Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume V Part 16

"Elspeth," said the freebooter, "it is not your life they seek, and they canna hae the heart to harm our bairn. Gie me my Jeddard-staff in my hand--an' fareweel to ye, Elspeth--fareweel!--an eternal fareweel!

Archy, fareweel, my gallant bairn!--never disgrace yer faither!--but ye winna--ye winna--an' if I am murdered, mind ye revenge me, Archy! Now we maun unbar the door, and I maun cut my way through them or perish."

Thus spoke the Borderer, and with his battle-axe in his hand, he embraced his wife and his son, and wept. "Now, Archy," said he, "slip and open the door--saftly!--saftly!--an' let me rush out."

Archy silently drew back the ma.s.sy bars; in a moment the iron door stood ajar, and Sandy Armstrong, battle-axe in hand, burst into the court-yard, and into the midst of his besiegers. There was not a man amongst them that had not heard of the "terrible Jeddart-staff o' Sandy Armstrong." He cleaved them down before him--his very voice augmented their confusion--they shrank back at his approach; and while some fled from the infuriated cattle, others fled from the arm of the freebooter.

In a few seconds he reached the gap in the court-wall--he rushed upon the moss;--darkness had begun, and a thick vapour was rising from the mora.s.s. "Follow me who dare!" shouted Sandy Armstrong.

Archy withdrew into a niche in the pa.s.sage, as his father rushed out;--and as the besiegers speedily burst into the house, amongst them was one of the m.u.f.fled men[6] bearing a torch in his hand. Revenge fired the young Borderer, and, with his Jedburgh-staff, he made a dash at the hand of the traitor. The torch fell upon the floor, and with it three of the fingers that grasped it. The besiegers were instantly enveloped in gloom, and Archy, escaping from the niche from whence he had struck the blow, said unto himself--"I've gien ye a mark to find out who you are, neighbour."

[Footnote 6: A m.u.f.fled man was one who, for his future safety, a.s.sumed a mask or disguise in leading the enemy to the haunt of his neighbours or a.s.sociates whom he betrayed.]

The besiegers took possession of Cleughfoot, and the chief men of the party remained in it daring the night, while a portion of their followers occupied the court-yard, and others, with their horses, remained on the mora.s.s. Archy and his mother were turned from their dwelling, and placed under a guard upon the moss, where they remained throughout the night; and, in the morning, Cleughfoot was blown up before them. They were conveyed as prisoners to Sir William Selby, who had fixed his quarters near Langholm.

"Whom do ye bring me here?" inquired the new-made knight; "a wife and bairn!--Hae ye been catching sparrows and let the eagle escape?--Whar hae ye the head and the hand o' the outlaw?"

"Troth, Sir Knight," replied an officer, "and his head is where it shouldna be--on his ain shouthers. At the darkenin' he escaped upon the moss; three troopers, guided by a m.u.f.fler and a sleuth-dog, pursued him; an' as we crossed the bog this mornin', we found ane o' the troopers sunk to the middle in't, an' his horse below him; and far'er on were the dead bodies o' the other twa, the sleuth-dog, and the m.u.f.fled man. I am sorry, therefore, to inform ye, Sir Knight, that Sandy Armstrong has escaped, but we hae made a bonefire o' his keep, an' brought ye his wife and his son--wha are Armstrongs, soul and body o' them--to do wi' them as ye may judge proper."

"Tuts, man," replied Sir William, "wad he hae us to disgrace our royal commission by hangin' an auld wife an a bairn? Gae awa, ye limmer, ye--gae awa wi' your brat," he added, addressing Elspeth, "an' learn to live like honest folk; or, if ye fa' in my way again, ye shall dance by the crook frae a woodie."

"Where can I gang?" said she sorrowfully, as she withdrew. "O Archy! we hae neither house nor hauld--friend nor kindred!--an' wha will shelter the wife and bairn o' poor persecuted Sandy Armstrong!"

