Chapter XI: Introduction: To the Heart of Mid-Lothian--(1830) (10)

“I understand what you mean; but Mr. Novit, who is the procurator and doer of an honourable person, the Laird of Dumbiedikes, is to do what carnal wisdom can do for her in the circumstances. Mysell am not clear to trinquet and traffic wií courts oí justice as they are now constituted; I have a tenderness and scruple in my mind anent them.”

“That is to say,” said Middleburgh, “that you are a Cameronian, and do not acknowledge the authority of our courts of judicature, or present government?”

“Sir, under your favour,” replied David, who was too proud of his own polemical knowledge to call himself the follower of any one, “ye take me up before I fall down. I canna see why I suld be termed a Cameronian, especially now that ye hae given the name of that famous and savoury sufferer, not only until a regimental band of souldiers, [H. M. 26th Foot] whereof I am told many can now curse, swear, and use profane language, as fast as ever Richard Cameron could preach or pray, but also because ye have, in as far as it is in your power, rendered that martyrís name vain and contemptible, by pipes, drums, and fifes, playing the vain carnal spring called the Cameronian Rant, which too many professors of religion dance to--a practice maist unbecoming a professor to dance to any tune whatsoever, more especially promiscuously, that is, with the female sex.* A brutish fashion it is, whilk is the beginning of defection with many, as I may hae as muckle cause as maist folk to testify.”

* See Note F. Peter Walker.

“Well, but, Mr. Deans,” replied Mr. Middleburgh, “I only meant to say that you were a Cameronian, or MacMillanite, one of the society people, in short, who think it inconsistent to take oaths under a government where the Covenant is not ratified.”

“Sir,” replied the controversialist, who forgot even his present distress in such discussions as these, “you cannot fickle me sae easily as you do opine. I am _not_ a MacMillanite, or a Russelite, or a Hamiltonian, or a Harleyite, or a Howdenite*--I will be led by the nose by none--I take my name as a Christian from no vessel of clay. I have my own principles and practice to answer for, and am an humble pleader for the gude auld cause in a legal way.”

* All various species of the great genus Cameronian.

“That is to say, Mr. Deans,” said Middleburgh, “that you are a _Deanite,_ and have opinions peculiar to yourself.”

“It may please you to say sae,” said David Deans; “but I have maintained my testimony before as great folk, and in sharper times; and though I will neither exalt myself nor pull down others, I wish every man and woman in this land had kept the true testimony, and the middle and straight path, as it were, on the ridge of a hill, where wind and water shears, avoiding right-hand snares and extremes, and left-hand way-slidings, as weel as Johnny Dodds of Farthingís Acre, and ae man mair that shall be nameless.”

“I suppose,” replied the magistrate, “that is as much as to say, that Johnny Dodds of Farthingís Acre, and David Deans of St. Leonardís, constitute the only members of the true, real, unsophisticated Kirk of Scotland?”

“God forbid that I suld make sic a vain-glorious speech, when there are sae mony professing Christians!” answered David; “but this I maun say, that all men act according to their gifts and their grace, ësae that it is nae marvel that--”

“This is all very fine,” interrupted Mr. Middleburgh; “but I have no time to spend in hearing it. The matter in hand is this--I have directed a citation to be lodged in your daughterís hands--If she appears on the day of trial and gives evidence, there is reason to hope she may save her sisterís life--if, from any constrained scruples about the legality of her performing the office of an affectionate sister and a good subject, by appearing in a court held under the authority of the law and government, you become the means of deterring her from the discharge of this duty, I must say, though the truth may sound harsh in your ears, that you, who gave life to this unhappy girl, will become the means of her losing it by a premature and violent death.”

So saying, Mr. Middleburgh turned to leave him.

“Bide awee--bide awee, Mr. Middleburgh,” said Deans, in great perplexity and distress of mind; but the Bailie, who was probably sensible that protracted discussion might diminish the effect of his best and most forcible argument, took a hasty leave, and declined entering farther into the controversy.

Deans sunk down upon his seat, stunned with a variety of conflicting emotions. It had been a great source of controversy among those holding his opinions in religious matters how far the government which succeeded the Revolution could be, without sin, acknowledged by true Presbyterians, seeing that it did not recognise the great national testimony of the Solemn League and Covenant? And latterly, those agreeing in this general doctrine, and assuming the sounding title of “The anti-Popish, anti-Prelatic, anti-Erastian, anti-Sectarian, true Presbyterian remnant,” were divided into many petty sects among themselves, even as to the extent of submission to the existing laws and rulers, which constituted such an acknowledgment as amounted to sin.

At a very stormy and tumultuous meeting, held in 1682, to discuss these important and delicate points, the testimonies of the faithful few were found utterly inconsistent with each other.*

* This remarkable convocation took place upon 15th June 1682, and an account of its confused and divisive proceedings may be found in Michael Shieldís _Faithful Contendings Displayed_ (first printed at Glasgow, 1780, p. 21). It affords a singular and melancholy example how much a metaphysical and polemical spirit had crept in amongst these unhappy sufferers, since amid so many real injuries which they had to sustain, they were disposed to add disagreement and disunion concerning the character and extent of such as were only imaginary.

