Now John marvelled at the kindness of his host, and his heart burned within him; and, in the midst of all, he thought of the long-lost Philip, and how he had driven him from his house--and his cheek glowed and his heart throbbed with anxiety. His son marvelled also, and Mary"s bosom swelled with strange thoughts--tears gathered in her eyes, and she raised the ring that had been the token of her father"s deliverance to her lips.
"Oh, sir," said the Covenanter, "pardon the freedom o" a plain blunt man, and o" ane whose bosom is burning wi" anxiety; but there is a mystery, there is _something_ attending my deliverance, an" the letter, and your kindness, that I canna see through--and I hope, and I fear--and I canna--I _daurna_ comprehend how it is!--but, as it were, the past--the lang bygane past, and the present, appear to hae met thegither! It is makin" my head dizzy wi" wonder, for there seems in a"
this a something that concerns you, and that concerns me, and _one_ that I mayna name."
"Your perplexity," said Sir Frederic, "may be best relieved, by stating to you, in a few words, one or two circ.u.mstances of my history. Having, from family affliction, left this country, until within these four years, I held a commission in the army of the Prince of Orange. I was present at the battle of Seneff; it was my last engagement; and in the regiment which I commanded, there was a young Scottish volunteer, to whose bravery, during the battle, I owed my life. In admiration and grat.i.tude for his conduct, I sent for him after the victory, to present him to the prince. He came. I questioned him respecting his birth and his family. He was silent--he burst into tears. I urged him to speak.
He said, of his real name he knew nothing--of his family he knew nothing--all that he knew was, that he had been the adopted son of a good and a Christian man, who had found him on Philiphaugh, on the lifeless bosom of his mother!"
"Merciful Heaven! my puir, injured Philip!" exclaimed the aged Covenanter, wringing his hands.
"My brother!" cried Daniel eagerly. Mary wept.
"Oh, sir!" continued Sir Frederic, "words cannot paint my feelings as he spoke! I had been at the battle of Philiphaugh! and, not dreaming that a conflict was at hand, my beloved wife, with our infant boy, my little Edward, had joined me but the day before. At the first noise of Lesly"s onset, I rushed from our tent--I left my loved ones there! Our army was stricken with confusion--I never beheld them again! I grasped the hand of the youth--I gazed in his face as though my soul would have leaped from my eyelids. "Do not deceive me!" I cried; and he drew from his bosom the ring and the bracelets of my Elizabeth!"
Here the old knight paused and wept, and tears ran down the cheeks of John Brydone, and the cheeks of his children.
They had not been many days in Westmoreland, and they were seated around the hospitable hearth of the good knight in peace, when two hors.e.m.e.n arrived at the door.
"It is our friend, Mr. Duncan, and a stranger!" said the Covenanter, as he beheld them from the window.
"They are welcome--for your sake, they are welcome," said Sir Frederic; and while he yet spoke, the strangers entered. "My son, my son!" he continued, and hurried forward to meet him.
"Say also your _daughter_!" said Edward Mowbray, as he approached towards Mary, and pressed her to his breast.
"Philip!--my own Philip!" exclaimed Mary, and speech failed her.
"My brother!" said Daniel.
"He was dead, and is alive again--he was lost, and is found," exclaimed John. "O, Philip, man! do ye forgi"e me?"
The adopted son pressed the hand of his foster-father.
"It is enough," replied the Covenanter.
"Yes, he forgives you!" exclaimed Mr. Duncan; "and he has forgiven me.
When we were in prison and in bonds waiting for death, he risked his life to deliver us, and he did deliver us; and a second time he has rescued me from the sword of the destroyer, and from the power of the men who thirsted for my blood. He is no enemy o" the Covenant--he is the defender o" the persecuted; and the blessing o" Andrew Duncan is all he can bequeath, for a life twice saved, upon his deliverer, and Mary Brydone."
Need we say that Mary bestowed her hand upon Edward Mowbray? but, in the fondness of her heart, she still called him "her Philip!"
THE FORTUNES OF WILLIAM WIGHTON.
