Part 5
"We'll try't ony way," said her husband, folding up the summonses, and putting them carefully into his breeches-pocket. "Since it has come to this, we'll gie them law for't."
In the spirit and temper of bold defiance expressed in the preceding colloquy, Mr Callender and his wife awaited the day and hour appointed for their appearance in the Sheriff-Court at Glasgow. This day and hour in due time came, and, when it did, it found both parties, pursuers and defenders, in the awful presence of the judge. Both the ladies were decked out in their best and grandest attire, while each of their husbands rejoiced in his Sunday's suit. It was a great occasion for both parties. On first recognising each other, the ladies exchanged looks which were truly edifying to behold. Mrs Anderson's was that of calm, dignified triumph; and which, if translated into her own vernacular, would have said, "My word, lass, but ye'll fin' whar ye are noo." Mrs Calender's, again, was that of bold defiance, and told of a spirit that was unconquerable--game to the last being the most strongly marked and leading expression, at this interesting moment, of her majestic countenance. Close beside where Mrs Anderson sat, and evidently under her charge, there stood an object which, from the oddness of its appearing in its present situation, attracted a good deal of notice, and excited some speculation amongst those present in the Court, and which particularly interested Mrs Callender and her worthy spouse. This was a hamper--a very large one. People wondered what could be in it, and for what purpose it was there. They could solve neither of these problems; but the reader can, we dare say. He will at once conjecture--and, if he does so, he will conjecture rightly--that the hamper in question contained the remains of the smashables spoken of formerly at some length, and that it was to be produced in Court, by the pursuers, as evidence of the nature and extent of the damage done.
The original idea of bringing forward this article, for the purpose mentioned, was Mrs Anderson's; and, having been approved of by her husband, it had been that morning carted to the Courthouse, and thereafter carried to and deposited in its present situation by the united exertions of the pursuers, who relied greatly on the effect it would produce when its lid should be thrown open, and the melancholy spectacle of demolished crockery it concealed exhibited.
The case of Mr and Mrs Anderson _versus_ Mr and Mrs Callender being pretty far down in the roll, it was nearly two hours before it was called. This event, however, at length took place. The names of the pursuers and defenders resounded through the courtroom, in the slow, drawling, nasal-toned voice of the crier. Mrs Anderson, escorted by her loving spouse, sailed up the middle of the apartment, and placed herself before the judge. With no less dignity of manner, and with, at least, an equal stateliness of step, Mrs Callender, accompanied by her lord and master, sailed up after her, and took her place a little to one side. The parties bong thus arranged, proceedings commenced. Mrs Anderson was asked to state her case. Mrs Anderson was not slow to accept the invitation. She at once began:--
"Ye see, my Lord, sir, the matter was just this--and I daur _her_ there" (a look of intense defiance at Mrs Callender) "to deny a word, my Lord, sir, o' what I'm gaun to say; although. I daur say she wad do't if she could."
"My good woman," here, interposed the judge, who had a nervous apprehension of the forensic eloquence of such female pleaders as the one now before him, "will you have the goodness to confine yourself strictly to a simple statement of your case?"
"Weel, my Lord, sir, I will. Ye see, then, the matter is just this."
And Mrs Anderson forthwith proceeded to detail the particulars of the quarrel and subsequent encounter, with a minuteness and circumstantiality which, we fear, the reader would think rather tedious were we here to repeat. In this statement of her case, Mrs Anderson, having the fear of her husband's presence before her eyes, made no allusion whatever to the nightcaps, but rested the whole quarrel on the jelly pot. Now, this was a circumstance which Mrs Callender noted, and of which she, on the instant, determined to take a desperate advantage. Regardless of all consequences, and, amongst the rest, of discovering to her husband the underhand part she had been playing in regard to the affair of the nightcap, she resolved on publicly exposing, as she imagined, the falsehood and pride of her hated rival, by stating the facts of the case as to the celebrated nightcaps. To this revenge she determined on sacrificing every other consideration. To return, however, in the meantime, to the proceedings in Court.
The statements of the pursuers being now exhausted, the defenders were called upon to give their version of the story. On this summons, both Mrs Callender and her husband pressed themselves into a central position, with the apparent intention of both entering on the defence at the same time. And this proved to be the fact. On being specially and directly invited by the judge to open the case--
"Ye see, my Lord," began _Mr_ Thomas Callender; "and--"
"My Lord, sir, ye see," began, at the same instant _Mrs_ Thomas Callender.
"Now, now," here interposed the judge, waving his hand impatiently, "one at a time, if you please. One at a time."