The place where this conference took place was remarkably well adapted for such an assembly. It was a wild and very sequestered dell in Tweeddale, surrounded by high hills, and far remote from human habitation. A small river, or rather a mountain torrent, called the Talla, breaks down the glen with great fury, dashing successively over a number of small cascades, which has procured the spot the name of Talla Linns. Here the leaders among the scattered adherents to the Covenant, men who, in their banishment from human society, and in the recollection of the seventies to which they had been exposed, had become at once sullen in their tempers, and fantastic in their religious opinions, met with arms in their hands, and by the side of the torrent discussed, with a turbulence which the noise of the stream could not drown, points of controversy as empty and unsubstantial as its foam.

It was the fixed judgment of most of the meeting, that all payment of cess or tribute to the existing government was utterly unlawful, and a sacrificing to idols. About other impositions and degrees of submission there were various opinions; and perhaps it is the best illustration of the spirit of those military fathers of the church to say, that while all allowed it was impious to pay the cess employed for maintaining the standing army and militia, there was a fierce controversy on the lawfulness of paying the duties levied at ports and bridges, for maintaining roads and other necessary purposes; that there were some who, repugnant to these imposts for turnpikes and pontages, were nevertheless free in conscience to make payment of the usual freight at public ferries, and that a person of exceeding and punctilious zeal, James Russel, one of the slayers of the Archbishop of St. Andrews, had given his testimony with great warmth even against this last faint shade of subjection to constituted authority. This ardent and enlightened person and his followers had also great scruples about the lawfulness of bestowing the ordinary names upon the days of the week and the months of the year, which savoured in their nostrils so strongly of paganism, that at length they arrived at the conclusion that they who owned such names as Monday, Tuesday, January, February, and so forth, “served themselves heirs to the same, if not greater punishment, than had been denounced against the idolaters of old.”

David Deans had been present on this memorable occasion, although too young to be a speaker among the polemical combatants. His brain, however, had been thoroughly heated by the noise, clamour, and metaphysical ingenuity of the discussion, and it was a controversy to which his mind had often returned; and though he carefully disguised his vacillation from others, and, perhaps from himself, he had never been able to come to any precise line of decision on the subject. In fact, his natural sense had acted as a counterpoise to his controversial zeal. He was by no means pleased with the quiet and indifferent manner in which King Williamís government slurred over the errors of the times, when, far from restoring the Presbyterian kirk to its former supremacy, they passed an act of oblivion even to those who had been its persecutors, and bestowed on many of them titles, favours, and employments. When, in the first General Assembly which succeeded the Revolution, an overture was made for the revival of the League and Covenant, it was with horror that Douce David heard the proposal eluded by the men of carnal wit and policy, as he called them, as being inapplicable to the present times, and not falling under the modern model of the church. The reign of Queen Anne had increased his conviction, that the Revolution government was not one of the true Presbyterian complexion. But then, more sensible than the bigots of his sect, he did not confound the moderation and tolerance of these two reigns with the active tyranny and oppression exercised in those of Charles II. and James II. The Presbyterian form of religion, though deprived of the weight formerly attached to its sentences of excommunication, and compelled to tolerate the coexistence of Episcopacy, and of sects of various descriptions, was still the National Church; and though the glory of the second temple was far inferior to that which had flourished from 1639 till the battle of Dunbar, still it was a structure that, wanting the strength and the terrors, retained at least the form and symmetry, of the original model. Then came the insurrection in 1715, and David Deansís horror for the revival of the Popish and prelatical faction reconciled him greatly to the government of King George, although he grieved that that monarch might be suspected of a leaning unto Erastianism. In short, moved by so many different considerations, he had shifted his ground at different times concerning the degree of freedom which he felt in adopting any act of immediate acknowledgment or submission to the present government, which, however mild and paternal, was still uncovenanted, and now he felt himself called upon, by the most powerful motive conceivable, to authorise his daughterís giving testimony in a court of justice, which all who have been since called Cameronians accounted a step of lamentable and direct defection. The voice of nature, however, exclaimed loud in his bosom against the dictates of fanaticism; and his imagination, fertile in the solution of polemical difficulties, devised an expedient for extricating himself from the fearful dilemma, in which he saw, on the one side, a falling off from principle, and, on the other, a scene from which a fatherís thoughts could not but turn in shuddering horror.

“I have been constant and unchanged in my testimony,” said David Deans; “but then who has said it of me, that I have judged my neighbour over closely, because he hath had more freedom in his walk than I have found in mine? I never was a separatist, nor for quarrelling with tender souls about mint, cummin, or other the lesser tithes. My daughter Jean may have a light in this subject that is hid frae my auld een--it is laid on her conscience, and not on mine--If she hath freedom to gang before this judicatory, and hold up her hand for this poor castaway, surely I will not say she steppeth over her bounds; and if not”--He paused in his mental argument, while a pang of unutterable anguish convulsed his features, yet, shaking it off, he firmly resumed the strain of his reasoning--“And if not--God forbid that she should go into defection at bidding of mine! I wunna fret the tender conscience of one bairn--no, not to save the life of the other.”

A Roman would have devoted his daughter to death from different feelings and motives, but not upon a more heroic principle of duty.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

To man, in this his trial state,
The privilege is given,
When tost by tides of human fate,
To anchor fast on heaven.
Wattsís _Hymns._

It was with a firm step that Deans sought his daughterís apartment, determined to leave her to the light of her own conscience in the dubious point of casuistry in which he supposed her to be placed.

