Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XX Part 3

"Gilbert Walker," said I, calmly, "my intentions towards your dochter were honourable, and I am come here this day--little thanks to me!--to put you on your guard against one whose intentions are false, treacherous, and abominable. When I made love to May Walker, I wasna a married man; but I was scorned, knocked down, and nearly prosecuted, for merely bein owre warm and lovin in my chaste embrace; while the husband o' anither woman comes in and carries awa the prize frae the scorned though honourable Coelebs. May Walker may, if she likes, despise me, her faithfu lover. Ninety-nine out o' a hunder would, for that mad act, convict her o' a vitiated and corrupt taste; but, if she had ane to side wi' her, she may, in a sense, be justified. But wha, save a Turk, could justify the taste o' a bonny maiden, wha married anither woman's man?

There's no ane, there's no a leg o' ane, frae Buchaness to Ardnamurchan, frae the Mull o' Galloway to John o' Groat's, that would justify that taste in ane o' the chaste dochters o' virtuous Scotland."

"What is this?" cried May Walker, openin a side-door, and strugglin, in the arms of Mr Hugh Kennedy, to get forward. "What do I hear? Who says that George Webster is a married man?"

"Your greatest enemy!" cried Mr Hugh Kennedy; pointin theatrically with his outstretched hand. "Ha! ha! ha! Your spoiler, your rejected, dejected, envious, poisonous, adder-tongued lover, is he who has dared to spurt his venom on the meat destined for his rival. This is grat.i.tude. He solicited me to get him discharged from your just vengeance, and now he endeavours to gnaw the fingers of the hand that awarded him his safety."

"I see, I see it a'," cried May. "I ken the fox, or rather wolf, i' the auld. I hae met him in the Warlocks' Glen. He can sneak under broom bushes like the hairy adder, or lurk in the green moss like the yellow-wamed ask. It's no i' the wud alane that thae creatures carry their poison. They dinna cast it aff at the threshold o' the farmer's ha, whar they can crawl, an' spit, an' wound, an' kill, as weel as in the green wud. Dinna trouble yersel wi' the reptile, dear George. I gie him nae faith noo, ony mair than I did when he attacked me in the Warlocks' Glen."

I sadna a word. I turned, and ran out, and, as I departed, I heard spinnin after me, frae a' their lips at ance--

"Ay, ay, awa wi' ye!--it is your time, fause, treacherous dog; never shew your face in this house again."

In three minutes, I opened the door again, wi' my peculiar gentleness and calmness o' touch, and, wi' a jaunty manner, tinged wi' a kind of native etiquette, handed in, bowin the while amaist to the very carpet, Mrs Hugh Kennedy, wi' her bairn in her arms and her marriage-lines in her pouch.

"I beg leave to introduce to you," said I, "Mrs Hugh Kennedy, the lawfu wedded wife o' this man, whase real name is Hugh Kennedy, and no George Webster, which is a mere cover--a vile deceit, and an imposition."

I hadna time to get thae words fairly out, when Mrs Kennedy threw her bairn into my arms, and, fleein forward wi' the keenness and fire o a love that had been lang repressed and now burst its chains, seized, wi'

her longing, greedy arms, her husband round the neck, like a ferocious mastiff. It's a' safe noo, thinks I. He may try and shake her aff if he can. The thing was just as impossible as it was for Prometheus to shake the king o' birds frae his liver. He shook, pulled, rugged, tore, kicked, and pinched her. Her grasp waxed firmer and firmer. She stuck like a horse leech, whase blude rins fair through, it. Guid sense micht hae dictated submission, whar the evil was clearly beyond mortal remeid.

But the foolish man struggled--vain, trebly vain, foolish, insane effort! O pithless man! The struggle continued. He wrestled, and blew, and puffed. She grasped him closer and mair close. At first his struggle was for liberty; but now it turned mair serious; it seemed to be for life. Her grip had extended to his neck, and, choking up his windpipe, impeded respiration. His face waxed blue. His tongue began to jut out, as if inclined to hang. Foam came frae his mouth. His een were turned up, to show their whites. A hollow _raucitus_, or rattle, began in his throat.

"Save the man frae strangulation," cried Gilbert Walker.

"Haud the young Kennedy, May," said I, throwin the bairn into her arms, squallin wi' a great noise.

I flew to save the man's life. Gettin behind him, I unclosed the woman's hands, which were fixed as if in the grasp o' death. The moment she was deprived of her hold, she fell senseless on the ground, and Kennedy, staggerin back, leaned on the wa', and tried to recover himsel. In a short time, the puir woman cam to hersel.

