The Heart of Mid-Lothian

sorted.—Grizzie, come up here, and tak tent to the honest auld man, and see he wants naething.—Ye silly tawpie' (addressing the maid-servant as she entered), 'what garr'd ye busk up your cockemony that gate?—I think there's been enough the day to gie an awfa' warning about your cockups and your fallal duds—see what they a' come to,' etc. etc. etc.

Leaving the good lady to her lecture upon worldly vanities, we must transport our reader to the cell in which the unfortunate Effie Deans was now immured, being restricted of several liberties which she had enjoyed before the sentence was pronounced.

When she had remained about an hour in the state of stupified horror so natural in her situation, she was disturbed by the opening of the jarring bolts of her place of confinement, and Ratcliffe showed himself. 'It's your sister,' he said, 'wants to speak t'ye, Effie.'

'I canna see naebody,' said Effie, with the hasty irritability which misery had rendered more acute—'I canna see naebody, and least of a' her—Bid her take care o' the auld man—I am naething to ony o' them now, nor them to me.'

'She says she maun see ye, though,' said Ratcliffe; and Jeanie, rushing into the apartment, threw her arms round her sister's neck, who writhed to extricate herself from her embrace.

'What signifies coming to greet ower me,' said poor Effie, 'when you have killed me?—killed me, when a word of your mouth would have saved me—killed me, when I am an innocent creature—innocent of that guilt at least—and me that wad hae wared body and soul to save your finger from being hurt?'

'You shall not die,' said Jeanie, with enthusiastic firmness; 'say what you like o' me—think what you like o' me—only promise—for I doubt your proud heart—that ye wunna harm yourself, and you shall not die this shameful death.'

'A shameful death I will not die, Jeanie, lass. I have that in my heart—though it has been ower kind a ane—that wunna bide shame. Gae hame to our father, and think nae mair on me—I have eat my last earthly meal.'

'Oh, this was what I feared!' said Jeanie.

'Hout, tout, hinny,' said Ratcliffe; 'it's but little ye ken o' thae things. Ane aye thinks at the first dinnle o' the sentence, they hae heart eneugh to die rather than bide out the sax weeks; but they aye bide the sax weeks out for a' that. I ken the gate o't weel; I hae fronted the doomster three times, and here I stand, Jim Ratcliffe, for a' that. Had I tied my napkin strait the first time, as I had a great mind till't—and it was a' about a bit grey cowt, wasna worth ten punds sterling—where would I have been now?'

'And how did you escape?' said Jeanie, the fates of this man, at first so odious to her, having acquired a sudden interest in her eyes from their correspondence with those of her sister.

'How did I escape?' said Ratcliffe, with a knowing wink,—'I tell ye I 'scapit in a way that naebody will escape from this Tolbooth while I keep the keys.'

'My sister shall come out in the face of the sun,' said Jeanie; 'I will go to London, and beg her pardon from the king and queen. If they pardoned Porteous, they may pardon her; if a sister asks a sister's life on her bended knees, they will pardon her—they shall pardon her—and they will win a thousand hearts by it.'

Effie listened in bewildered astonishment, and so earnest was her sister's enthusiastic assurance, that she almost involuntarily caught a gleam of hope; but it instantly faded away.

'Ah, Jeanie! the king and queen live in London, a thousand miles from this—far ayont the saut sea; I'll be gane before ye win there.'

'You are mistaen,' said Jeanie; 'it is no sae far, and they go to it by land; I learned something about thae things from Reuben Butler.'

'Ah, Jeanie! ye never learned onything but what was gude frae the folk ye keepit company wi'; but!— but!'—she wrung her hands and wept bitterly.

'Dinna think on that now,' said Jeanie; 'there will be time for that if the present space be redeemed. Fare ye weel. Unless I die by the road, I will see the king's face that gies grace—O, sir' (to Ratcliffe), 'be kind to her— She ne'er ken'd what it was to need a stranger's kindness till now.—Fareweel—fareweel, Effie!—Dinna speak to me—I maunna greet now—my head's ower dizzy already!'