The little room had been the sleeping apartment of both sisters, and there still stood there a small occasional bed which had been made for Effieís accommodation, when, complaining of illness, she had declined to share, as in happier times, her sisterís pillow. The eyes of Deans rested involuntarily, on entering the room, upon this little couch, with its dark-green coarse curtains, and the ideas connected with it rose so thick upon his soul as almost to incapacitate him from opening his errand to his daughter. Her occupation broke the ice. He found her gazing on a slip of paper, which contained a citation to her to appear as a witness upon her sisterís trial in behalf of the accused. For the worthy magistrate, determined to omit no chance of doing Effie justice, and to leave her sister no apology for not giving the evidence which she was supposed to possess, had caused the ordinary citation, or _subpoena,_ of the Scottish criminal court, to be served upon her by an officer during his conference with David.

This precaution was so far favourable to Deans, that it saved him the pain of entering upon a formal explanation with his daughter; he only said, with a hollow and tremulous voice, “I perceive ye are aware of the matter.”

“O father, we are cruelly sted between Godís laws and manís laws--What shall we do?--What can we do?”

Jeanie, it must be observed, had no hesitation whatever about the mere act of appearing in a court of justice. She might have heard the point discussed by her father more than once; but we have already noticed that she was accustomed to listen with reverence to much which she was incapable of understanding, and that subtle arguments of casuistry found her a patient, but unedified hearer. Upon receiving the citation, therefore, her thoughts did not turn upon the chimerical scruples which alarmed her fatherís mind, but to the language which had been held to her by the stranger at Muschatís Cairn. In a word, she never doubted but she was to be dragged forward into the court of justice, in order to place her in the cruel position of either sacrificing her sister by telling the truth, or committing perjury in order to save her life. And so strongly did her thoughts run in this channel, that she applied her fatherís words, “Ye are aware of the matter,” to his acquaintance with the advice that had been so fearfully enforced upon her. She looked up with anxious surprise, not unmingled with a cast of horror, which his next words, as she interpreted and applied them, were not qualified to remove.

“Daughter,” said David, “it has ever been my mind, that in things of ane doubtful and controversial nature, ilk Christianís conscience suld be his ain guide--Wherefore descend into yourself, try your ain mind with sufficiency of soul exercise, and as you sall finally find yourself clear to do in this matter--even so be it.”

“But, father,” said Jeanie, whose mind revolted at the construction which she naturally put upon his language, “can this-this be a doubtful or controversial matter?--Mind, father, the ninth command--ëThou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.í”

David Deans paused; for, still applying her speech to his preconceived difficulties, it seemed to him as if _she,_ a woman, and a sister, was scarce entitled to be scrupulous upon this occasion, where he, a man, exercised in the testimonies of that testifying period, had given indirect countenance to her following what must have been the natural dictates of her own feelings. But he kept firm his purpose, until his eyes involuntarily rested upon the little settle-bed, and recalled the form of the child of his old age, as she sate upon it, pale, emaciated, and broken-hearted. His mind, as the picture arose before him, involuntarily conceived, and his tongue involuntarily uttered--but in a tone how different from his usual dogmatical precision!--arguments for the course of conduct likely to ensure his childís safety.

“Daughter,” he said, “I did not say that your path was free from stumbling--and, questionless, this act may be in the opinion of some a transgression, since he who beareth witness unlawfully, and against his conscience, doth in some sort bear false witness against his neighbour. Yet in matters of compliance, the guilt lieth not in the compliance sae muckle, as in the mind and conscience of him that doth comply; and, therefore, although my testimony hath not been spared upon public defections, I haena felt freedom to separate mysell from the communion of many who have been clear to hear those ministers who have taken the fatal indulgence because they might get good of them, though I could not.”

When David had proceeded thus far, his conscience reproved him, that he might be indirectly undermining the purity of his daughterís faith, and smoothing the way for her falling off from strictness of principle. He, therefore, suddenly stopped, and changed his tone:--“Jeanie, I perceive that our vile affections,--so I call them in respect of doing the will of our Father,--cling too heavily to me in this hour of trying sorrow, to permit me to keep sight of my ain duty, or to airt you to yours. I will speak nae mair anent this overtrying matter--Jeanie, if ye can, wií God and gude conscience, speak in favour of this puir unhappy”--(here his voice faltered)--“She is your sister in the flesh--worthless and castaway as she is, she is the daughter of a saint in heaven, that was a mother to you, Jeanie, in place of your ain--but if ye arena free in conscience to speak for her in the court of judicature, follow your conscience, Jeanie, and let Godís will be done.” After this adjuration he left the apartment, and his daughter remained in a state of great distress and perplexity.

It would have been no small addition to the sorrows of David Deans, even in this extremity of suffering, had he known that his daughter was applying the casuistical arguments which he had been using, not in the sense of a permission to follow her own opinion on a dubious and disputed point of controversy, but rather as an encouragement to transgress one of those divine commandments which Christians of all sects and denominations unite in holding most sacred.

“Can this be?” said Jeanie, as the door closed on her father--“Can these be his words that I have heard, or has the Enemy taken his voice and features to give weight unto the counsel which causeth to perish?--a sisterís life, and a father pointing out how to save it!--O God, deliver me!--this is a fearfuí temptation.”

Roaming from thought to thought, she at one time imagined her father understood the ninth commandment literally, as prohibiting false witness _against_ our neighbour, without extending the denunciation against falsehood uttered _in favour_ of the criminal. But her clear and unsophisticated power of discriminating between good and evil, instantly rejected an interpretation so limited, and so unworthy of the Author of the law. She remained in a state of the most agitating terror and uncertainty--afraid to communicate her thoughts freely to her father, lest she should draw forth an opinion with which she could not comply,--wrung with distress on her sisterís account, rendered the more acute by reflecting that the means of saving her were in her power, but were such as her conscience prohibited her from using,--tossed, in short, like a vessel in an open roadstead during a storm, and, like that vessel, resting on one only sure cable and anchor,--faith in Providence, and a resolution to discharge her duty.

