THE young people were all impatience next morning to visit Peggy Dobie’s
cottage. They met Mr. Howard returning from it, who told them they would
find Peggy much recovered. He had found her up, sitting by the fire
reading her Bible, and full of gratitude and thanksgiving for the
blessings which surrounded her.
“My bairns,” she said as they entered, and she closed her Bible and laid
aside her spectacles, “you have come at the right moment—I hae been
giving praise to Him that has lifted me out o’ my sair tribulations, and
it is here I hae found the words, and noo may He put into my heart what
I should say to you; how can I ever thank you enough for all I see about
me, for all you have done for me?”
“You need not thank us, Peggy,” Leila answered; “for we are as happy as
you are; and it is so joyful that you should be alive, and so wonderful,
that we can scarce believe it;—and so you like your house?”
“Like it, Miss Leila! ’deed that’s no’ the word to testify my wonderment
at all I see around me. I hae been looking at that cupboard, wi’ all the
tumblers and glasses sparkling and shining like a leddy dressed out in
her diamonds, and praying that my auld head may not be turned all the
gether wi’ the vanities o’ life; but to feel that I hae come to sic a
haven o’ rest, to lie down on that bed last night, and to think it was
my ain; to think that I am no longer a wanderer on the face o’ the
earth, without a covering to my auld head, or a friend to speak the word
o’ comfort to my crushed spirit—no, it’s no’ just at ance that I can
get into a measure o’ composedness for sic a change as this. I am in a
bewilderment o’ joy and gratitude—and there’s Dash, bonnie man, wagging
his tail, and aye looking in my face; he is telling me we are in the
land o’ Canaan noo. O let me ever thank God for all his mercies; and let
me thank you also, my dear bairns, for all your kindness to me; for
never did I think to have seen your bit canty faces again in the land o’
the living, for it’s out o’ the swellings o’ Jordan that puir auld Peggy
has been delivered by an arm o’ strength.”
“It is so nice to hear you speaking Scotch again,” Matilda said; “I like
it so much. That word canty is such a nice word, and it is so nice to
have you back again when we thought you dead; but how did it all happen?
Were you not washed overboard in the storm? You must tell us all about
it. How were you saved?”
“Yes,” Leila said, “it will be such an interesting story, and so long;
for you must tell us every thing from the very beginning. But you are
not to tell it all in one day, for that would tire you. You are very,
very thin, Peggy,” and Leila took Peggy’s withered hand in hers; “can we
do nothing to make you better? If it will tire you to speak, we will
wait for the story till another day.”
“No, my dear bairn, it will no tire me; and it’s weel my part to do all
I can to pleasure you or yours, though I will not just say but what I
may feel a wee thought ashamed to tell sic a lang tale afore all the
young ladies, and this fine young gentleman.”
“But Peggy,” Leila said eagerly, “he is not a fine young gentleman; he
is so kind and good-natured, he will like to hear the history of all
that has happened to you very much; and if he does not understand all
the Scotch words, I will explain them to him afterwards; he is my
brother Charles now, you need not be afraid of him.”
“Your brother, is he? Weel, weel, sae let it be for the present, my
bonnie lamb. And noo where am I to begin in this lang tale?”
“At the very beginning,” Leila and Matilda both exclaimed at once; “at
the very beginning, Peggy, when you first embarked with all the pets.”
“Ay, ay, and to think I hae no had the grace to ask after the puir dumb
things; but I am sair bewildered, and I kent they needs be safe, for
there’s my cat that was amang them, just lying afore the fire quite
contented, and no ways strange, puir thing. That civil gentleman, Master
Bill, (I think they call him,) brought it up to me this morning, and my
trunk too with my big Bible, and all the bits o’ things that are sae
valuable to me.”
“But the story, the story, Peggy,” Matilda exclaimed, rather
emphatically.