"Surely," replied Mr Callender. "Staun aside, guidwife, staun aside," he said; at the same time gently pushing his wife back with his left hand as he spoke. "_I'll_ lay doon the case to his Lordship."
"Ye'll do nae sic a thing, Tammas, _I'll_ do't," exclaimed Mrs Callender, not only resisting her husband's attempt to thrust her into the rear, but forcibly placing _him_ in that relative position; while she herself advanced a pace or two nearer to the bench. On gaining this vantage ground, Mrs Callender at once began, and with great emphasis and circumstantiality detailed the whole story of the nightcaps; carefully modelling it so, however, as to show that her own part in the transaction was a _bonâ fide_ proceeding; on the part of her rival, the reverse; and that the whole quarrel, with its consequent demolition of crockery, was entirely the result of Mrs Anderson's "upsettin pride, and vanity, and jealousy." During the delivery of these details, the Court was convulsed with laughter, in which the Sheriff himself had much difficulty to refrain from joining.
On the husbands of the two women, however, they had a very different effect. Amazed, confounded, and grievously affronted at this unexpected disclosure of the ridiculous part they had been made to perform by their respective wives, they both sneaked out of Court, amidst renewed peals of laughter, leaving the latter to finish the case the best way they could. How this was effected we know not, as at this point ends our story of the Rival Nightcaps.
THE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS.
BY WALTER LOGAN.
"The maid that loves, Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, And puts her trust in miracles for safety."--_Old Play._
I am a peripatetic genius--a wanderer by profession--a sort of Salathiel Secundus, "doomed for a term," like the ghost of Hamlet's papa, "to walk the earth," whether I will or not. Here, however, the simile stops; for his aforesaid ghostship could traverse, if he chose, amid climes far away, while the circuit of my peregrinations is, has for sometime been, and must, for some short time more, necessarily be confined to the northern extremity of "our tight little island"--_vulgo vocato_--Scotland. In my day I have seen many strange sights, and met with many strange faces--made several hairbreadth 'scapes, and undergone innumerable perils by flood and field. On the wings of the wind--that is, on the top of a stage-coach--I have passed through many known and unknown towns and villages; have visited, on foot and on horseback, for my own special edification and amusement, various ancient ruins, foaming cataracts, interesting rocks, and dismal-looking caves, celebrated in Scottish story. But better far than that, and dearer to my soul, my foot has trod the floors of, I may say, all the haberdashers' shops north of the Tweed: in short, most patient reader, I am a travelling bagman.
In this capacity, I have, for years, perambulated among the chief towns of Scotland, taking orders from those who were inclined to give them to me, and giving orders to those who were not inclined to take them from me, unless with a _douceur_ in perspective--viz., coachmen, waiters, barmaids, _et hoc gittus omne_. From those of the third class, many are the witching smiles lighting up pretty faces--many the indignant glances shot from deep love-darting eyes, when their under neighbours, the lips, were invaded without consent of parties--which have saluted me everywhere; for the same varied feelings, the same sudden and unaccountable likings and dislikings, have place in the breasts of barmaids as in those of other women. As is the case too with the rest of their sex, there are among them the clumsy and the handsome, the plain and the pretty, the scraggy and the plump, the old and the young; but of all the barmaids I ever met with, none charmed me more than did Mary of the Black Swan, at Altonby. In my eyes she inherited all the good qualities I have here enumerated,--that is to say, she was handsome, pretty, plump, and young, with a form neither too tall nor too short; but just the indescribable happy size between, set off by a manner peculiarly graceful.
It was on a delightful evening in the early spring, that I found myself seated, for the first time, in a comfortable little parlour pertaining to the Black Swan, and Mary attending on me--she being the chief, nay, almost the only person in the establishment, who could serve a table. I was struck with her loveliness, as well as captivated with her engaging manner, and though I had for thirty years defied the artifices of blind Cupid, I now felt myself all at once over head and ears in love with this village beauty. Although placed in so low a sphere as that in which I then beheld her, there was a something about her that proclaimed her to be of gentle birth. Whoever looked upon her countenance, felt conscious that there was a respect due to her which it is far from customary to extend to girls in waiting at an inn. Hers were
"Eyes so pure, that from their ray Dark vice would turn abashed away."
Her feet were small and fairy-like, from which, if her voice, redolent of musical softness--that thing so desirable in woman--had not already informed me, I should have set her down as being of English extraction.