Butlerís affection and strong sense of religion would have been her principal support in these distressing circumstances, but he was still under restraint, which did not permit him to come to St. Leonardís Crags; and her distresses were of a nature, which, with her indifferent habits of scholarship, she found it impossible to express in writing. She was therefore compelled to trust for guidance to her own unassisted sense of what was right or wrong. It was not the least of Jeanieís distresses, that, although she hoped and believed her sister to be innocent, she had not the means of receiving that assurance from her own mouth.

The double-dealing of Ratcliffe in the matter of Robertson had not prevented his being rewarded, as double-dealers frequently have been, with favour and preferment. Sharpitlaw, who found in him something of a kindred genius, had been intercessor in his behalf with the magistrates, and the circumstance of his having voluntarily remained in the prison, when the doors were forced by the mob, would have made it a hard measure to take the life which he had such easy means of saving. He received a full pardon; and soon afterwards, James Ratcliffe, the greatest thief and housebreaker in Scotland, was, upon the faith, perhaps, of an ancient proverb, selected as a person to be entrusted with the custody of other delinquents.

When Ratcliffe was thus placed in a confidential situation, he was repeatedly applied to by the sapient Saddletree and others, who took some interest in the Deans family, to procure an interview between the sisters; but the magistrates, who were extremely anxious for the apprehension of Robertson, had given strict orders to the contrary, hoping that, by keeping them separate, they might, from the one or the other, extract some information respecting that fugitive. On this subject Jeanie had nothing to tell them. She informed Mr. Middleburgh, that she knew nothing of Robertson, except having met him that night by appointment to give her some advice respecting her sisterís concern, the purport of which, she said, was betwixt God and her conscience. Of his motions, purposes, or plans, past, present, or future, she knew nothing, and so had nothing to communicate.

Effie was equally silent, though from a different cause. It was in vain that they offered a commutation and alleviation of her punishment, and even a free pardon, if she would confess what she knew of her lover. She answered only with tears; unless, when at times driven into pettish sulkiness by the persecution of the interrogators, she made them abrupt and disrespectful answers.

At length, after her trial had been delayed for many weeks, in hopes she might be induced to speak out on a subject infinitely more interesting to the magistracy than her own guilt or innocence, their patience was worn out, and even Mr. Middleburgh finding no ear lent to farther intercession in her behalf, the day was fixed for the trial to proceed.

It was now, and not sooner, that Sharpitlaw, recollecting his promise to Effie Deans, or rather being dinned into compliance by the unceasing remonstrances of Mrs. Saddletree, who was his next-door neighbour, and who declared it was heathen cruelty to keep the twa brokenhearted creatures separate, issued the important mandate, permitting them to see each other.

On the evening which preceded the eventful day of trial, Jeanie was permitted to see her sister--an awful interview, and occurring at a most distressing crisis. This, however, formed a part of the bitter cup which she was doomed to drink, to atone for crimes and follies to which she had no accession; and at twelve oíclock noon, being the time appointed for admission to the jail, she went to meet, for the first time for several months, her guilty, erring, and most miserable sister, in that abode of guilt, error, and utter misery.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

Sweet sister, let me live!
What sin you do to save a brotherís life,
Nature dispenses with the deed so far,
That it becomes a virtue.
Measure for Measure.

Jeanie Deans was admitted into the jail by Ratcliffe. This fellow, as void of shame as of honesty, as he opened the now trebly secured door, asked her, with a leer which made her shudder, “whether she remembered him?”

A half-pronounced and timid “No,” was her answer.

“What! not remember moonlight, and Muschatís Cairn, and Rob and Rat?” said he, with the same sneer;--“Your memory needs redding up, my jo.”

If Jeanieís distresses had admitted of aggravation, it must have been to find her sister under the charge of such a profligate as this man. He was not, indeed, without something of good to balance so much that was evil in his character and habits. In his misdemeanours he had never been bloodthirsty or cruel; and in his present occupation, he had shown himself, in a certain degree, accessible to touches of humanity. But these good qualities were unknown to Jeanie, who, remembering the scene at Muschatís Cairn, could scarce find voice to acquaint him, that she had an order from Bailie Middleburgh, permitting her to see her sister.

“I ken that faí weel, my bonny doo; mair by token, I have a special charge to stay in the ward with you aí the time ye are thegither.”

“Must that be sae?” asked Jeanie, with an imploring voice.

“Hout, ay, hinny,” replied the turnkey; “and what the waur will you and your tittie be of Jim Ratcliffe hearing what ye hae to say to ilk other?--Deil a word yeíll say that will gar him ken your kittle sex better than he kens them already; and another thing is, that if ye dinna speak oí breaking the Tolbooth, deil a word will I tell ower, either to do ye good or ill.”

Thus saying, Ratcliffe marshalled her the way to the apartment where Effie was confined.