“Yes, my bairn, that’s true, I was forgetting, and it’s aye the story,
the story, wi’ you young things. Weel then, to begin at the very
beginning, as you say. We got into the ship, (that is, the pets, as Miss
Leila calls them, and me,) and it was a bonnie day, and the sea
sparkling like diamonds, and wi’ a most deceitfu’ and canny look; but it
was all put on; no a word o’ truth in it, for it’s a most unchancy and
awfu’ element, and in no ways to be trusted by a Christian woman. Weel,
my first discomfiture was when I was telt that I was by no means to go
near the pets, or to take any charge, for they would have better care
than mine; deed, and I was in no ways weel pleased, forbye that I had
been thinking the parrots would have been gude company, and that I could
hae given them some gude instruction maybe, puir things, and got them
into a manner o’ more sensible discourse than aye crying, ‘pretty poll,’
and the like o’ thae vain and silly things. But it was no to be, so I
turned my mind to some wee helpless bairns that were aye wailing and
wearying for something; for ye ken Peggy must aye be doing. They had
lost their mother, puir things, and the father o’ them was sadly put
about when night came, and all their bits o’ clothes to take off, and
the strings o’ them aye getting into knots, and he wi’ no manner o’
skill or judgment to gang to work in the right manner; so I took them
all in my ain hands, and got them into their bits o’ cribs wi’ a kind o’
comfort, and the wee thing who was but a babby clinging round my neck in
the dark, and saying, ‘Mamma was come back again, and she was no to gang
away ony more.’ Deed it was just a moving scene, and minded me sae o’ my
ain bonnie flowers; and John, for that was his name, was sae gratified,
and could no’ say enough for the little I could do. And so we got on
wi’ a measure o’ comfort all the next day, till the wind began to roar
like a demented creature, wi’ no manner o’ discretion, ranting and
tearing wi’ the steadfast resolution no to leave a hale rag in the ship;
and there were the bairns, puir things, wailing and tumbling about on
the floor, and nae marvel either, seeing that them that had come to the
years o’ discretion could na keep their feet; and the captain, there was
he crying to put in the dead lights, which was no just civil to say the
least, and we wi’ the breath o’ life still in our bodies. Waes me, but
it was an unco’ dispensation for him to be making preparations for a
dead wake afore the living folk. He might hae thought, the ungodly man,
that there was an arm o’ strength that could lift us out o’ the deepest
pit of our tribulation.—But where was I? for ’deed I am sair bewildered
wi’ all that happened.”
“You were telling about the storm, Peggy,” Matilda said, eagerly. “Oh,
do go on, it is so very interesting.”
“Ay, that’s true, I was telling about the storm; but waes me, words are
weak to tell o’ that awfu’ scene. Weel, naething would serve me but I
maun be upon deck to see the warst o’ it; and there I stood, clinging
aye to John, and Dash at my side, wi’ the sense o’ a man o’ fifty,
holding me fast by the gown; but it was na waves I saw, but mountains
rising to the black heavens, and the white foam o’ them looking ghastly
white in the darkness o’ the night, and every now and then a flash o’
fire like a curtain o’ flame in the sky, and a sound like guns mingling
wi’ the roar o’ the awfu’ blast; and there was the captain again, wi’ a
lang thing like a trumpet in his mouth, and he thinking, wi’ his puir
feckless breath, to lift his voice above the anger o’ Heaven. I could na
stand that, so I turned down to the cabin again; but oh, my bairns,
never while the breath o’ life is in my body will I forget the sound
that ere I was at the foot o’ the stairs met my ear. I canna speak o’
it, I dare na think o’ it. Them that had stood at my side the minute
afore in life and strength, sent to their last account, and without the
power o’ a hand being stretched out to save them. I am no clear in my
mind o’ what happened for a while after that; but then there was a cry
that the wind was no just sae strong, and that a boat had come off from
the shore for the passengers for Scarborough; it was for Scarborough
John was bound, to take up his abode wi’ a sister, a widow-woman weel to
do in the world, and he was loath to part wi’ me, and leave me in sic
tribulation; and the bairns they aye cried that mammy maun gang too,
and I was down the side o’ the ship, and in the boat wi’ the wee babby
in my arms afore I kent where I was, and Dash holding on again by my
gown as he did afore; and how we e’er reached the shore was the gracious
providence of God, for man had nought to do wi’ it; and we were up in
the air the one minute, and in the watery pit o’ destruction the next,
and no a dry stitch upon us when we were lifted out wi’ scarce the
breath o’ life in our bodies; but all but gratitude to Heaven was
forgotten when we sat that night in quietness and in comfort by that
widow-woman’s cheerful fire-side. And to see the bairns round the table
at their tea, wi’ their bit blythe faces, and ilk are wi’ a jolly piece
in its hand, for, as I said afore, she was well to do in the world that
widow-woman, and had all things in a superior way. ’Deed it was a scene
to lift the heart wi’ gratitude and joy, and at night when I found
myself in a quiet comfortable bed, and nae mair heizing up and down wi’
all thae outlandish sounds in my ear, ’deed I could na sleep wi’ very
pleasure, so I took to musing on the uses o’ the sea, and I could na
make it weel out at all; it seemed to me as if it was a fearfu’ scourge,
aye ready to be let loose on our sinfu’ heads, and made for naething but
our destruction; but then I minded me o’ the fine caller haddys, and
thae herrings at ten a penny, sic a blessing for the puir, and then I
thought that there might be a measure o’ comfort in it after all, so wi’
that I fell asleep. The next morning I thought to hae gone on my way,
but they would nae hear o’ it, and the bairns they aye clung to me, and
said I was to stay and be their mamma. ’Deed, auld as I was, I could nae
but think o’ sic a proposal afore John’s very face; and he, honest man,
no ways willing. The day after that John set out wi’ me to put me on my
road, and he wrote me out a paper o’ all the towns I was to gang
through, and sae we parted, and I gaed on my way, thinking it wad be but
a pleasant walk; but waes me, I had little thought or comprehension o’
what was afore me. But I am thinking I have said enough for this present
time; you will be weary wi’ sic a lang tale.”