"Hugh, dearest Hugh," she cried, strugglin to get to her knees, "can it be possible that ye hae tried to desert me for anither--me, wha left, for yer sake, my dotin father, my hame, an' a' the comforts o' hame; the bonny holms o' Sunnybrae, whar we courted sae lang in secret; the scene o' my youthfu' pleasures and my maiden loves--for ay and for ever?"

"I know you not, woman," said he, doggedly.

"Dinna ken yer wedded wife!" cried she, weepin, an' searchin for her marriage-lines, which she held up in her hand. "Dinna ken Lucy Graeme, dochter o' Arthur Graeme, o' Sunnybrae, whase heart I hae broken by marryin you! Mercy on me! Does he wha, by thae holy bands, is bound to cherish and protect me, his wedded wife, deny a' knowledge o' me? This is the last, the warst, the maist unbearable o' a' the ills ye hae brought on my puir head. That bairn," (risin an' seizin the child,) "that babe, that hadna seen the licht o' day when ye cowardly deserted its houseless, starvin mither looks to ye as its father, and mocks your cauld, cruel ignorance wi' its knowledge--got, dootless, frae heaven--o'

its natural protector. O maiden, maiden," (lookin to May Walker,) "tak example by me. Yer hame here is warm and comfortable. Dinna leave it, dinna renounce it, but for ane ye ken, in heart, soul, name, pedigree, and means. He wha has ruined me wad hae trebly ruined ye; for he has taen frae me only my hame, my daily bread, and peace--he wad hae taen frae ye a' thae, and, ayont them a', your honour."

Kennedy had seen it was a' up wi' him before the termination o' his wife's speech, for his ee began to play about the door o' the room. I watched him, but he was an over-match for me. Runnin forward, he jostled me to a side--I stumbled and fell--the women screamed--and, before I got up, he had completely and finally bolted. The puir woman, wi' her bairn still in her arms, shrieked as she saw him depart, perhaps for ever. Nae power wad restrain her--she flew, wi' a' the force o' her feeble limbs, after her faithless husband, and we never heard o' them mair.

Grat.i.tude for this return, on my part, o' guid for ill, in a short time completely changed the heart o' May Walker. I had saved her frae ruin.

We were wed. I may some day write the fate o' my first-born, for that famous wark, "The Border Tales."

SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF PETER PATERSON.

An every-day biographer would have said that Peter Paterson was the son of pious and respectable parents; and he would have been perfectly right, for the parents of Peter were both pious and respectable. I say they were pious; for, every week-night, as duly as the clock struck nine, and every Sabbath morning and evening, Robin Paterson and his wife Betty called in their man-servant and their maid-servant into what now-a-days would be styled their parlour, and there the voice of Psalms, of reading the Word, and of prayer, was heard; and, moreover, their actions corresponded with their profession. I say also they were respectable; for Robin Paterson rented a farm called Foxlaw, consisting of fifty acres, in which, as his neighbours said, he was "making money like hay"--for land was not three or four guineas an acre in those days.

Foxlaw was in the south of Scotland, upon the east coast, and the farm-house stood on the brae-side, within a stone-throw of the sea. The brae on which Foxlaw stood, formed one side of a sort of deep valley or ravine; and at the foot of the valley was a small village, with a few respectable-looking houses scattered here and there in its neighbourhood. Robin and Betty had been married about six years, when, to the exceeding joy of both, Betty brought forth a son, and they called his name Peter--that having been the Christian name of his paternal grandfather. Before he was six weeks old, his mother protested he would be a prodigy; and was heard to say--"See, Robin, man, see!--did ye ever ken the like o' that?--see how he laughs!--he kens his name already!"

And Betty and Robin kissed their child alternately, and gloried in his smile. "O Betty," said Robin--for Robin was no common man--"that smile was the first spark o' reason glimmerin' in our infant's soul!--Thank G.o.d! the bairn has a' its faculties." At five years old Peter was sent to the village school, where he continued till he was fifteen; and there he was more distinguished as a pugilist than as a book-worm.

Nevertheless, Peter contrived almost invariably to remain dux of his cla.s.s; but this was accounted for by the fact, that, when he made a blunder, no one dared to _trap_ him, well knowing that if they had done so, the moment they were out of school, Peter would have made his knuckles acquainted with their seat of superior knowledge. On occasions when he was fairly puzzled, and the teacher would put the question to a boy lower in the cla.s.s, the latter would tremble and stammer, and look now at his teacher, and now squint at Peter, stammer again, and again look from the one to the other, while Peter would draw his book before his face, and, giving a scowling glent at the stammerer, would give a sort of significant nod to his fist suddenly clenched upon the open page; and when the teacher stamped his foot, and cried, "Speak, sir!"