Shame, fear, and grief, had contended for mastery in the poor prisonerís bosom during the whole morning, while she had looked forward to this meeting; but when the door opened, all gave way to a confused and strange feeling that had a tinge of joy in it, as, throwing herself on her sisterís neck, she ejaculated, “My dear Jeanie!--my dear Jeanie! itís lang since I hae seen ye.” Jeanie returned the embrace with an earnestness that partook almost of rapture, but it was only a flitting emotion, like a sunbeam unexpectedly penetrating betwixt the clouds of a tempest, and obscured almost as soon as visible. The sisters walked together to the side of the pallet bed, and sate down side by side, took hold of each otherís hands, and looked each other in the face, but without speaking a word. In this posture they remained for a minute, while the gleam of joy gradually faded from their features, and gave way to the most intense expression, first of melancholy, and then of agony, till, throwing themselves again into each otherís arms, they, to use the language of Scripture, lifted up their voices, and wept bitterly.

Even the hardhearted turnkey, who had spent his life in scenes calculated to stifle both conscience and feeling, could not witness this scene without a touch of human sympathy. It was shown in a trifling action, but which had more delicacy in it than seemed to belong to Ratcliffeís character and station. The unglazed window of the miserable chamber was open, and the beams of a bright sun fell right upon the bed where the sufferers were seated. With a gentleness that had something of reverence in it, Ratcliffe partly closed the shutter, and seemed thus to throw a veil over a scene so sorrowful.

“Ye are ill, Effie,” were the first words Jeanie could utter; “ye are very ill.”

“O, what wad I gie to be ten times waur, Jeanie!” was the reply--“what wad I gie to be cauld dead afore the ten oíclock bell the morn! And our father--but I am his bairn nae langer now--O, I hae nae friend left in the warld!--O, that I were lying dead at my motherís side, in Newbattle kirkyard!”

“Hout, lassie,” said Ratcliffe, willing to show the interest which he absolutely felt, “dinna be sae dooms doon-hearted as aí that; thereís mony a tod hunted thatís no killed. Advocate Langtale has brought folk through waur snappers than aí this, and thereís no a cleverer agent than Nichil Novit eíer drew a bill of suspension. Hanged or unhanged, they are weel aff has sic an agent and counsel; aneís sure oí fair play. Ye are a bonny lass, too, an ye wad busk up your cockernony a bit; and a bonny lass will find favour wií judge and jury, when they would strap up a grewsome carle like me for the fifteenth part of a fleaís hide and tallow, d--n them.”

To this homely strain of consolation the mourners returned no answer; indeed, they were so much lost in their own sorrows as to have become insensible of Ratcliffeís presence. “O Effie,” said her elder sister, “how could you conceal your situation from me? O woman, had I deserved this at your hand?--had ye spoke but ae word--sorry we might hae been, and shamed we might hae been, but this awfuí dispensation had never come ower us.”

“And what gude wad that hae dune?” answered the prisoner. “Na, na, Jeanie, aí was ower when ance I forgot what I promised when I faulded down the leaf of my Bible. See,” she said, producing the sacred volume, “the book opens aye at the place oí itsell. O see, Jeanie, what a fearfuí Scripture!”

Jeanie took her sisterís Bible, and found that the fatal mark was made at this impressive text in the book of Job: “He hath stripped me of my glory, and taken the crown from my head. He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am gone. And mine hope hath he removed like a tree.”

“Isna that ower true a doctrine?” said the prisoner “Isna my crown, my honour, removed? And what am I but a poor, wasted, wan-thriven tree, dug up by the roots, and flung out to waste in the highway, that man and beast may tread it under foot? I thought oí the bonny bit them that our father rooted out oí the yard last May, when it had aí the flush oí blossoms on it; and then it lay in the court till the beasts had trod them aí to pieces wií their feet. I little thought, when I was wae for the bit silly green bush and its flowers, that I was to gang the same gate mysell.”

“O, if ye had spoken ae word,” again sobbed Jeanie,--“if I were free to swear that ye had said but ae word of how it stude wií ye, they couldna hae touched your life this day.”

“Could they na?” said Effie, with something like awakened interest--for life is dear even to those who feel it is a burden--“Wha tauld ye that, Jeanie?”

“It was ane that kend what he was saying weel eneugh,” replied Jeanie, who had a natural reluctance at mentioning even the name of her sisterís seducer.

“Wha was it?--I conjure you to tell me,” said Effie, seating herself upright.--“Wha could tak interest in sic a cast-by as I am now?--Was it--was it _him?_”

“Hout,” said Ratcliffe, “what signifies keeping the poor lassie in a swither? Iíse uphaud itís been Robertson that learned ye that doctrine when ye saw him at Muschatís Cairn.”

“Was it him?” said Effie, catching eagerly at his words--“was it him, Jeanie, indeed?--O, I see it was him--poor lad, and I was thinking his heart was as hard as the nether millstane--and him in sic danger on his ain part--poor George!”

Somewhat indignant at this burst of tender feeling towards the author of her misery, Jeanie could not help exclaiming--“O Effie, how can ye speak that gate of sic a man as that?”

“We maun forgie our enemies, ye ken,” said poor Effie, with a timid look and a subdued voice; for her conscience told her what a different character the feelings with which she regarded her seducer bore, compared with the Christian charity under which she attempted to veil it.

“And ye hae suffered aí this for him, and ye can think of loving him still?” said her sister, in a voice betwixt pity and blame.

“Love him!” answered Effie--“If I hadna loved as woman seldom loves, I hadna been within these waís this day; and trow ye, that love sic as mine is lightly forgotten?--Na, na--ye may hew down the tree, but ye canna change its bend--And, O Jeanie, if ye wad do good to me at this moment, tell me every word that he said, and whether he was sorry for poor Effie or no!”

“What needs I tell ye onything about it?” said Jeanie. “Ye may be sure he had ower muckle to do to save himsell, to speak lang or muckle about ony body beside.”