“Oh no, Peggy,” Leila exclaimed, “I am quite sure none of us are weary.
Do go on, for we wish so much to hear how you got here at last.”
“And ’deed, my bairn, that’s no easy to tell, for I have but a confused
thought o’ all that happened. Every day I walked on and on, and when I
came to the towns, I sleeped at big houses that they call houses o’
entertainment: but ’deed it was no diversion to me, the money they aye
asked frae me in the mornings; so I took to sleeping at farm-houses,
and that answered better. To be sure sometimes I had but the barn or the
hay-loft, and but a short word o’ welcome; but others that were mair
civil let me sleep in the big chair by the kitchen fire-side; and clean
and comfortable mony o’ the kitchens were, dishes and platters on the
walls shining like silver, and big hams hanging from the roof, wi’ the
greatest plenty to eat and drink, and blythe bairns running about,
looking sae like their meat, that it did my heart good to see them. I
was aye happy when I got to a farm-house at night; but sometimes I was
not just sae lucky; and what wi’ paying for a night’s lodgings, and for
a ride in a wagon or a cart now and then, and for a loaf o’ bread and a
draught o’ beer, my money was fast melting away, and my heart no that
light; for aye when I asked if I was near London yet, they said it was a
weary way, and ower far for sic an auld woman as me to compass. But it
was only when the days were fast shortening, and the long nights setting
in, that the like o’ thae reflections crushed my spirit; yet the
morning’s sun made all right again and warmed my auld heart, and I felt
there was a Providence abune that could make the roughest way plain and
the langest way short to me. I was aye fond o’ the song o’ the robin,
and whiles I would sit down by the side o’ a hedge and hearken to them
in the trees abune my head, and then I would throw them some crumbs frae
my loaf o’ bread to pleasure them puir things; and the bonnie creatures
would come down to the ground and look up in my face, as if I had been a
kent friend. And Dash, the wise animal, he would keep his distance, and
lie as if the breath o’ life was out of his body, till they had ta’en
their breakfast wi’ comfort and discretion. From all that I hae
experienced in my lang travel, I think the robins are o’ the same nature
as in my ain land, just as frank and as kindly. But oh, my bairns! sic a
difference in the rivers; instead of the clear bonnie Esk that I had
been used to, wi’ the sand lying at the bottom sparkling like diamonds
in some parts, and in others springing over the big stones like bairns
let loose frae the school, there I came to rivers as quiet and lazy as
mill-ponds, and looking as black and drumlie as if they had washed all
the dishes in thae big towns in them; but ’deed it’s no wise discreet in
me to be making thae reflections; for if their waters are no just sae
clear, surely I am come to a land flowing with milk and honey, and need
na mind. But I am wandering from my road again.”
“Yes, Peggy,” Matilda said, “you are forgetting to tell us how your
money lasted, and what you did when it was done. Oh! it must have been
so dreadful when you began to be starved to death.”
“ ‘Deed, and it was no ways pleasant; but it was no just sae bad as that;
and I aye keepit a thought on Him who feedeth the fowls o’ the air, and
was no that down-hearted; still it was a serious thought, and I was at
my last shilling when the pedlar was graciously sent to me.”