My departure from Edinburgh was sudden and mysterious; and it was high time that I was away, for I was but a reckless boy at the best. My uncle was both sore vexed and weary of me, for I was never out of one mishap until I was into another; but one illumination night in the city put them all into the rear--I had, by it, got far ahead of all my former exploits. Very early next morning, I got notice from a friend that the bailies were very desirous of an interview with me; and, to do me more honour, I was to be escorted into their presence. I had no inclination for such honour, particularly at this time. I saw that our discourse could not be equally agreeable to both parties; besides they, I knew, would put questions to me I could not well answer to their satisfaction--though, after all, there was more of devilry than roguery in anything I had been engaged in.
I was not long in making up my mind; for I saw Archibald Campbell and two of the town-guard at the head of the close as I stepped out at the stair-foot. I had no doubt that I was the person they wished to honour with their accompaniment to the civic authorities. I was out at the bottom of the close like thought. I believe they never got sight of me.
I kept in hiding all day--neither my uncle nor any of my friends knew where I was to be found. After it was dark, I ventured into town; but no farther than the Low Calton, where dwelt an old servant of my father"s, who had been my nurse after the death of my mother. She was a widow, and lived in one of the ground flats, where she kept a small retail shop.
Poor creature! she loved me as if I had been her own child, and wept when I told her the dilemma I was in. She promised to conceal me until the storm blew over, and to make my peace once more with my uncle, if I would promise to be a good boy in future. She made ready for me a comfortable supper, and a bed in her small back room. Weary sitting alone, I went to rest, and soon fell into a sound sleep. I had lain thus, I know not how long, when I was roused by a loud noise, as if some person or persons had fallen on the floor above; and voices in angry altercation struck my ear.
The weather being cold, my nurse had put on a fire in the grate, which still burned bright, and gave the room a cheerful appearance. I looked up--the angry voices continued, and there was a continued beating upon the floor at intervals, and, apparently, a great struggling, as if two people were engaged in wrestling. I attempted to fall asleep again, but in vain. For half an hour there had been little intermission of the noise. The ceiling of the room was composed only of the flooring of the story above; so that the thumping and scuffling were most annoying, reminding one of the sound of a drum overhead. I rose in anger from my bed, and, seizing the poker, beat up upon the ceiling pretty smartly.
The sound ceased for a short s.p.a.ce, and I crept into bed again. I was just on the point of falling asleep when the beating and struggling were renewed, and with them my anger. I rose from bed in great fury, resolved at least to make those who annoyed me rise from the floor. I looked round for something sharp, to p.r.i.c.k them through the joinings of the flooring-deals. By bad luck, I found upon the mantel-piece an old worn knife, with a thin and sharp point. I mounted upon the table, and thus reached the ceiling with my hand. The irritating noise seemed to increase. I placed the point in one of the joints, and gave a push up--it would not enter. I exerted my strength, when--I shall never forget that moment--it ran up to the hilt!--a heavy groan followed; I drew it back covered with blood! I stood upon the table stupified with horror, gazing upon the ensanguined blade; two or three heavy drops of blood fell upon my face and went into my eyes. I leaped from the table, and placed the knife where I had found it. The noise ceased; but heavy drops of blood continued to fall and coagulate upon the floor at my feet. I felt stupified with fear and anguish--my eyes were riveted upon the blood which--drop, drop, drop--fell upon the floor. I had stood thus for some time before the danger I was in occurred to me. I started, hastily put on my clothes, and, opening the window, leapt out, fled by the back of the houses, past the Methodist chapel, up the back stairs into Shakspeare square, and along Princes" street; nor did I slacken my pace until I was a considerable way out of town.
