Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume XXIII

Alexander Leighton, John Mackay Wilson

Informations

• Publié par: thoev
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 52
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Wilson's Tales of
the Borders and of Scotland, Vol. XXIII., by
Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at
no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.
You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the
terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of
Scotland, Vol. XXIII.
Author: Various
Release Date: February 11, 2004 [EBook #11032]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG
EBOOK TALES OF SCOTLAND ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, John Hagerson,
Terry Gilliland and PG Distributed Proofreaders
Wilson'sTALES OF THE BORDERS
AND OF SCOTLAND.
HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.
REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, One of
the Original Editors and Contributors.
VOL. XXIII.CONTENTS.
THE LAWYER'S TALES (Alexander Leighton)—
LORD KAMES'S PUZZLE.
THE ORPHAN (John Mackay Wilson).
THE BURGHER'S TALES (Alexander Leighton)—
THE
BROWNIE OF THE WEST BOW.
GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT (Professor
Thomas
Gillespie)—THE LAST SCRAP.
THE STORY OF MARY BROWN (Alexander
Leighton).
TIBBY FOWLER (John Mackay Wilson).
THE CRADLE OF LOGIE (Alexander Leighton).
THE DEATH OF THE CHEVALIER DE LA BEAUTÉ
(John Mackay Wilson).
THE STORY OF THE PELICAN (Alexander
Leighton).
THE WIDOW'S AE SON (John Mackay Wilson).
THE LAWYER'S TALES (Alexander Leighton)—
THE
STORY OF MYSIE CRAIG.THE TWIN BROTHERS (John Mackay Wilson).
THE GIRL FORGER (Alexander Leighton).
THE TWO RED SLIPPERS (Alexander Leighton).
THE FAITHFUL WIFE (Alexander Leighton).
WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF
SCOTLAND.
* * * * *THE LAWYER'S TALES.
LORD KAMES'S PUZZLE.
On looking over some Session papers which had
belonged to Lord Kames, with the object, I
confess, of getting hold of some facts—those
entities called by Quintilian the bones of truth, the
more by token, I fancy, that they so often stick in
the throat—which might contribute to my legends, I
came to some sheets whereon his lordship had
written some hasty remarks, to the effect that the
case Napier versus Napier was the most curious
puzzle that ever he had witnessed since he had
taken his seat on the bench. The papers were
fragmentary, consisting of parts of a Reclaiming
Petition and some portion of a Proof that had been
led in support of a brieve of service; but I got
enough to enable me to give the story, which I
shall do in such a connected manner as to take the
reader along with me, I hope pleasantly, and
without any inclination to choke upon the foresaid
bones.
Without being very particular about the year, which
really I do not know with further precision than that
it was within the first five years of Lord Kames's
senator-ship, I request the reader to fancy himself
in a small domicile in Toddrick's Wynd, in the old
city of Edinburgh; and I request this the more
readily that, as we all know, Nature does notexclude very humble places from the regions of
romance, neither does she deny to very humble
personages the characters of heroes and heroines.
Not that I have much to say in the first instance
either of the place or the persons; the former being
no more than a solitary room and a bed-closet,
where yet the throb of life was as strong and quick
as in the mansions of the great, and the latter
composed of two persons—one, a decent, hard-
working woman called Mrs. Hislop, whose duty in
this world was to keep her employers clean in their
clothes, wherein she stood next to the minister,
insomuch as cleanliness is next to godliness—in
other words, she was a washerwoman; the other
being a young girl, verging upon sixteen, called
Henrietta, whose qualities, both of mind and body,
might be comprised in the homely eulogy, "as
blithe as bonnie." So it may be, that if you are
alarmed at the humility of the occupation of the
one—even with your remembrance that Sir Isaac
Newton experimented upon soap-bubbles—as
being so intractable in the plastic-work of romance,
you may be appeased by the qualities of the other;
for has it not been our delight to sing for a
thousand years, yea, in a thousand songs, too, the
praises of young damsels, whether under the