“The pedlar, Peggy, how was that?”
“You see, Miss Matilda, I was sitting by the road-side one morning,
taking counsel wi’ my ain thoughts and looking at the shilling, and
turning it round and round in my hand wi’ a serious countenance, nae
doubt, when an honest man wi’ a pack upon his back came up to me.
‘Mistress,’ he said, ‘you are looking at that shilling as if there
werena mony ahint it, and you were loath to part company.’ ‘’Deed,’ I
said, ‘you hae made a gude guess and are no far wrong; for it’s the very
last shilling I hae in the world, and a long journey, I reckon, is still
afore me.’ Wi’ that we fell into discourse, and I telt him all my story;
for he was frae my ain country, and my heart warmed to him. He said that
for that day and the next our road lay in the same direction, and that
he would be blythe o’ my company. Was I to refuse sic a civil
invitation?—by no means. So we gaed on our way thegither, and had
muckle pleasant discourse; for he was far travelled, and had great
learning and experience o’ the world, and was, forbye, a God-fearing and
civil man, and had but one fault that I could discern, he was ower fond
o’ beer; preserve me, but I would hae sleepit sound, and ower sound, as
he, puir man, found that night, if I had ta’en all he offered me, for he
was no ways niggardly; and when I spoke o’ asking up-pitting for the
night at a farm-house, he would na hear it; he would treat me, he said,
baith to a supper and a bed, and be blythe to do so. Weel, when night
came on, we turned into a comfortable-looking house by the road-side,
where they selt the beer he was ower fond o’; and it was a canty scene
that big kitchen, that lifted the very heart o’ me. There was the
mistress frying bacon on the warm red fire, and mair than one hungry man
sitting on low stools, listening wi’ delight to the hissing sound o’ it;
and a wee baby in a cradle, no thinking o’ sleep, but lying so pleased,
wi’ the great een o’ it wide open, and staring at its brothers and
sisters, dancing in a corner o’ the room to the music o’ a blind
fiddler; they were near to a table where some men were drinking, and
there was a man sat there wi’ a face I could no get out o’ my mind at
all. He had a down look and an ill look to my thought; and I noticed
that though he had his tankard o’ beer afore him like the rest, when he
thought nae body was looking that way, he lifted the tankard that had
been put down afore the puir blind fiddler, and took a lang pull out o’
it. I would na hae been that sorry if it had choked him, and I felt in
my mind that the man would surely come to shame and want. Aweel, when
the mistress showed me the room I was to sleep in, I could na get this
man’s ill face out o’ my mind, and I asked her if the men that were
drinking at the table were to bide all night. ‘Some of them might,’ she
said, ‘and some might not; but I need not be frightened, for my friend
the pedlar was to sleep in the next room to me, and there was a door
through frae my room to his. You see,’ she said, ‘there is only a latch
to it, for the key has been lost; but as he is an honest man nae doubt,
and your friend, you will no mind that; but this is a decent house, and
you need fear no disturbance;’ and wi’ that she left me. I had not been
long in bed afore I heard the pedlar, honest man, snoring soundly. I was
weary, weary, and yet for a lang time I could no get to sleep, for the
fiddle seemed aye sounding in my ears, and the bit bairnies dancing
afore me, and that man’s ill face aye taking anither look at me, but
after a time I heard steps passing up the stairs, and the front door was
barred in, and quietness fell upon the house; and then, though it was
no just sleep that came over me, it was a kind o’ a dover, and how lang
it lasted I canna tell, but suddenly it seemed to me as if I heard a
step in the passage and some one stopping at my door,—I started up in
my bed and listened; a lock turned, but it was na in my room, but in the
next; and then I saw a light under the door that had the latch. I sprang
up and looked through the key-hole; the ill face o’ that awfu’ man
seemed glaring on me, I could scarcely breathe, for I felt sure he saw
me, but he turned away and went straight up to the bed; he seemed to
listen for a moment, bending over it, then softly lifting up a worsted
plaid that was lying over a chair by the bed-side, he seized the pack
which the plaid was covering, and turned to the door again. He had his
back to me then; I lifted the latch and sprang in, and the next moment I
had him by the throat, the ill rascal, wi’ a scream that wakened the
whole house. He let fall the pack, shook me off as if I had been a
feather, and darted along the passage. He took me for a ghaist, nae
doubt; for, for decency’s sake, I had put the white sheet about me.