“Thatís no true, Jeanie, though a saunt had said it,” replied Effie, with a sparkle of her former lively and irritable temper. “But ye dinna ken, though I do, how far he pat his life in venture to save mine.” And looking at Ratcliffe, she checked herself and was silent.

“I fancy,” said Ratcliffe, with one of his familiar sneers, “the lassie thinks that naebody has een but hersell--Didna I see when Gentle Geordie was seeking to get other folk out of the Tolbooth forby Jock Porteous?--but ye are of my mind, hinny--better sit and rue, than flit and rue--ye needna look in my face sae amazed. I ken mair things than that, maybe.”

“O my God! my God!” said Effie, springing up and throwing herself down on her knees before him--“Díye ken where they hae putten my bairn?--O my bairn! my bairn! the poor sackless innocent new-born wee ane--bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh!--O man, if ye wad eíer deserve a portion in Heaven, or a brokenhearted creatureís blessing upon earth, tell me where they hae put my bairn--the sign of my shame, and the partner of my suffering! tell me wha has taenít away, or what they hae dune wiít?”

“Hout tout,” said the turnkey, endeavouring to extricate himself from the firm grasp with which she held him, “thatís taking me at my word wií a witness--Bairn, quoí she? How the deil suld I ken onything of your bairn, huzzy? Ye maun ask that of auld Meg Murdockson, if ye dinna ken ower muckle about it yoursell.”

As his answer destroyed the wild and vague hope which had suddenly gleamed upon her, the unhappy prisoner let go her hold of his coat, and fell with her face on the pavement of the apartment in a strong convulsion fit.

Jeanie Deans possessed, with her excellently clear understanding, the concomitant advantage of promptitude of spirit, even in the extremity of distress.

She did not suffer herself to be overcome by her own feelings of exquisite sorrow, but instantly applied herself to her sisterís relief, with the readiest remedies which circumstances afforded; and which, to do Ratcliffe justice, he showed himself anxious to suggest, and alert in procuring. He had even the delicacy to withdraw to the farthest corner of the room, so as to render his official attendance upon them as little intrusive as possible, when Effie was composed enough again to resume her conference with her sister.

The prisoner once more, in the most earnest and broken tones, conjured Jeanie to tell her the particulars of the conference with Robertson, and Jeanie felt it was impossible to refuse her this gratification.

“Do ye mind,” she said, “Effie, when ye were in the fever before we left Woodend, and how angry your mother, thatís now in a better place, was wií me for gieing ye milk and water to drink, because ye grat for it? Ye were a bairn then, and ye are a woman now, and should ken better than ask what canna but hurt you--But come weal or woe, I canna refuse ye onything that ye ask me wií the tear in your ee.”

Again Effie threw herself into her arms, and kissed her cheek and forehead, murmuring, “O, if ye kend how lang it is since I heard his name mentioned?--if ye but kend how muckle good it does me but to ken onything oí him, thatís like goodness or kindness, ye wadna wonder that I wish to hear oí him!”

Jeanie sighed, and commenced her narrative of all that had passed betwixt Robertson and her, making it as brief as possible. Effie listened in breathless anxiety, holding her sisterís hand in hers, and keeping her eye fixed upon her face, as if devouring every word she uttered. The interjections of “Poor fellow,”--“Poor George,” which escaped in whispers, and betwixt sighs, were the only sounds with which she interrupted the story. When it was finished she made a long pause.

“And this was his advice?” were the first words she uttered.

“Just sic as I hae tellíd ye,” replied her sister.

“And he wanted you to say something to yon folks, that wad save my young life?”

“He wanted,” answered Jeanie, “that I suld be man-sworn.”

“And you tauld him,” said Effie, “that ye wadna hear oí coming between me and the death that I am to die, and me no aughten year auld yet?”

“I told him,” replied Jeanie, who now trembled at the turn which her sisterís reflection seemed about to take, “that I daured na swear to an untruth.”

“And what díye caí an untruth?” said Effie, again showing a touch of her former spirit--“Ye are muckle to blame, lass, if ye think a mother would, or could, murder her ain bairn--Murder!--I wad hae laid down my life just to see a blink oí its ee!”

“I do believe,” said Jeanie, “that ye are as innocent of sic a purpose as the new-born babe itsell.”

“I am glad ye do me that justice,” said Effie, haughtily; “ifs whiles the faut of very good folk like you, Jeanie, that, they think aí the rest of the warld are as bad as the warst temptations can make them.”

“I didna deserve this frae ye, Effie,” said her sister, sobbing, and feeling at once the injustice of the reproach, and compassion for the state of mind which dictated it.

“Maybe no, sister,” said Effie. “But ye are angry because I love Robertson--How can I help loving him, that loves me better than body and soul baith?--Here he put his life in a niffer, to break the prison to let me out; and sure am I, had it stude wií him as it stands wií you”--Here she paused and was silent.

“O, if it stude wií me to save ye wií risk of my life!” said Jeanie.

“Ay, lass,” said her sister, “thatís lightly said, but no sae lightly credited, frae ane that winna ware a word for me; and if it be a wrang word, yeíll hae time eneugh to repent oít.”

“But that word is a grievous sin, and itís a deeper offence when itís a sin wilfully and presumptuously committed.”

“Weel, weel, Jeanie,” said Effie, “I mind aí about the sins oí presumption in the questions--weíll speak nae mair about this matter, and ye may save your breath to say your carritch and for me, Iíll soon hae nae breath to waste on onybody.”