I was now miserable. The night was dark as a dungeon; but not half so dark as my own thoughts. I had deprived a fellow-creature of life! In vain did I say to myself that it was done with no evil intention on my part. I had been too rash in using the knife; and my conscience was against me. I was at this very time, also, in hiding for my rashness and folly in other respects. I trembled at the first appearance of day, lest I should be apprehended as a murderer. Dawn found me in the neighbourhood of Bathgate. Cold and weary as I was, I dared not approach a house or the public road, but lay concealed in a wood all day, under sensations of the utmost horror. Towards evening, I cautiously emerged from my hiding-place. Compelled by hunger, I entered a lonely house at a distance from the public road, and, for payment, obtained some refreshment, and got my benumbed limbs warmed. During my stay, I avoided all unnecessary conversation. I trembled lest they would speak of the murder in Edinburgh; for, had they done so, my agitation must have betrayed me. After being refreshed, I left the hospitable people, and pursued, under cover of the night, my route to Glasgow, which I reached a short time after daybreak. Avoiding the public streets, I entered the first change-house I found open at this early hour, where I obtained a warm breakfast and a bed, of both which I stood greatly in need. I soon fell asleep, in spite of the agitation of my mind; but my dreams were far more horrifying than my waking thoughts, dreadful as they were. I awoke early in the afternoon, feverish and unrefreshed.
After some time spent in summoning up resolution, I requested my landlady to procure for me a sight of any of the Edinburgh newspapers of the day before. She brought one to me. My agitation was so great that I dared not trust myself to take it out of her hand, lest she had perceived the tremor I was in; but requested her to lay it down, while I appeared to be busy adjusting my dress--carefully, all the time, keeping my back to her. I had two objects in view: I wished to see the shipping-list, as it was my aim to leave the country for America by the first opportunity; and, secondly, to see what account the public had got of my untoward adventure. I felt conscious that all the city was in commotion about it, and the authorities despatched for my apprehension; for I had no doubt that my nurse would at once declare her innocence, and tell who had done the deed. With an anxiety I want words to express, I grasped the paper as soon as the landlady retired, and hurried over its columns until I reached the last. During the interval, I believe I scarcely breathed; I looked it over once more with care; I felt as if a load had been lifted from my breast--there was not in the whole paper a single word of a death by violence or accident. I thought it strange, but rejoiced. I felt that I was not in such imminent danger of being apprehended; but my mind was still racked almost to distraction.
I remained in my lodging for several days, very ill, both from a severe cold I had caught and distress of mind. I had seen every paper during the time. Still there was nothing in them applicable to my case. I was bewildered, and knew not what to think. Had the occurrences of that fearful night, I thought, been only a delusion--some horrid dream or nightmare? Alas! the large drops of blood that still stained my shirt, which, in my confusion, I had not changed, drove from my mind the consoling hope; they were d.a.m.ning evidence of a terrible reality. My mind reverted back to its former agony, which became so aggravated by the silence of the public prints that I was rendered desperate. The silence gave a mystery to the whole occurrence, more unendurable than if I had found it narrated in the most aggravated language, and my person described, with a reward for my apprehension.
As soon as my sickness had a little abated, and I was able to go out, I went in the evening, a little before ten o"clock, to the neighbourhood of where the coach from Edinburgh stopped. I walked about until its arrival, shunning observation as much as possible. At length it came. No one descended from it whom I recollected ever to have seen. Rendered desperate, I followed two travellers into a public-house which they entered, along with the guard. For some time, I sat an attentive listener to their conversation. It was on indifferent subjects; and I watched an opportunity to join in their talk. Speaking with an air of indifference, I turned the conversation to the subject I had so much at heart--the local news of the city. They gave me what little they had; but not one word of it concerned my situation. I inquired at the guard if he would, next morning, be so kind as take a letter to Edinburgh, for Widow Neil, in the Low Calton.
"With pleasure," he said--"I know her well, as I live close by her shop; but, poor woman, she has been very unwell for these two or three days past. There has been some strange talk of a young lad who vanished from her house, no one can tell how; she is likely to get into trouble from the circ.u.mstance, for it is surmised he has been murdered in her house, and his body carried off, as there was a quant.i.ty of blood upon the floor. No one suspects her of it; but still it is considered strange that she should have heard no noise, and can give no account of the affair."