Aweel, we looked for him all over the house, but saw naething but a
window wide open, and doubtless out o’ that window the ill-conditioned
creature had gone on his evil way. It was na muckle sleep that either
the pedlar or me got that night, I reckon, for I heard nae mair
snoring.”
“Oh, Peggy!” more than one voice exclaimed, “how frightful and how
interesting; but go on, go on, tell us more.”
“Aweel, in the morning he could na be grateful enough, honest man, for
what I had done for him. ‘For himself,’ he said, ‘he did na’ fancy
riding much, but it would be a rest to me; so all that day we rode
thegither in a wagon like ladies and gentlemen, he treating me to the
best o’ every thing, and himsel’ no taking just sae muckle o’ the beer.
The next morning after that, when we parted, he would force upon me twa
bonnie white half-crowns, and telt me aye to ride when I could, for that
he did not think I was that strong for sic an undertaking as I had still
before me. I would fain hae refused the money, for it seemed to me like
taking payment for doing only what was natural to do; but I thought also
that pride might have something to do wi’ refusing, and pride was na’
for a Christian woman, so I took the siller. I took his advice too, for
I felt that I was not that strong; so I aye rode when I could get a cart
or a wagon, but it took mair money than I could weel spare. Many o’ the
wagoners and carters spoke a language I could na’ weel make out, but
they aye contrived to make it plain to me that they wanted siller.
Every day my pocket got lighter and lighter, and my heart heavier; for I
came to my last penny, and still a lang way lay afore me. I need na’ vex
your hearts wi’ all I suffered wi’ want and lang travel. Some of the
folk were kind to me, and some were not; I dinna weel mind all that
happened, I ken only that aye when I was at my last extremity, He that I
serve had pity upon me; and I aye remembered that ‘He had not where to
lay His head,’ and took courage. One night I came to a farm-house, the
door was shut, but I looked through the kitchen window, and, oh! but it
was a cheerfu’ canty scene. There was a cat as big and as sleek as a fat
lamb lying afore the warm fire, and the mistress and the gudeman, and
the bairns, and the farm servants, all round a big table at their
supper, and the greatest plenty o’ every thing, and sic a smoke from the
big dishes o’ meat and o’ potatoes, and sic a speaking and laughing,
that I had to tap many a time afore they heard me; but at last the
mistress hersel’ came to the door, and wi’ her a bonnie wee lassie at
her side. I was all in a tremble, and I telt her my story, and asked for
a night’s lodging; but the pleasant face o’ her entirely changed. ‘And
how am I to know,’ she said, ‘that there is a word of truth in all this?
always the story that they have lost their way, or lost their money, or
some such thing. It was but last night that I gave lodging to an old
woman, who looked as respectable as you do, and she was off this morning
by daybreak with two of my best night-caps that were drying before the
fire. No, no, you must take the road again, and be thankful you have a
clear moon above your head.’ ‘Oh, mother, mother!’ I heard the wee thing
say, but she shut the door in my face. I was weary, and I was faint wi’
hunger too, for I had tasted little that day; to gang on my way was no
possible, for the very life seemed sinking out o’ me; so I crept round
by the back o’ the house to seek some sheltered nook to lie down in, no
wishing ever to rise again. All my desire was to lay myself down in a
quiet corner and there to be found dead in the morning. I was leaning
against a wall sair spent, and Dash keeping close at my side, as he aye
did, striving, puir thing, to keep me warm, when a mist came afore my
eyes—it cleared away, and I seemed to see my ain bonnie bairns wi’ the
faces o’ angels beckoning to me, and I heard my husband’s voice speaking
words o’ comfort, and then a door at the back of the house softly
opened, and the bonnie lamb I had seen afore stepped out into the
moonlight; she looked about her for a moment on every side, and when the
light fell on the face o’ her, it seemed to me as if she too was a kind
spirit frae anither world. She was passing to the front o’ the house
when she saw me, and, oh!—but it was a sweet voice that sounded in my
ear when she took my hand, and said,—‘There is a sixpence and a penny
for you, it is all the money I have, but maybe it will get you a bed at
a house you will soon come to on the road-side; and here is some bread
and cheese for your supper, for I am sure you are hungry.’ I was trying
to say something, when a voice cried out, ‘Alice, Alice, where are you?’