"Dinna fret, mother," said Archy; "though they hae burned Cleughfoot, the stanes are still left, an' I can soon big a bit place to stop in; nor, while there's a hare in Tarras wood, or a sheep on the Leadhills, shall ye ever want, mother."

They returned in sorrow to the heap of ruins that had been their habitation; and Elspeth, in the bitterness of her spirit, sat down upon the stones and wept. But after she had wept long, and the sound of her lamentation had howled across the desert, she arose and a.s.sisted her son in constructing a hut from the ruins, in which they might lay their heads. In two days it was completed, but, on the third day, the disconsolate wife of the freebooter sank on her bed of rushes, and the sickness of death was in her heart.

"Oh, speak to me, mother!" cried Archy; "what--what can I do for ye?"

"Naethin', my bairn!--naethin'!" groaned the dying woman--"the sun's fa'in dark on the een o' Elspeth Armstrong; but, oh, may the saunts o'

heaven protect my poor Archy!"

She tried to repeat the only prayer she had ever learned--for religion was as little understood in the house of a freebooter as the eighth commandment. Poor Archy wrung his hands and sobbed aloud.

"Dinna die, mother--oh! dinna die!" he exclaimed, "or what will become o' your Archy!" He rushed from the hut, and with a broken vessel which he had found among the ruins, he brought water from the rivulet. He applied it to her lips--he bathed her brow--"O mother! mother, dinna die!" he cried again, "and I will get you bread too!" He again hurried from the hut, and bounded across the moss with the fleetness of a young deer. It was four long miles to the nearest habitation, and in it dwelt Ringan Scott, a dependent of the Buccleuchs. There had never been friends.h.i.+p between his family and that of Sandy Armstrong, but, in the agony of Archy's feelings, he stopped not to think of that nor of aught but his dying mother. He rushed into the house--"Gie me bread!" he exclaimed wildly, "for the love o' heaven gie me bread, for my mother is peris.h.i.+n'!"

"Let her peris.h.!.+--an may ye a' peris.h.!.+" said a young man, the son of Ringan, who stood by the fire with his right hand in a sling, "ye's get nae bread here."

"I maun!--I shall!" cried Archy, vehemently. Half of a coa.r.s.e cake lay upon the table; he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, and rushed out of the house. They pursued him for a time, but affection and despair gave wings to his speed. Breathless, he reached the wretched hut, and, on entering, he cried--"Mother, here is bread! I have gotten't! I have gotten't!" But his mother answered him not. "Speak, mother! O mother, speak! here is bread now--eat it an' ye'll be better," he cried, but his mother was still silent. He took her hand in his--"Are ye sleepin', mother?" he added--"here is bread!" He shook her gently, but she stirred not. He placed his hand upon her face; it was cold as the rude walls of the hut, and her extended arms were stiff and motionless. He raised them, and they fell heavily and lifeless. "Mother!--mother!" screamed Archy; but his mother was dead! He rushed from the hut wildly, tearing his hair--he flung himself upon the ground--he called upon his father, and the glens of Tarras echoed the cry; but no father was near to answer. He flew back to the hut. He knelt by his mother's corpse--he rubbed her face and her bosom--he placed his lips to hers, and again he invoked her to speak.

Night drew on, and, as darkness fell over the ghastly features of the corpse, he fled with terror from the hut, and wandered weeping throughout the night upon the moss. At sunrise he returned, and again sat down and wept by the dead body of his mother. He became familiar with death, and his terror died away. Two nights more pa.s.sed on, and the boy sat in the desolate hut in the wilderness, watching and mourning over the lifeless body of his mother. On the fourth day, he took a fragment of the iron gate, and began to dig her grave. He raised the dead body in his arms, and weeping, screaming, as he went, he bore it to the tomb he had prepared for it. He gently placed it in the cold earth, and covered it with the moss and the green sod. All the day long he toiled in rolling and carrying stones from the ruins of his father's house, to erect a cairn over his mother's grave. When his task was done; he wrung his hands, and exclaimed, "Now, poor Archy Armstrong hasna a friend in the wide world!" While he yet stood mourning over the new-made grave, a party of hors.e.m.e.n, who were still in quest of his father, rode up and accosted him. His tragic tale was soon told, and, in the bitterness of his heart, he accused them as being the murderers of his father and his mother. Amongst them was one of the chief men of the Elliot clan, who held lands in the neighbourhood. He felt compa.s.sion for Archy, and he admired his spirit; and, desiring him to follow him, he promised to provide for him. Archy reluctantly obeyed, and he was employed to watch the sheep of his protector on the hills.