names of Jenny or Peggy, or those of Clarinda or
Florabella, or whether engaged in herding flocks by
Logan Waters, or dispensing knights' favours
under the peacock? But we cannot afford to
dispose of our young heroine in this curt way, for
her looks formed parts of the lines of a strange
history; and so we must be permitted the privilege
of narrating that, while Mrs. Hislop's protegée didnot come within that charmed circle which
contains, according to the poets, so many angels
without wings, she was probably as fair every whit
as Dowsabell. Yet, after all, we are not here
concerned with beauty, which, as a specialty in one
to one, and as a universality in all to all, is beyond
the power of written description. We have here to
do simply with some traits which, being hereditary,
not derived from Mrs. Hislop, have a bearing upon
our strange legend: the very slightest cast in the
eyes, which in its piquancy belied a fine genial
nature in the said Henney; and a classic nose,
which, partaking of the old Roman type, and
indicating pride, was equally untrue to a generosity
of feeling which made friends of all who saw her
—except one. A strange exception this one; for
who, even in this bad world, could be an enemy to
a creature who conciliated sympathy as a love, and
defied antipathy as an impossibility? Who could he
be? or rather, who could she be? for man seems
to be excluded by the very instincts of his nature.
The question may be answered by the evolution of
facts; than which what other have we even amidst
the dark gropings into the mystery of our wonderful
being?
Mrs. Hislop's head was over the skeil, wherein lay
one of the linen sheets of Mr. Dallas, the writer to
the signet, which, with her broad hands, she was
busy twisting into the form of a serpent; and no
doubt there were indications of her efforts in the
drops of perspiration which stood upon her good-
humoured, gaucy face, so suggestive of dewdrops
('bating the poetry) on the leaves of a big blushpeony. In this work she was interrupted by the
entrance of Henney, who came rushing in as if
under the influence of some emotion which had
taken her young heart by surprise.
"What think ye, minny?" she cried, as she held up
her hands.
"The deil has risen again from the grave where he
was buried in
Kirkcaldy," was the reply, with a laugh.
"No, that's no it," continued the girl.
"Then what is it?" was the question.
"He's dead," replied Henney.
"Who is dead?" again asked Mrs. Hislop.
"The strange man," replied the girl.
And a reply, too, which brought the busy worker to
a pause in her work, for she understood who the
he was, and the information went direct through
the ear to the heart; but Henney, supposing that
she was not understood, added—
"The man who used to look at me with yon terrible
eyes."
"Yes, yes, dear, I understand you," said the
woman, as she let the coil fall, and sat down upon
a chair, under the influence of strong emotion. "But
who told you?""Jean Graham," replied the girl.
An answer which seemed, for certain reasons
known to herself, to satisfy the woman, for the
never another word she said, any more than if her
tongue had been paralyzed by the increased action
of her heart; but as we usually find that when that
organ in woman is quiet more useful powers come
into action, so the sensible dame began to exercise
her judgment. A few minutes sufficed for forming a
resolution; nor was it sooner formed than that it
was begun to be put into action, yet not before the
excited girl was away, no doubt to tell some of her
companions of her relief from the bugbear of the
man with the terrible eyes. The formation of a
purpose might have been observed in her
puckered lips and the speculation in her grey eyes.
The spirit of romance had visited the small house
in Toddrick's Wynd, where for fifteen years the
domestic lares had sat quietly surveying the
economy of poverty. She rose composedly from
the chair into which the effect of Henney's
exclamation had thrown her, went to the blue chest
which contained her holiday suit, took out, one
after another, the chintz gown, the mankie
petticoat, the curch, the red plaid; and, after
washing from her face the perspiration drops, she
began to put on her humble finery—all the
operation having been gone through with that quiet
action which belongs to strong minds where
resolution has settled the quivering chords of
doubt.
Following the dressed dame up the High Street, we