and the mistress hersel’ came up to where we were standing. ‘Oh,
mother!’ the dear bairn said, ‘do not put her away for she looks so
sorrowful and she can scarcely walk; do let her sit at the kitchen fire
all night—I am sure she is an honest woman.’ The mistress looked in my
face. ‘Well,’ she said, I may have judged you wrongfully, so I will take
Alice’s word for it; for it’s not my usual custom to turn my face from
the poor of the land, so come in, old woman, and you shall have some
supper.’ She took me into the warm kitchen, and seated me at the fire,
and the best o’ every thing was set afore me, and bonnie wee Alice took
a low stool and set herself down at my feet, and she aye looked up in my
face wi’ her kindly smile, and seemed to enjoy every morsel I put in my
mouth; and she could na make enough o’ Dash, and was sae pleased when
the mistress hersel’ set a plate o’ bones afore him that might have
served a king. Aweel, we took our supper wi’ thanksgiving, and in a
closet off the kitchen I had a clean comfortable bed to lie down on,
which was a great refreshment. The mistress took to me in an uncommon
way. I telt her where I was going, and all about it; and in the morning
she gave me my breakfast and a white shilling out o’ her ain pocket. I
was fain to gie little Alice back her sixpence and the penny, but she
was affronted and would na hear tell o’ it; so I laid them down on the
wee pillow o’ her bed when she was looking anither way.”
The tears were in Leila’s eyes: “Oh, Peggy,” she said, “what a dear
little girl Alice must have been! how I wish I could thank her for being
so very kind to you; but you are not to stop yet, you have more to tell
us.”
“Not much more, Miss Leila, for mony o’ the days after that seem to have
passed out o’ my mind. I think it was but twice after that that I had
onything like a decent bed to lie down on; it was getting darkish one
day when I was passing through a village, a heap o’ bairns came running
past just out o’ school, and a wild laddie had something tied up in a
napkin, and he aye cried he was going to drown it, and they maun come
and see. My mind misgave me that it was a kitten, puir thing, so I
followed on to a pond that I saw afore me, and just as I got near I
heard sic a wild screech, and there was a wee lassie struggling in the
water; I cried loud to Dash, and he was into the pond in no time, and
afore anither minute was over, the puir half-drowned thing was laid at
my feet. Aweel, I took it up in my arms and turned back to the village.
The mother o’ it was like to go out o’ her judgment wi’ fright and wi’
joy; I stayed to help to put the bairn into a warm bed, the puir lamb
would nae be comforted. Aye when we thought that she was dropping over
to sleep she started up again in an unco tremble, and crying out, ‘No,
no, mother, don’t be angry, I will never, never go near the pond again;’
and when Dash came up to the bed wagging his tail, and trying to make
acquaintance wi’ her, she was like to go out o’ her judgment, wi’ no
manner o’ knowledge or gratitude for what he had done for her. Aweel,
she fell into a sleep at last; ‘Oh, my darling,’ the mother said,
‘many’s the time I have told her to keep away from those wicked boys,
and by no means to go near that ugly pond, for my mind misgave me that
something might happen; but she has been punished enough, poor thing,
she will not again forget my warning;’ and she leaned over the dear
bairn wi’ sic joy and thankfulness, and kissed her over and over again.
Though it was getting late, I thought now to have gone on my way again,
but though she was but a widow woman, and seemed to have naught to
spare, she would na hear of it, so I stayed wi’ her that night, and she
did all she could to make me comfortable. The next circumstance that I
remember was when I found myself in a town, and sae spent wi’ hunger I
could scarcely walk; I had parted wi’ my warm cloak afore, and I think
shame to tell you how many salt tears that had cost me, (but it was a
present from my gudeman,) and I was thinking if there was onything else
I could sell, and holding by the rails, for I could scarcely stand, when
a decent-looking young woman, wi’ a most pleasant face, came up to me.
‘What is the matter, poor woman,’ she said, in a kindly voice, ‘you are
surely ill?’ I telt her I was starving. ‘Waes me,’ she said, ‘and I have
no money to give you, for I have just been disappointed myself: but come
with me, you shall have something to eat at least.’ She took me by the
arm and helped me on, and we entered a big house, where a great mony
people seemed to be living, for I heard voices o’ men and women, and
bairns, some crying and some laughing. ‘My sister and I have a room
here,’ she said, as we gaed up the stairs; then taking me by the hand
along a dark passage, she opened a door, and I saw a young woman
sitting close to the window working busily, though it was getting dark.