Eighteen years pa.s.sed away. Archy was now thirty years of age; he had learned to read, and even to write, like the monks that were in Melrose.

He was the princ.i.p.al herdsman of his early benefactor, and was as much beloved as his father had been feared. But at times the spirit of the freebooter would burst forth; and he had not forgiven the persecutors, or, as he called them, the murderers of his parents. Amongst these was one called "Fingerless d.i.c.k," the son of Ringan Scott, of whom we have spoken. Archy had long known that he was one of the m.u.f.fled men who had conducted Selby's hors.e.m.e.n to his father's house, and that he was the same from whose hand he had dashed the torch with his battle-axe. Now, there was to be a football fray in Liddesdale, and the Borderers thronged to it from many miles. Archy was there, and there also was his enemy--"Fingerless d.i.c.k." They quarrelled--they closed--both came to the ground, but Scott was undermost. He drew his knife--he stabbed his antagonist in the side--he was repeating the thrust, when Archy wrenched the weapon from his hand, and, in the fury of the moment, plunged it in his breast. At first the wound was believed to be mortal, and an attempt was made to seize Archy, but clutching an oaken cudgel from the hands of one who stood near him--"Lay hands on me wha dare!" he cried, as he brandished it in the air, and fled at his utmost speed.

Archy knew that though his enemy might recover, the Scotts would let loose the tender mercies of the law upon his head, and instead of returning to the house of his master, he sought safety in concealment.

On the third day after the fray in Liddesdale, he entered Dumfries. He was weary and wayworn, for he had fled from hill to hill, and from glen to glen, fearing pursuit. He inquired for a lodging, and was shown to a small house near the foot of a street leading to the river, and which, we believe, is now called the Bank Vennel; and in which, he was told, "the pig folk and other travellers put up for the night." There was a motley group in the house, beggars and chapmen, and amongst the former was an old man of uncommon stature; and his hair, as white as snow, descended down upon his shoulders. His beard was of equal whiteness, and fell upon his breast. An old grey cloak covered his person, which was fastened round his body with a piece of rope instead of a girdle. He appeared as one who had been in foreign wars, and he wore a shade or patch over his left eye. He spoke but little, but he gazed often and wistfully on the countenance of Archy, and more than once a tear found its way down his weather-beaten cheeks. In the morning when Archy rose to depart, "Whither gang ye, young man?" inquired the old beggar, earnestly--"are ye for the north or for the south?"

"Wherefore spier ye, auld man?" replied Archy.

"I hae a cause, an' ane that winna harm ye," said the stranger, "if ye will thole an auld man's company for a little way."

Archy agreed that he should accompany him, and they took the road towards Annan together. It was a calm and glorious morning: the Solway flashed in the sunlight like a silver lake, and not a cloud rested on the brow of the majestic Criffel. For the s.p.a.ce of three miles they proceeded in silence, but the old man sighed oft and heavily, as though his spirit were troubled. "Let us rest here for a few minutes," said he, as he sat down on a green knoll by the way-side, and gazing steadfastly in Archy's face--"Young man," he added, "your face brings owre my heart the memories o' thirty years--and, oh! persecuted as the name is--answer me truly if your name be Armstrong?"

"It is!" replied Archy, "and perish the son o' Sandy Armstrong when he disowns it!"

"An' your faither--your mother," continued the old man, hesitating as he spoke--"do they--does she live?"