This statement of the guard surprised me exceedingly. Why was the affair mentioned in so partial and unsatisfactory a manner? Why was I, a murderer, suspected of being myself murdered? Why did not this lead to an investigation, which must have exposed the whole horrid mystery of the death of the individual up stairs? I could not understand it. My mind became the more perplexed, the more I thought of it. Yet, so far, I had no reason to complain. Nothing had been said in any respect implicating me. Perhaps I had killed n.o.body; perhaps I had only wounded some one who did not know whence the stab came; or perhaps the person killed or wounded was an outlaw, and no discovery could be made of his situation. All these thoughts rushed through my mind as I sat beside the men. I at last left them, being afraid to put further questions.
I went to my lodgings and considered what I should do. I conceived it safest to write no letters to my friends, or say anything further on the subject. I meditated upon the propriety of going to America, and had nearly made up my mind to that step. Every day, the mysterious affair became more and more disagreeable and painful to me. I gave up making further inquiries, and even carefully avoided, for a time, a.s.sociating with any person or reading any newspaper. I gradually became easier, as time, which brought no explanation to me, pa.s.sed over; but the thought still lay at the bottom of my heart, that I was a murderer.
I went one day to a merchant"s counting-house, to take my pa.s.sage for America. The man looked at me attentively. I shook with fear, but he soon relieved me by asking--"Why I intended to leave so good a country for so bad a one?" I replied, that I could get no employment here. My appearance had pleased him. He offered me a situation in his office. I accepted it. I continued in Glasgow, happy and respected, for several years, and, to all likelihood, was to have settled there for life. I was on the point of marriage with a young woman, as I thought, every way worthy of the love I had for her. Her parents were satisfied; the day of our nuptials was fixed--the house was taken and furnished wherein we were to reside, and everything prepared. In the delirium of love, I thought myself the happiest of men, and even forgot the affair of the murder.
It was on the Monday preceding our union--which was to take place in her father"s house on the Friday evening--that business of the utmost importance called me to the town of Ayr. I took a hasty farewell of my bride, and set off, resolved to be back upon the Thursday at farthest.
Early in the forenoon of Tuesday, I got everything arranged to my satisfaction; but was too late for the first coach. To amuse myself in the best manner I could, until the coach should set off again, I wandered down to the harbour; and, while there, it was my misfortune to meet an old acquaintance, Alexander Cameron, the son of a barber in the Luckenbooths. Glad to see each other, we shook hands most cordially; and, after chatting about "auld langsyne" until we were weary wandering upon the pier, I proposed to adjourn to my inn. To this proposal he at once acceded, on condition that I should go on board of his vessel afterwards, when he would return the visit in the evening. To this I had no objection to make. The time pa.s.sed on until the dusk. We left the inn; but, instead of proceeding to the harbour, we struck off into the country for some time, and then made the coast at a small bay, where I could just discern, through the twilight, a small lugger-rigged vessel at anchor. I felt rather uneasy, and began to hesitate; when my friend, turning round, said--
"That is my vessel, and as fine a crew mans her as ever walked a deck;--we will be on board in a minute."
I wished, yet knew not how, to refuse. He made a loud call; a boat with two men pushed from under a point, and we were rowing towards the vessel ere I could summon resolution to refuse. I remained on board not above an hour. I was treated in the most kindly manner. When I was coming away, Cameron said--
"I have requested this visit from the confidence I feel in your honour.
I ask you not, to promise not to deceive me--I am sure you will not. My time is very uncertain upon this coast, and I have papers of the utmost importance, which I wish to leave in safe hands. We are too late to arrange them to-night; but be so kind as promise to be at the same spot where we embarked to-morrow morning, at what hour you please, and I will deliver them to you. Should it ever be in my power to serve you, I will not flinch from the duty of grat.i.tude, cost what it may."
There was a something so sincere and earnest in his manner, that I could not refuse. I said, that as I left Ayr on the morrow, I would make it an early hour--say, six o"clock; which pleased him. We shook hands and parted, when I was put on sh.o.r.e, and returned to my inn, where I ruminated upon what the charge could be I was going to receive from my old friend in so unexpected a manner.
