestly. “Some folk tell me he canna gie mercy in cases of mur in cases like hers.”
“Can he gie mercy, hinny?—I weel I wot he can, when he likes. There was young Singlesword, that stickit the Laird of Ballencleuch, and Captain Hackum, the Englishman, that killed Lady Colgrain’s gudeman, and the Master of Saint Clair, that shot the twa Shaws,59 and mony mair in my time—to be sure they were gentle blood, and had their kin to speak for them—And there was Jock Porteous the other day—I’se warrant there’s mercy, an folk could win at it.”
“Porteous?” said Jeanie; “very true—I forget a’ that I suld maist mind.– Fare ye weel, Mrs. Saddletree; and may ye never want a friend in the hour of distress!”
“Will ye no stay wi’ your father, Jeanie, bairn?—Ye had better,” said Mrs. Saddletree.
“I will be wanted ower yonder,” indicating the Tolbooth with her hand, “and I maun leave him now, or I will never be able to leave him. I fearna for his life—I ken how strong-hearted he is—I ken it,” she said, laying her hand on her bosom, “by my ain heart at this minute.”
“Weel, hinny, if ye think it’s for the best, better he stay here and rest him, than gang back to St. Leonard’s.”
“Muckle better—muckle better—God bless you!—God bless you!—At no rate let him gang till ye hear frae me,” said Jeanie.
“But ye’ll be back belive?” said Mrs. Saddletree, detaining her; “they winna let ye stay yonder, hinny.”
“But I maun gang to St. Leonard’s—there’s muckle to be dune, and little time to do it in—And I have friends to speak to—God bless you—take care of my father.”
She had reached the door of the apartment, when, suddenly turning, she came back, and knelt down by the bedside.—“O father, gie me your blessing—I dare not go till ye bless me. Say but ‘God bless ye, and prosper ye, Jeanie’—try but to say that!”
Instinctively, rather than by an exertion of intellect, the old man murmured a prayer, that “purchased and promised blessings might be multiplied upon her.”
“He has blessed mine errand,” said his daughter, rising from her knees, “and it is borne in upon my mind that I shall prosper.”
So saying, she left the room.
Mrs. Saddletree looked after her, and shook her head. “I wish she binna roving, poor thing—There’s something queer about a’ thae Deanses. I dinna like folk to be sae muckle better than other folk—seldom comes gude o’t. But if she’s gaun to look after the kye at St. Leonard’s, that’s another story; to be sure they maun be sorted.—Grizzie, come up here, and tak tent to the honest auld man, and see he wants naething.—Ye silly tawpie” (addressing the maid-servant as she entered), “what garr’d ye busk up your cockemony that gate?—I think there’s been enough the day to gie an awfa’ warning about your cockups and your fallal duds—see what they a’ come to,” etc. etc. etc.
Leaving the good lady to her lecture upon worldly vanities, we must transport our reader to the cell in which the unfortunate Effie Deans was now immured, being restricted of several liberties which she had enjoyed before the sentence was pronounced.
When she had remained about an hour in the state of stupified horror so natural in her situation, she was disturbed by the opening of the jarring bolts of her place of confinement, and Ratcliffe showed himself. “It’s your sister,” he said, “wants to speak t’ye, Effie.”
“I canna see naebody,” said Effie, with the hasty irritability which misery had rendered more acute—“I canna see naebody, and least of a’ her—Bid her take care o’ the auld man—I am naething to ony o’ them now, nor them to me.”
“She says she maun see ye, though,” said Ratcliffe; and Jeanie, rushing into the apartment, threw her arms round her sister’s neck, who writhed to extricate herself from her embrace.
“What signifies coming to greet ower me,” said poor Effie, “when you have killed me?—killed me, when a word of your mouth would have saved me—killed me, when I am an innocent creature—innocent of that guilt at least—and me that wad hae wared body and soul to save your finger from being hurt?”
“You shall not die,” said Jeanie, with enthusiastic firmness; “say what you like o’ me—think what you like o’ me—only promise—for I doubt your proud heart—that ye wunna harm yourself, and you shall not die this shameful death.”
“A shameful death I will not die, Jeanie, lass. I have that in my heart—though it has been ower kind a ane—that wunna bide shame. Gae hame to our father, and think nae mair on me—I have eat my last earthly meal.”
“Oh, this was what I feared!” said Jeanie.
“Hout, tout, hinny,” said Ratcliffe; “it’s but little ye ken o’ thae things. Ane aye thinks at the first dinnle o’ the sentence, they hae heart eneugh to die rather than bide out the sax weeks; but they aye bide the sax weeks out for a’ that. I ken the gate o’t weel; I hae fronted the doomster three times, and here I stand, Jim Ratcliffe, for a’ that. Had I tied my napkin strait the first time, as I had a great mind till’t—and it was a’ about a bit grey cowt, wasna worth ten punds sterling—where would I have been now?”