In a few words Archy told of his father's persecution--of his being hunted from the country like a wild beast--of the destruction of the home of his childhood--of his mother's death, and of her burial by his own hands in the wilderness.

"Oh! my poor Elspeth!" cried the aged beggar, "Archy! my son! my son! I am your faither! Sandy Armstrong, the outlaw!"

"My faither!" exclaimed Archy, pressing the beggar to his breast. When they had wept together,--"Let us gae nae farer south," said the old man, "but let us return to Tarras moss, that when the hand o' death comes, ye may lay me down in peace by the side of my Elspeth."

With a sorrowful heart Archy told his father that he was flying from the law and the vengeance of the Scotts. "Gie them gowd as a peace-offering," said the old man, and he pulled from beneath his coa.r.s.e cloak a leathern purse, filled with gold, and placed it in the hands of his son. For nearly twenty years Sandy had served in foreign wars, and obtained honours and rewards; and on visiting his native land, he had a.s.sumed the beggar's garb for safety. They returned to Tarras-side together, and a few yellow coins quashed the prosecution of "Fingerless d.i.c.k." Archy married the daughter of his former employer, and became a sheep-farmer; and, at the age of fourscore years and ten, the old freebooter closed his eyes in peace in the house of his son, and in the midst of his grandchildren, and was buried, according to his own request, by the side of Elspeth in the wilderness.

THE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM.

"Say you love His person--be not asham'd of't; he's a man, For whose embraces, though Endymion Lay sleeping by, Cynthia would leave her orb, And exchange kisses with him."

_Ma.s.singer._

The morn was fair, the sky was clear, when Mr. Andrew Micklewhame set his foot aboard one of the "Stirling, Alloa, and Kincardine Steam Company's" boats, at the Chain Pier, Newhaven, for the purpose of proceeding to the first-named place, on a visit to his old friend, Davie Kerr, who had been, for upwards of twenty years, a respectable iron-monger in that romantic town. On reaching Alloa, however, where, as every one knows, the steamers pause for such length of time as enables them to take in a supply of coals, and the tide to run up, it began to rain, in the manner best expressed by the household phrase, "auld wives and pipe stapples." Notwithstanding this, Andrew being determined to make the most of his time--for a week was the utmost limit of his leave of absence from the Edinburgh cloth establishment, in which he was in the habit of wearing away his days and his coat sleeves--ascended from the cabin where he had been luxuriating over the only volume--the first of "Wilson's Tales of the Borders"--of which its library could boast; and unfurling his umbrella, walked ash.o.r.e in the fond hope of seeing or hearing something worth the seeing or hearing. And Andrew was not disappointed; for, to his unspeakable delight, he descried against the gable-end of a white house, a play-bill, on which "Venice Preserved,"

appeared in letters of half-an-inch deep; the part of Pierre, by Mr.

Ferdinand Gustavus Trash, and Jaffier, by Mr. Henry Watkins. The afterpiece, "Rob Roy." Being extremely partial to theatrical amus.e.m.e.nts, of whatever description, and, moreover, being a contributor to a dramatic review published weekly in the Scottish metropolis, it occurred to Mr. Andrew Micklewhame that here he might, in all probability, find materials sufficient on which to establish a funny critique, that would print to the extent of at least six of the twelve pages of the aforesaid dramatic review, and yield him good pay. Such an opportunity was not to be lost. He, therefore, resolved on remaining at Alloa that night to witness the performances, and proceeding to Stirling next morning by the earliest conveyance.

Having arranged this to his own content, he stalked majestically into an inn--without stopping to notice the sign which projected angularly over the door, bearing the representation of a s.h.i.+p in full sail, among emerald waves, with moon-rakers and sky-sc.r.a.pers ingeniously mixed up with the indigo clouds above--and stoutly called for a pint of porter and a biscuit, to take the edge off his appet.i.te. This inn rejoiced not in a landlord; he that _was_ the landlord had, some twelve years before, taken himself off to "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns;" and his widow had not been lucky enough to meet with another ready and willing to let himself become entangled with her in the meshes of matrimony. The waiters who had, in her husband's time, been wont to serve the customers, had either died out, or gone to other and better situations, and left her with one solitary maid of all work--the same who had officiated as barmaid to the inn for fifteen years.