Several months elapsed ere it was again in my power to visit Altonby. During all that time, my vagrant thoughts had been of Mary--sleeping or waking, her form was ever present to my fancy. On entering the Black Swan, it was Mary who bounded forward to welcome me with a delighted smile. She seemed gratified at my return; and I was no less so at the cordiality of my reception. The month was July, and the evening particularly fine; so, not having business of much consequence to transact in the place, and Mary having to attend to the comforts of others beside myself, then sojourning at the Black Swan, I sallied forth alone--
"To take my evening's walk of meditation."
When one happens to be left _per se_ in a provincial town, where he is alike unknowing and unknown--where there is no theatre or other place of amusement in which to spend the evening--it almost invariably happens that he pays a visit to the churchyard, and delights himself, for an hour or so, with deciphering the tombstones,--a recreation extremely healthful to the body, and soothing to the mind. It was to the churchyard on that evening I bent my steps, thinking, as I went along, seriously of Mary.
"What is she to me?" I involuntarily exclaimed; "I have no time to waste upon women: I am a wanderer, with no great portion of worldly gear. In my present circumstances it is impossible I can marry her; and to think of her in any other light were villanous. No, no! I will no longer cherish a dream which can never be realised."
And I determined that, on the morrow, I should fly the fatal spot for ever. Who or what Mary's relations had been, she seemed to feel great reluctance in disclosing to me. All I could glean from her was, that she was an orphan--that she had had a sister who had formed an unfortunate attachment, and broken their mother's heart--that all of her kindred that now remained was a brother, and he was in a foreign land.
The sun was resting above the summits of the far-off mountains, and the yew trees were flinging their dusky shadows over the graves, as I entered the burial-place of Altonby. The old church was roofless and in ruins; and within its walls were many tombstones over the ashes of those who, having left more than the wherewithal to bury them, had been laid there by their heirs, as if in token of respect. In a distant corner, I observed one little mound over which no stone had been placed to indicate who lay beneath: it was evidently the grave of a stranger, and seemed to have been placed in that spot more for the purpose of being out of the way than for any other. At a short distance from it was another mound, overtopped with grass of a fresher kind. As I stood leaning over a marble tombstone, gazing around me, a figure slowly entered at the farther end of the aisle, and, with folded arms and downcast eyes, passed on to those two graves. It was that of a young man of perhaps five-and-twenty, though a settled melancholy, which overspread his countenance, made him look five years older. I crouched behind the stone on which I had been leaning, fearful of disturbing him with my presence, or rousing his attention by my attempting to leave the place.
After gazing with a vacant eye for a few moments upon the graves, he knelt down between them. His lips began to move, but I heard not what he said. I thought he was praying for the souls of the departed; and I was confirmed in this by hearing him at last say, with an audible voice:--
"May all good angels guard thee, Clara Douglas, and thou, my mother!"
As he uttered these last words, he turned his eyes to the newer grave. I thought he was about to continue his prayer; but, as if the sight of the grave had awakened other feelings, he suddenly started up, and, raising his hands to heaven, invoked curses on the head of one whom he termed their "murderer!" That done, he rushed madly from the church. All this was very strange to me; and I determined, if possible, to ascertain whose remains those graves entombed.
On leaving the churchyard, I was fortunate enough to forgather with an old man, from whom I learned the melancholy story of her who occupied the older-looking grave. She was young and beautiful. Accident had deprived her father of that wealth which a long life of untiring industry had enabled him to lay past for his children; and he did not long survive its loss. Fearful of being a burden to her mother, who had a son and another daughter besides herself to provide for out of the slender pittance which remained to her on her husband's death, Clara Douglas accepted a situation as a governess, and sought to earn an honourable independence by those talents and accomplishments which had once been cultivated for mere amusement. The brother of Clara, shortly afterwards, obtained an appointment in the island of Madeira. Unfortunately for Clara, a young officer, a relative of the family in which she resided, saw her, and was smitten with her charms. He loved, and was beloved again. The footing of intimacy on which he was in the house, procured him many interviews with Clara. Suddenly his regiment was ordered to the Continent; and when the young ensign told the sorrowful tidings to Clara, he elicited from her a confession of her love.
Months passed away--Waterloo was fought and won--and Ensign Malcolm was among those who fell.
When the death list reached Scotland, many were the hearts it overpowered with grief; but Clara Douglas had more than one grief to mourn: sorrow and shame were too much to bear together, and she fled from the house where she had first met him who was the cause of all. None could tell whither she had gone. Her mother and sister were agonised when the news of her disappearance reached them. Every search was made, but without effect. A year all but two weeks passed away, and still no tidings of her, till that very day, two boys seeking for pheasants' nests upon the top of a hillock overgrown with furze--which the old man pointed out to me at a short distance from the place where we stood--accidentally stumbled upon an object beneath a fir-tree. It was the remains of a female in a kneeling posture. Beneath her garments, by which she was recognised as Clara Douglas, not a vestige of flesh remained. There was still some upon her hands, which had been tightly clasped together; and upon her face, which leant upon them. Seemingly she had died in great agony. It was supposed by some that she had taken poison.