“And how did you escape?” said Jeanie, the fates of this man, at first so odious to her, having acquired a sudden interest in her eyes from their correspondence with those of her sister.
“How did I escape?” said Ratcliffe, with a knowing wink,—“I tell ye I ‘scapit in a way that naebody will escape from this Tolbooth while I keep the keys.”
“My sister shall come out in the face of the sun,” said Jeanie; “I will go to London, and beg her pardon from the king and queen. If they pardoned Porteous, they may pardon her; if a sister asks a sister’s life on her bended knees, they will pardon her—they shall pardon her—and they will win a thousand hearts by it.”
Effie listened in bewildered astonishment, and so earnest was her sister’s enthusiastic assurance, that she almost involuntarily caught a gleam of hope; but it instantly faded away.
“Ah, Jeanie! the king and queen live in London, a thousand miles from this—far ayont the saut sea; I’ll be gane before ye win there.”
“You are mistaen,” said Jeanie; “it is no sae far, and they go to it by land; I learned something about thae things from Reuben Butler.”
“Ah, Jeanie! ye never learned onything but what was gude frae the folk ye keepit company wi’; but!—but!”—she wrung her hands and wept bitterly.
“Dinna think on that now,” said Jeanie; “there will be time for that if the present space be redeemed. Fare ye weel. Unless I die by the road, I will see the king’s face that gies grace—O, sir” (to Ratcliffe), “be kind to her—She ne’er ken’d what it was to need a stranger’s kindness till now.—Fareweel—fareweel, Effie!—Dinna speak to me—I maunna greet now—my head’s ower dizzy already!”
She tore herself from her sister’s arms, and left the cell. Ratcliffe followed her, and beckoned her into a small room. She obeyed his signal, but not without trembling.
“What’s the fule thing shaking for?” said he; “I mean nothing but civility to you. D—n me, I respect you, and I can’t help it. You have so much spunk, that d—n me, but I think there’s some chance of your carrying the day. But you must not go to the king till you have made some friend; try the duke—try MacCallummore; he’s Scotland’s friend—I ken that the great folks dinna muckle like him—but they fear him, and that will serve your purpose as weel. D’ye ken naebody wad gie ye a letter to him?”
“Duke of Argyle!” said Jeanie, recollecting herself suddenly, “what was he to that Argyle that suffered in my father’s time—in the persecution?”
“His son or grandson, I’m thinking,” said Ratcliffe, “but what o’ that?”
“Thank God!” said Jeanie, devoutly clasping her hands.
“You whigs are aye thanking God for something,” said the ruffian. “But hark ye, hinny, I’ll tell ye a secret. Ye may meet wi’ rough customers on the Border, or in the Midland, afore ye get to Lunnon. Now, deil ane o’ them will touch an acquaintance o’ Daddie Ratton’s; for though I am retired frae public practice, yet they ken I can do a gude or an ill turn yet—and deil a gude fellow that has been but a twelvemonth on the lay, be he ruffler or padder, but he knows my gybe60 as well as the jark61 of e’er a queer cuffin62 in England—and there’s rogue’s Latin for you.”
It was indeed totally unintelligible to Jeanie Deans, who was only impatient to escape from him. He hastily scrawled a line or two on a dirty piece of paper, and said to her, as she drew back when he offered it, “Hey!—what the deil—it wunna bite you, my lass—if it does nae gude, it can do nae ill. But I wish you to show it, if you have ony fasherie wi’ ony o’ St. Nicholas’s clerks.”
“Alas!” said she, “I do not understand what you mean.”
“I mean, if ye fall among thieves, my precious,—that is a Scripture phrase, if ye will hae ane—the bauldest of them will ken a scart o’ my guse feather. And now awa wi’ ye—and stick to Argyle; if onybody can do the job, it maun be him.”
After casting an anxious look at the grated windows and blackened walls of the old Tolbooth, and another scarce less anxious at the hospitable lodging of Mrs. Saddletree, Jeanie turned her back on that quarter, and soon after on the city itself. She reached St. Leonard’s Crags without meeting any one whom she knew, which, in the state of her mind, she considered as a great blessing. “I must do naething,” she thought, as she went along, “that can soften or weaken my heart—it’s ower weak already for what I hae to do. I will think and act as firmly as I can, and speak as little.”
There was an ancient servant, or rather cottar, of her father’s, who had lived under him for many years, and whose fidelity was worthy of full confidence. She sent for this woman, and explaining to her that the circumstances of her family required that she should undertake a journey, which would detain her for some weeks from home, she gave her full instructions concerning the management of the domestic concerns in her absence. With a precision, which, upon reflection, she herself could not help wondering at, she described and detailed the most minute steps which were to be taken, and especially such as were necessary for her father’s comfort. “It was probable,” she said, “that he would return to St. Leonard’s to-morrow! certain that he would return very soon—all must be in order for him. He had eneugh to distress him, without being fashed about warldly matters.”