‘Jessie,’ she said, ‘you will have thought me long away, and after all I
have come back without the money for the shirts, for Mrs. Churchill was
not at home.’ ‘Without the money,’ Jessie repeated, ‘and not a morsel in
the house beyond our night’s supper, and not a farthing to buy more! Oh,
Ellen, this is sorrowful news. But who is this you have got with you?’
Ellen told her how she had fallen in wi’ me, and it was beautiful to see
the kindness o’ baith the sisters. There was but a small fire, but they
gathered up the cinders, and made me sit close to it, and they rubbed my
hands and spoke words o’ comfort to me; and Ellen brought some bread and
cheese out of a cupboard, and set it afore me, and baith o’ them pressed
me to eat. Just then there was a tap at the door. ‘That will be the
nurse,’ Ellen said, jumping up; ‘I forgot to tell you that she said she
might perhaps be able to bring the money if her mistress came home in
time.’ It was the nurse sure enough, and oh, sic joy as it was to the
kind-hearted creatures when the nurse counted down ten bonnie shillings
on the table. ‘Put on the tea-kettle,’ Ellen said, ‘and I will be back
in a moment with some tea and sugar; and, Mistress Nurse, perhaps you
will stay and take a cup of tea, you have always been such a kind
friend to us.’ But Mistress Nurse said she could by no means stay, for
her lady might want her; and she was just going away when she noticed
Dash. ‘Bless me,’ she said, ‘what a fine animal, but how thin he is; he
looks half-starved; my heart is sore for the creature, tea is not just
the thing for him, but if I can get hold of the stable-boy when I go
home, I will send him up with a plate of scraps; he will like that
better.’ And she was as good as her word; Dash had such a supper as he
had not seen for many a day. And how the sisters were pleased and
diverted when the creature picked out the largest bone he could find in
all the platter, and laid it at my feet. Aweel, we had our tea in
comfort, and the best o’ butter, which Ellen said was a treat by
ordinar, and muckle pleasant discourse; and I telt them about you, Miss
Selina, getting your speech again, and about Miss Leila in the island.
They said it was like a fairy tale, and that they had naething to tell
me about themselves sae romantic. They had lost baith father and mother,
and they worked for their bread, and had come through great straits;
sometimes they had plenty to do, and were comfortable enough, and
sometimes they were sair put about, and at their last penny; but their
mother had been a God-fearing woman, and had given them the best o’
counsel, and they aye kept up their hearts, for there was a Providence
abune, they said, that kent what was best for them. The room was clean
and neat, though the furniture was scant. There was but one bed, but
they borrowed a mattress from a kind neighbour, and I lay baith warm and
comfortable on it. In the morning I had a sair struggle, for they would
hae me to take one o’ their hard-earned shillings; but I would by no
means hear o’ it, and I was the more positive as they had telt me that I
was but a day’s journey or so frae Richmond, and need na gang through
that awfu’ London, which was a great ease to my mind. So I took only
some small change Ellen had gotten in from the tea, and gaed on my way.
It was a clear bright day, but it was hard frost when night came on, and
I was stiff wi’ cold, and weary, weary; and I could get naething better
than a barn to lie down in, for I had but a penny to offer, and they
jeered at me, and said a barn was ower good for sic payment. The next
morning seems all like a confused kind o’ dream, I remember naething but
that I crawled on and on, often stopping and feeling unco’ sleepy, but
aye feared to lie down lest I should ne’er waken again; but though I
kent Richmond could na be far off now, I was but the mair sorrowful, for
I could bear it no longer; I could na move anither step, but sunk down
by the road-side. A mist came afore my eyes, I ken naething mair, but
that I seemed to waken in Heaven, for when I opened my eyes again, your
dear faces were all around me.” Peggy ceased speaking, and clasped her
hands together as if in prayer. There were tears in most eyes; even
Charles, who seemed to think it unmanly to give way, had to struggle
hard with his emotion.
“Leila,” he said, as they returned home, “I can well understand what
your grief must have been in thinking Peggy lost to you. I am going to
write all her story down, it is so interesting, and it will be my first
lesson in the Scotch language; I would not have missed hearing her tell
it for the world.”