the trembler whimpered, "I daurna, sir." "Ye daurna!" the enraged dominie would cry--"Why?" "Because--because, sir," was slowly stammered out--"Peter Paterson wud _lick_ me!" Then would the incensed disciplinarian spring upon Peter; and, grasping him by the collar, whirl his _taws_ in the air, and bring them with his utmost strength round the back, sides, and limbs of Peter; but Peter was like a rock, and his eyes more stubborn than a rock; and, in the midst of all, he gazed in the face of his tormentor with a look of imperturbable defiance and contempt. Notwithstanding this course of education, when Peter had attained the age of fifteen, the village instructor found it necessary to call at Foxlaw, and inform Robin Paterson that he could do no more for his son, adding that--"He was fit for the college; and, though he said it, that should not say it, as fit for it as any student that ever entered it." These were glad tidings to a father's heart, and Robin treated the dominie to an extra tumbler. He, however, thought his son was young enough for the college--"We'll wait anither year," said he; "an' Peter can be improvin' himsel at hame; an' ye can gie a look in, Maister, an' advise us to ony kind o' books ye think he should hae--we'll aye be happy to see ye, for ye've done yer duty to him, I'll say that for ye."

So another year pa.s.sed on, and Peter remained about the farm. He was now sometimes seen with a book in his hand; but more frequently with a gun, and more frequently still with a fis.h.i.+ng rod. At the end of the twelve months, Peter positively refused to go to the college. His mother entreated, and his father threatened; but it was labour in vain. At last--"It's o' nae use striving against the stream," said Robin--"ye canna gather berries off a whin bush. Let him e'en tak his ain way, an'

he may live to rue it." Thus, Peter went on reading, shooting, fis.h.i.+ng, and working about the farm, till he was eighteen. He now began to receive a number of epithets from his neighbours. His old schoolmaster called him "Ne'er-do-weel Peter;" but the dominie was a mere proser; he knew the moods and tenses of a Greek or Latin sentence, but he was incapable of appreciating its soul. Some called him "Poetical Peter,"

and a few "Prosing Peter;" but the latter were downright bargain-making, pounds-s.h.i.+llings-and-pence men, whose souls were dead to

"The music of sweet sounds;"

and sensible only of the jink of the coin of the realm. Others called him "_Daft_ Peter," for he was the leader of frolic, fun, and harmless mischief; but now the maidens of the village also began to call him "Handsome Peter." Yet he of whom they thus spoke would wander for hours alone by the beach of the solitary sea, gazing upon its army of waves warring with the winds, till his very spirit took part in the conflict; or he could look till his eyes got blind on its unruffled bosom, when the morning sun flung over it, from the horizon to the sh.o.r.e, a flash of glory; or, when the moon-beams, like a million torches shooting from the deep, danced on its undulating billows--then would he stand, like an entranced being, listening to its everlasting anthem, while his soul, awed and elevated by the magnificence of the scene, wors.h.i.+pped G.o.d, the Creator of the great sea. With all his reputed wildness, and with all his thoughtlessness, even on the sea-banks, by the wood, and by the brae-side, Peter found voiceless, yet to him eloquent companions. To him the tender primrose was sacred as the first blush of opening womanhood; and he would converse with the lowly daisy, till his gaze seemed to draw out the very soul of the

"Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower."

It, however, grieved his mother's spirit to see him, as she said, "Just idling awa his time, and leaving his learning at his heels." His father now said--"Let him just tak his fling an' find his ain weight--an he'll either mak a spoon or spoil a horn, or my name's no Robin Paterson."

But, from Peter's infancy, it had been his mother's ambition and desire to live to see him, as she expressed it, "wag his pow in a p.o.o.pit," or, at any rate, to see him a gentleman. On one occasion, therefore, when Robin was at Dunse hiring-market, the schoolmaster having called on his old pupil, "Ne'er-do-weel Peter," the two entered into a controversy in the presence of Peter's mother, and, in the course of the discussion, the man of letters was dumfoundered by the fluency and force of the arguments of his young antagonist. Silent tears of exultation stole into Betty's eyes, to hear, as she said, "her bairn expawtiate equal--ay, superior to ony minister;" and no sooner had the teacher withdrawn, than, fixing her admiring eyes on her son, she said--

"O Peter, man, what a delivery ye hae?--an' sae fu' o' the dictioner'!

Troth but ye wad cut a figure i' the p.o.o.pit! There wad nae dust gather on your cus.h.i.+on--there wad be nae sleeping, nodding, or snoring, while my Peter was preachin'. An', oh, hinny, but ye will mak me a glad mother, if ye'll consent to gang to the college! Ye wadna be lang o'

gettin a kirk, my man--I can tell ye that; an', if ye'll only consent to gang, ye shanna want pocket-money that your faither kens naething about--my bairn shall appear wi' the best o' them. For syne ever ye was an infant, it has aye been my hope an' my prayer, Peter, to see ye a minister; an' I ne'er sent a hunder eggs or a basket o' b.u.t.ter to the market, but Peter's pennies were aye laid aside, to keep his pockets at the college."