“I must needs say,” interposed Ratcliffe, “that itís d--d hard, when three words of your mouth would give the girl the chance to nick Moll Blood,* that you make such scrupling about rapping** to them. D--n me, if they would take me, if I would not rap to all what díye callums--Hyssopís Fables, for her life--I am usíd toít, b--t me, for less matters. Why, I have smacked calf-skin*** fifty times in England for a keg of brandy.”

* The gallows. ** Swearing. *** Kissed the book.

“Never speak mair oít,” said the prisoner. “Itís just as weel as it is--and gude-day, sister; ye keep Mr. Ratcliffe waiting on--Yeíll come back and see me, I reckon, before”--here she stopped and became deadly pale.

“And are we to part in this way,” said Jeanie, “and you in sic deadly peril? O Effie, look but up, and say what ye wad hae me to do, and I could find in my heart amaist to say that I wad doít.”

“No, Jeanie,” replied her sister after an effort, “I am better minded now. At my best, I was never half sae gude as ye were, and what for suld you begin to mak yoursell waur to save me, now that I am no worth saving? God knows, that in my sober mind, I wadna wuss ony living creature to do a wrang thing to save my life. I might have fled frae this Tolbooth on that awfuí night wií ane wad hae carried me through the warld, and friended me, and fended for me. But I said to them, let life gang when gude fame is gane before it. But this lang imprisonment has broken my spirit, and I am whiles sair left to mysell, and then I wad gie the Indian mines of gold and diamonds, just for life and breath--for I think, Jeanie, I have such roving fits as I used to hae in the fever; but, instead of the fiery een and wolves, and Widow Butlerís bullseg, that I used to see spieling upon my bed, I am thinking now about a high, black gibbet, and me standing up, and such seas of faces all looking up at poor Effie Deans, and asking if it be her that George Robertson used to call the Lily of St. Leonardís. And then they stretch out their faces, and make mouths, and girn at me, and whichever way I look, I see a face laughing like Meg Murdockson, when she tauld me I had seen the last of my wean. God preserve us, Jeanie, that carline has a fearsome face!”

She clapped her hands before her eyes as she uttered this exclamation, as if to secure herself against seeing the fearful object she had alluded to.

Jeanie Deans remained with her sister for two hours, during which she endeavoured, if possible, to extract something from her that might be serviceable in her exculpation. But she had nothing to say beyond what she had declared on her first examination, with the purport of which the reader will be made acquainted in proper time and place. “They wadna believe her,” she said, “and she had naething mair to tell them.”

At length, Ratcliffe, though reluctantly, informed the sisters that there was a necessity that they should part. “Mr. Novit,” he said, “was to see the prisoner, and maybe Mr. Langtale too. Langtale likes to look at a bonny lass, whether in prison or out oí prison.”

Reluctantly, therefore, and slowly, after many a tear, and many an embrace, Jeanie retired from the apartment, and heard its jarring bolts turned upon the dear being from whom she was separated. Somewhat familiarised now even with her rude conductor, she offered him a small present in money, with a request he would do what he could for her sisterís accommodation. To her surprise, Ratcliffe declined the fee. “I wasna bloody when I was on the pad,” he said, “and I winna be greedy--that is, beyond whatís right and reasonable--now that I am in the lock.--Keep the siller; and for civility, your sister sall hae sic as I can bestow; but I hope youíll think better on it, and rap an oath for her--deil a hair ill there is in it, if ye are rapping again the crown. I kend a worthy minister, as gude a man, bating the deed they deposed him for, as ever ye heard claver in a puípit, that rapped to a hogshead of pigtail tobacco, just for as muckle as filled his spleuchan.*

* Tobacco-pouch.

But maybe ye are keeping your ain counsel--weel, weel, thereís nae harm in that. As for your sister, Iíse see that she gets her meat clean and warm, and Iíll try to gar her lie down and take a sleep after dinner, for deil a ee sheíll close the night. I hae gude experience of these matters. The first night is aye the warst oít. I hae never heard oí ane that sleepit the night afore trial, but of mony a ane that sleepit as sound as a tap the night before their necks were straughted. And itís nae wonder--the warst may be tholed when itís kend--Better a finger aff as aye wagging.”

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

Yet though thou mayst be draggíd in scorn
To yonder ignominious tree,
Thou shalt not want one faithful friend
To share the cruel fatesí decree.
Jemmy Dawson.

After spending the greater part of the morning in his devotions (for his benevolent neighbours had kindly insisted upon discharging his task of ordinary labour), David Deans entered the apartment when the breakfast meal was prepared. His eyes were involuntarily cast down, for he was afraid to look at Jeanie, uncertain as he was whether she might feel herself at liberty, with a good conscience, to attend the Court of Justiciary that day, to give the evidence which he understood that she possessed, in order to her sisterís exculpation. At length, after a minute of apprehensive hesitation, he looked at her dress to discover whether it seemed to be in her contemplation to go abroad that morning. Her apparel was neat and plain, but such as conveyed no exact intimation of her intentions to go abroad. She had exchanged her usual garb for morning labour, for one something inferior to that with which, as her best, she was wont to dress herself for church, or any more rare occasion of going into society. Her sense taught her, that it was respectful to be decent in her apparel on such an occasion, while her feelings induced her to lay aside the use of the very few and simple personal ornaments, which, on other occasions, she permitted herself to wear. So that there occurred nothing in her external appearance which could mark out to her father, with anything like certainty, her intentions on this occasion.