She tore herself from her sister's arms, and left the cell. Ratcliffe followed her, and beckoned her into a small room. She obeyed his signal, but not without trembling.

'What's the fule thing shaking for?' said he; 'I mean nothing but civility to you. D—n me, I respect you, and I can't help it. You have so much spunk, that d—n me, but I think there's some chance of your carrying the day. But you must not go to the king till you have made some friend; try the duke—try MacCallummore; he's Scotland's friend—I ken that the great folks dinna muckle like him—but they fear him, and that will serve your purpose as weel. D'ye ken naebody wad gie ye a letter to him?'

'Duke of Argyle!' said Jeanie, recollecting herself suddenly, 'what was he to that Argyle that suffered in my father's time—in the persecution?'

'His son or grandson, I'm thinking,' said Ratcliffe, 'but what o' that?'

'Thank God!' said Jeanie, devoutly clasping her hands.

'You whigs are aye thanking God for something,' said the ruffian. 'But hark ye, hinny, I'll tell ye a secret. Ye may meet wi' rough customers on the Border, or in the Midland, afore ye get to Lunnon. Now, deil ane o' them will touch an acquaintance o' Daddie Ratton's; for though I am retired frae public practice, yet they ken I can do a gude or an ill turn yet—and deil a gude fellow that has been but a twelvemonth on the lay, be he ruffler or padder, but he knows my gybe[43] as well as the jark [44] of e'er a queer cuffin[45] in England—and there's rogue's Latin for you.'

It was indeed totally unintelligible to Jeanie Deans, who was only impatient to escape from him. He hastily scrawled a line or two on a dirty piece of paper, and said to her, as she drew back when he offered it, 'Hey!—what the deil—it wunna bite you, my lass—if it does nae gude, it can do nae ill. But I wish you to show it, if you have ony fasherie wi' ony o' St. Nicholas's clerks.'

'Alas!' said she, 'I do not understand what you mean.'

'I mean, if ye fall among thieves, my precious,—that is a Scripture phrase, if ye will hae ane—the bauldest of them will ken a scart o' my guse feather. And now awa wi' ye—and stick to Argyle; if onybody can do the job, it maun be him.'

After casting an anxious look at the grated windows and blackened walls of the old Tolbooth, and another scarce less anxious at the hospitable lodging of Mrs. Saddletree, Jeanie turned her back on that quarter, and soon after on the city itself. She reached St. Leonard's Crags without meeting any one whom she knew, which, in the state of her mind, she considered as a great blessing. 'I must do naething,' she thought, as she went along, 'that can soften or weaken my heart—it's ower weak already for what I hae to do. I will think and act as firmly as I can, and speak as little.'

There was an ancient servant, or rather cottar, of her father's, who had lived under him for many years, and whose fidelity was worthy of full confidence. She sent for this woman, and explaining to her that the circumstances of her family required that she should undertake a journey, which would detain her for some weeks from home, she gave her full instructions concerning the management of the domestic concerns in her absence. With a precision, which, upon reflection, she herself could not help wondering at, she described and detailed the most minute steps which were to be taken, and especially such as were necessary for her father's comfort. 'It was probable,' she said, 'that he would return to St. Leonard's to-morrow! certain that he would return very soon—all must be in order for him. He had eneugh to distress him, without being fashed about warldly matters.'

In the meanwhile she toiled busily, along with May Hettly, to leave nothing unarranged.

It was deep in the night when all these matters were settled; and when they had partaken of some food, the first which Jeanie had tasted on that eventful day, May Hettly, whose usual residence was a cottage at a little distance from Deans's house, asked her young mistress, whether she would not permit her to remain in the house all night? 'Ye hae had an awfu' day,' she said, 'and sorrow and fear are but bad companions in the watches of the night, as I hae heard the gudeman say himself.'

'They are ill companions indeed,' said Jeanie; 'but I maun learn to abide their presence, and better begin in the house than in the field.'

She dismissed her aged assistant accordingly,—for so slight was the gradation in their rank of life, that we