This maid of all work--Kirsty by name--was a tall, hard-featured woman, of--by her own acknowledgment--two-and-forty; not very tidy in her adornment, nor very bewitching in her manner. She it was who brought Mr. Andrew Micklewhame the pint of porter and the biscuit.

"I suppose, my dear!" said Andrew--(he had been a gay deceiver in his youth, and, ever since that period, the phrase, "my dear!" had stuck to him, and always when speaking to a female did he use it)--"I suppose, my dear," continued he, "I can have tea, and a beef-steak, or something of that kind, to it, in"--(here he stopped, and looked at his watch, from which he ascertained that it was then half-past four o'clock)--"in an hour and a half; and, as I purpose staying here to-night, I should like a bed. Will you arrange this for me?"

"Ye can easily get yer tea, sir," said the woman of forty-two, looking pleased at being addressed, "my dear;" "but, as for the bed, unless ye like to sleep in a dooble-bedded room, we canna gie ye accomodation. The lad that sleeps in ane o' the beds, is a decent sort o' a callant. We dinna ken much aboot him though; for he only comes here at nicht for his bed; and in the mornings, after his breakfast, awa' he gangs, and we never sees his face till nicht again; except upon the Sundays, when he aye has a pairty o' braw leddies an' gentlemen to dinner wi' him. He has leeved that way for a fortnicht or three weeks; an' my mistress hasna been the woman to ask him for a penny. Fegs! I'm thinkin' she has taen a notion o' the callant. What he is or what he diz we dinna ken, an'

naebody can tell us."

"Mysterious being!" inwardly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed (as the novelists' phrase goes) Mr. Micklewhame; then turning to Kirsty, with an inquiring look, he said--"Is he genteel in appearance? of good address? of pleasing manner?

Is he"----

"Ou, ay!" was the reply; "he's a' that--I never see'd a genteeler young man in a' my days; and sae handsome too; sic black whiskers, an' sae broad aboot the shouthers. My certie, he's a stalworth chiel. An', as for his address; heth man, he often gies me a kiss in the mornings as he gangs oot, and promises me anither whan he comes back again. Ye needna be the least feared to sleep in the same room wi' him."

"Feared!" muttered Micklewhame. "Afraid of a man with black whiskers and broad shoulders! I flatter myself I never was afraid in my life." So saying, he elevated himself on his pins to the same degree as he rose at that moment in his own estimation. Then turning to the table whereon he had deposited his hat, he seized it up, and, with a dexterous jerk, stuck it on his head, at the same time exclaiming--"You may prepare the bed for me--I'll sleep in the room with this mysterious man; and, while the tea is getting ready, I'll just take a short stroll."

With these words he left the inn.

Mr. Andrew Micklewhame was a middle-aged man, with a rotundity of corpus, and a bachelor to boot. In his youthful days his love for the fair s.e.x had partaken more of a general than a particular character; and now that he had arrived at the meridian of life, his taste had grown too particular for him to choose a partner for the remainder of his days from among those unmarried ladies whom he ranked among his acquaintances. "Girls," he would say, "are not now half so pretty, nor half so domestic, as they were in my young days." Then he would enter into a long tirade against the march of intellect, usually ending with a few observations upon pianoforte playing, and cooking a beef-steak, the latter accomplishment being in his opinion--as it is in that of every well-thinking person--the greater accomplishment of the two. One lady was too young; another was too old; a third was too tall; a fourth was too small; a fifth had no money; a sixth _had_ money, but was downright ugly; a seventh was ill-tempered: in short, with every one on whom his matrimonial ideas had condescended to settle, he had some fault to find. There is no pleasing one who is predetermined not to be pleased.