The preparations for their humble meal were that morning made in vain. The father and daughter sat, each assuming the appearance of eating, when the otherís eyes were turned to them, and desisting from the effort with disgust, when the affectionate imposture seemed no longer necessary.

At length these moments of constraint were removed. The sound of St. Gilesís heavy toll announced the hour previous to the commencement of the trial; Jeanie arose, and with a degree of composure for which she herself could not account, assumed her plaid, and made her other preparations for a distant walking. It was a strange contrast between the firmness of her demeanour, and the vacillation and cruel uncertainty of purpose indicated in all her fatherís motions; and one unacquainted with both could scarcely have supposed that the former was, in her ordinary habits of life, a docile, quiet, gentle, and even timid country maiden, while her father, with a mind naturally proud and strong, and supported by religious opinions of a stern, stoical, and unyielding character, had in his time undergone and withstood the most severe hardships, and the most imminent peril, without depression of spirit, or subjugation of his constancy. The secret of this difference was, that Jeanieís mind had already anticipated the line of conduct which she must adopt, with all its natural and necessary consequences; while her father, ignorant of every other circumstance, tormented himself with imagining what the one sister might say or swear, or what effect her testimony might have upon the awful event of the trial.

He watched his daughter, with a faltering and indecisive look, until she looked back upon him, with a look of unutterable anguish, as she was about to leave the apartment.

“My dear lassie,” said he, “I will.” His action, hastily and confusedly searching for his worsted mittans* and staff, showed his purpose of accompanying her, though his tongue failed distinctly to announce it.

* A kind of worsted gloves, used by the lower orders.

“Father,” said Jeanie, replying rather to his action than his words, “ye had better not.”

“In the strength of my God,” answered Deans, assuming firmness, “I will go forth.”

And, taking his daughterís arm under his, he began to walk from the door with a step so hasty, that she was almost unable to keep up with him. A trifling circumstance, but which marked the perturbed state of his mind, checked his course.

“Your bonnet, father?” said Jeanie, who observed he had come out with his grey hairs uncovered. He turned back with a slight blush on his cheek, being ashamed to have been detected in an omission which indicated so much mental confusion, assumed his large blue Scottish bonnet, and with a step slower, but more composed, as if the circumstance, had obliged him to summon up his resolution, and collect his scattered ideas, again placed his daughterís arm under his, and resumed the way to Edinburgh.

The courts of justice were then, and are still, held in what is called the Parliament Close, or, according to modern phrase, Parliament Square, and occupied the buildings intended for the accommodation of the Scottish Estates. This edifice, though in an imperfect and corrupted style of architecture, had then a grave, decent, and, as it were, a judicial aspect, which was at least entitled to respect from its antiquity. For which venerable front, I observed, on my last occasional visit to the metropolis, that modern taste had substituted, at great apparent expense, a pile so utterly inconsistent with every monument of antiquity around, and in itself so clumsy at the same time and fantastic, that it may be likened to the decorations of Tom Errand the porter, in the _Trip to the Jubilee,_ when he appears bedizened with the tawdry finery of Beau Clincher. _Sed transeat cum caeteris erroribus._

The small quadrangle, or Close, if we may presume still to give it that appropriate, though antiquated title, which at Lichfield, Salisbury, and elsewhere, is properly applied to designate the enclosure adjacent to a cathedral, already evinced tokens of the fatal scene which was that day to be acted. The soldiers of the City Guard were on their posts, now enduring, and now rudely repelling with the butts of their muskets, the motley crew who thrust each other forward, to catch a glance at the unfortunate object of trial, as she should pass from the adjacent prison to the Court in which her fate was to be determined. All must have occasionally observed, with disgust, the apathy with which the vulgar gaze on scenes of this nature, and how seldom, unless when their sympathies are called forth by some striking and extraordinary circumstance, the crowd evince any interest deeper than that of callous, unthinking bustle, and brutal curiosity. They laugh, jest, quarrel, and push each other to and fro, with the same unfeeling indifference as if they were assembled for some holiday sport, or to see an idle procession. Occasionally, however, this demeanour, so natural to the degraded populace of a large town, is exchanged for a temporary touch of human affections; and so it chanced on the present occasion.

When Deans and his daughter presented themselves in the Close, and endeavoured to make their way forward to the door of the Court-house, they became involved in the mob, and subject, of course, to their insolence. As Deans repelled with some force the rude pushes which he received on all sides, his figure and antiquated dress caught the attention of the rabble, who often show an intuitive sharpness in ascribing the proper character from external appearance,--

“Yeíre welcome, whigs,
Frae Bothwell briggs,”

sung one fellow (for the mob of Edinburgh were at that time jacobitically disposed, probably because that was the line of sentiment most diametrically opposite to existing authority).

“Mess David Williamson,
Chosen of twenty,
Ran up the puípit stair,
And sang Killiecrankie,”

chanted a siren, whose profession might be guessed by her appearance. A tattered caidie, or errand-porter, whom David Deans had jostled in his attempt to extricate himself from the vicinity of these scorners, exclaimed in a strong north-country tone, “Ta deil ding out her Cameronian een--what gies her titles to dunch gentlemans about?”

“Make room for the ruling elder,” said yet another; “he comes to see a precious sister glorify God in the Grassmarket!”

“Whisht; shameís in ye, sirs,” said the voice of a man very loudly, which, as quickly sinking, said in a low but distinct tone, “Itís her father and sister.”