Peter was, in the main, a most dutiful and most affectionate son; but on this point he was strangely stubborn; and he replied--

"Wheesht, mother! wheesht!--nae mair aboot it."

"Nae mair aboot it, bairn!" said she; "but I maun say mair aboot it.

Man! wad ye fling awa yer learnin' at a d.y.k.e-side, an' yer talents at a pleugh-tail? Wad ye just break yer mother an' faither's heart? O Peter!

Peter, man, hae ye nae spirit ava?--What is yer objection?"

"Weel, keep your temper, mother," said he, "an' I'll tell ye candidly:--The kirk puts a strait-jacket on a body that I wadna hae elbow-room in!"

"What do ye mean, ye graceless?" added she, in a voice betokening a sort of horror.

"Oh, naething particular; only, for example, sic bits o' scandal as--the Reverend Peter Paterson was called before the session for shooting on his ain glebe--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was summoned before the presbytery for leistering a salmon at the foot o' Tammy the Miller's dam--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was ordered to appear before the General a.s.sembly for clappin' Tammy the Miller's servant la.s.sie on the shouther, an' ca'ing her a winsome quean--or"----

"Or!"--exclaimed his impatient and mortified mother--"Oh, ye forward an'

profane rascal ye! how daur ye speak in sic a strain--or wad ye be guilty o' sic unministerial conduct?--wad ye disgrace _the coat_ by sic unG.o.dly behaviour?"

"There's nae sayin', mother," added he; "but dinna be angry--I'm sure, if I did either shoot, leister, or clap a bonny la.s.sie on the shouther, ye wadna think it unlike your son Peter."

"Weel, weel," said the good-natured matron, softened down by his manner; "it's true your faither says--it's nae use striving against the stream; an' a' gifts arena graces. But if ye'll no be a minister, what will ye be? Wad ye no like to be a writer or an advocate?"

"Worse an' worse, mother! I wad rather beg than live on the misery of another."

"Then, callant," added Betty, shaking her head, and sighing as she spoke--"I dinna ken what we'll do wi' ye. Will ye no be a doctor?"

"What!" said Peter, laughing, and a.s.suming a theatrical att.i.tude--"an apothecary!--make an apothecary of _me_, and cramp _my_ genius over a pestle and mortar? No, mother--I'll be a farmer, like my father before me."

"Oh, ye ne'er-do-weel, as your maister ca's ye!" said his mother, as she rose and left the room in a pa.s.sion; "ye'll be a play-actor yet, an'

that will be baith seen an' heard tell o', an' bring disgrace on us a'."

Peter was, however, spell-bound to the vicinity of Foxlaw by stronger ties than an aversion to the college or a love for farming. He was about seventeen, when a Mr Graham, with his wife and family, came and took up his residence in one of the respectable-looking houses adjacent to the village. Mr Graham had been a seafaring man--it was reported the master of a small privateer; and in that capacity had acquired, as the villagers expressed it, "a sort o' money." He had a family of several children, but the eldest was a lovely girl called Ann, about the same age as Peter Paterson. Mr Graham was fond of his gun, and so was Peter; they frequently met on the neighbouring moors, and an intimacy sprang up between them. The old sailor also began to love his young companion; for, though a landsman, he had a bold, reckless spirit: he could row, reef, and steer, and swim like an amphibious animal; and, though only a boy, he was acknowledged to be the only boxer, and the best leaper, runner, and wrestler in the country side--moreover, he could listen to a long yarn, and, over a gla.s.s of old grog, toss off his heel-taps like a man; and these qualifications drawing the heart of the skipper towards him, he invited him to his house. But here a change came over the spirit of reckless, roving Peter. He saw Ann; and an invisible hand seemed suddenly to strike him on the breast. His heart leaped to his throat.

His eyes were riveted. He felt as if a flame pa.s.sed over his face. Mr Graham told his longest stories, and Peter sat like a simpleton--hearing every word, indeed, but not comprehending a single sentence. His entire soul was fixed on the fair being before him--every sense was swallowed up in sight. Ringlets of a s.h.i.+ning brown were parted over her fair brow; but Peter could not have told their colour--her soft blue eyes occasionally met his, but he noted not their hue. He beheld her lovely face, where the rose and the lily were blended--he saw the almost sculptured elegance of her form; yet it was neither on these--on the s.h.i.+ning ringlets, nor the soft blue eyes--that his spirit dwelt; but on Ann Graham, their gentle possessor. He felt as he had never felt before; and he knew not wherefore.