I was up betimes, and at the spot by the appointed hour. The boat was in waiting; but Cameron was not with her. I was disappointed, and told one of the men so; he replied that the captain expected me on board to breakfast. With a reluctance much stronger than I had felt the preceding night, I consented to go on board. I found him in the cabin, and the breakfast ready for me. We sat down, and began to converse about the papers. Scarce was the second cup filled out, when a voice called down the companion, "Captain, the cutter!" Cameron leaped from the table, and ran on deck. I heard a loud noise of cordage and bustle; but could not conceive what it was, until the motion of the vessel too plainly told that she was under way. I rose in haste to get upon deck; but the cover was secured. I knocked and called; but no one paid any attention to my efforts. I stood thus knocking, and calling at the stretch of my voice, for half an hour, in vain. I returned to my seat, and sat down, overcome with anger and chagrin. Here was I again placed in a disagreeable dilemma--evidently going far out to sea, when I ought to be on my way to Glasgow to my wedding. In the middle of my ravings, I heard first one shot, then another; but still the ripple of the water and the noise overhead continued. I was now convinced that I was on board of a smuggling lugger, and that Cameron was either sole proprietor or captain. I wished with all my heart that the cutter might overtake and capture us, that I might be set ash.o.r.e; but all my wishes were vain--we still held on our way at a furious rate. As I heard no more shots, I knew that we had left the cutter at a greater distance. Again, therefore, I strove to gain a hearing, but in vain: I then strove to force the hatch, but it resisted all my efforts. I yielded myself at length to my fate; for the way of the vessel was not in the least abated.
Towards night, I could find, by the pitching of the vessel and the increased noise above, that the wind had increased fearfully, and that it blew a storm. It was with difficulty that I could keep my seat, so much did she pitch. During the whole night and following day, I was so sick that I thought I would have died. I had no light; there was no human creature to give me a mouthful of water; and I could not help myself even to rise from the floor of the cabin, on which I had sunk.
The agony of my mind was extreme: the day following was to have been that of my marriage; I was at sea, and knew not where I was. I blamed myself for my easy, complying temper; my misery increased; and, could I have stood on my feet, I know not what I might have done in my desperate situation. Thus I spent a second night; and the day which I had thought was to shine on my happiness, dawned on my misery.
Towards the afternoon, the motion of the vessel ceased, and I heard the anchor drop. Immediately the hatch was opened, and Cameron came to me. I rose in anger, so great that I could not give it utterance. Had I not been so weak from sickness, I would have flown and strangled him. He made a thousand apologies for what had happened. I saw that his concern was real; my anger subsided into melancholy, and my first utterance was employed to inquire where we were.
"I am sorry to say," replied he, "that I cannot but feel really grieved to inform you that we are at present a few leagues off Flushing."
"Good G.o.d!" I exclaimed, as I buried my face in my hands, while I actually wept for shame--"I am utterly undone! What will my beloved Eliza say? How shall I ever appear again before her and her friends?
Even now, perhaps, she is dressing to be my wife, or weeping in the arms of her bridesmaid. The thought will drive me mad. For G.o.dsake, Cameron, get under way, and land me again either at Greenock or where you first took me up, or I am utterly undone. Do this, and I will forget all I have suffered and am suffering."
"I would, upon my soul," he said, "were it in my power, though I should die in a jail; but, while this gale lasts, it were folly to attempt it.
Besides, I am not sole proprietor of the lugger--I am only captain. My crew are sharers in the cargo. I would not get their consent. The thought of the evil I was unintentionally doing you, gave me more concern than the fear of capture. Had the storm not come on, I would have risked all to have landed you somewhere in Scotland; but it was so severe, and blowing from the land, that there was no use to attempt it.
I hope, however, the weather will now moderate, and the wind shift, when I will run you back, or procure you a pa.s.sage in the first craft that leaves for Scotland."
I made no answer to him, I was so absorbed in my own reflections. I walked the deck like one distracted, praying for a change in the weather. For another three days it blew, with less or more violence, from the same point--during which time I scarcely ever ate or drank, and never went to bed. On the forenoon of Monday, the wind shifted. I went immediately ash.o.r.e in the boat, and found a brig getting under way for Leith. I stepped on board, and took farewell of Captain Cameron, whom I never saw again, and wish I had never seen him in my life.