"If your time will permit," added the old man, as he wiped away a tear, "I will willingly show you the place where her remains were found. It is but a short distance. Come."
I followed the old man in silence. He led the way into a field. We climbed over some loose stones thrown together, to serve as a wall of division at the farther extremity of it, and slowly began to ascend the grassy acclivity, which was on both sides bordered by a thick hedge, placed apart, at the distance of about thirty feet. When half way up, I could not resist the inclination I felt to turn and look upon the scene. It was an evening as fair as I had ever gazed on. The wheat was springing in the field through which we had just passed, covering it, as it were, with a rich green carpet. Trees and hills bounded the view, behind which the sun was on the point of sinking, and the red streaks upon the western sky "gave promise of a goodly day to-morrow."
If, thought I, the hour on which Clara Douglas ascended this hill was as lovely as this evening, she must indeed have been deeply bent upon her own destruction, to look upon the world so beautifully fair, and not wish to return to it again. We continued our ascent, passing among thick tangled underwood, in whose kindly grasp the light flowing garments of Clara Douglas must have been ever and anon caught as she wended on her way. Yet had she disregarded the friendly interposition. Along the margin of an old stone quarry we now proceeded, where the pathway was so narrow that we were occasionally compelled to catch at the furze bushes which edged it, to prevent ourselves from falling over into the gulf beneath. And Clara Douglas, thought I, must have passed along here, and must have been exposed to the same danger of toppling headlong over the cliff, yet she had exerted herself to pass the fatal spot unharmed, to save a life which she knew would almost the instant afterwards be taken by her own hand. Such is the inconsistency of human nature.
Our course lay once more through the midst of underwood, so thickly grown that one would have supposed no female foot would dare to enter it.
"Here," cried the old man, stopping beside a dwarfish fir-tree, "here is the spot where we found the mortal remains of Clara Douglas."
I pressed forward, and, to my surprise, beheld one other being than my old guide looking on the place. It was the same I had noticed at the grave of Clara Douglas, within the walls of the ruined church of Altonby. I thought it a strange coincidence.
Summer passed away, winter and spring succeeded, and summer came again, and with it came the wish to see Mary once more. However much I had before doubted the truth of the axiom, that "absence makes the heart grow fonder," I now felt the full force of its truth. My affection for Mary was, day after day, becoming stronger; and, in spite of the dictates of prudence, my determination never to see her again began to falter; and one evening I unconsciously found myself in the yard of the Black Swan. Well, since I had come there at any rate, it would be exceedingly foolish to go away again without speaking to Mary; so I called to the stable boy to put up my horse. The boy knew me, for I had once given him a sixpence for running a message, and he came briskly forward at my first call, no doubt with some indistinct idea of receiving another sixpence at some no very distant date.
"Eh! Mr Moir," said the boy, while I was dismounting, in answer to my question, "What news in the village?" "Ye'll no guess what's gaun to happen? Our Mary, the folk say, is gaun to be married!"
Our Mary! thought I, can _our_ Mary be _my_ Mary? And, to ascertain whether they were one and the same personage, I inquired of the boy who our Mary was.
"Ou!" replied he, "she's just barmaid at the inn here."
I started, now that this disclosure had unhinged my doubts; and subduing, as well as I was able, my rising emotion, I boldly asked, who was "the happy man."
"They ca' him a captain!" said the boy innocently; "but whether he's a sea captain, an offisher in the army, or a captain o' police, I'm no that sure. At ony rate, he aye gangs aboot in plain claes. He's been staying for a month here, an' he gangs oot but seldom, an' that only in the gloamin."
After thanking the boy, and placing the expected silver coin in his hand, I turned the corner of the house in my way towards the entrance, determined, with my own eyes and ears, to ascertain the truth of the boy's statement. The pace at which I was proceeding was so rapid, that, ere I was aware of the vicinity of any one, I came bump against the person of a gentleman, whom, to my surprise, I instantly recognised as the mysterious visitant to the grave of Clara Douglas, and to the spot where her relics were found. He seemed to regard me with a suspicious eye; for he shuffled past without uttering a word. His air was disordered, his step irregular, and his whole appearance was that of a man with whom care, and pain, and sorrow, had long been familiar.
Can this be the captain? was the thought which first suggested itself to me. It was a question I could not answer; yet I entered the Black Swan half persuaded that it was.