'Well, Mr. Jack-Sauce, and what is your business to put in your oar?—And how often must I tell you to call Mr. Staunton his Reverence, seeing as he is a dignified clergyman, and not be meastering, meastering him, as if he were a little petty squire?'
As Jeanie was now at the door, and ready to accompany Tummas, the footman said nothing till he got into the passage, when he muttered, 'There are moe masters than one in this house, and I think we shall have a mistress too, an Dame Dalton carries it thus.'
Tummas led the way through a more intricate range of passages than Jeanie had yet threaded, and ushered her into an apartment which was darkened by the closing of most of the window-shutters, and in which was a bed with the curtains partly drawn.
'Here is the young woman, sir,' said Tummas.
'Very well,' said a voice from the bed, but not that of his Reverence; 'be ready to answer the bell, and leave the room.'
'There is some mistake,' said Jeanie, confounded at finding herself in the apartment of an invalid; 'the servant told me that the minister'
'Don't trouble yourself,' said the invalid, 'there is no mistake. I know more of your affairs than my father, and I can manage them better.—Leave the room, Tom.' The servant obeyed.—'We must not,' said the invalid, 'lose time, when we have little to lose. Open the shutters of that window.'
She did so, and as he drew aside the curtain of his bed, the light fell on his pale countenance, as, turban'd with bandages, and dressed in a night-gown, he lay, seemingly exhausted, upon the bed.
'Look at me,' he said, 'Jeanie Deans; can you not recollect me?'
'No, sir,' said she, full of surprise. 'I was never in this country before.'
'But I may have been in yours. Think—recollect. I should faint did I name the name you are most dearly bound to loathe and to detest. Think—remember!'
A terrible recollection flashed on Jeanie, which every tone of the speaker confirmed, and which his next words rendered certainty.
'Be composed—remember Muschat's Cairn, and the moonlight night!'
Jeanie sunk down on a chair with clasped hands, and gasped in agony.
'Yes, here I lie,' he said, 'like a crushed snake, writhing with impatience at my incapacity of motion—here I lie, when I ought to have been in Edinburgh, trying every means to save a life that is dearer to me than my own. —How is your sister?—how fares it with her?—condemned to death, I know it, by this time! O, the horse that carried me safely on a thousand errands of folly and wickedness, that he should have broke down with me on the only good mission I have undertaken for years! But I must rein in my passion—my frame cannot endure it, and I have much to say. Give me some of the cordial which stands on that table.—Why do you tremble? But you have too good cause.—Let it stand—I need it not.'
Jeanie, however reluctant, approached him with the cup into which she had poured the draught, and could not forbear saying, 'There is a cordial for the mind, sir, if the wicked will turn from their transgressions, and seek to the Physician of souls.'
'Silence!' he said sternly—'and yet I thank you. But tell me, and lose no time in doing so, what you are doing in this country? Remember, though I have been your sister's worst enemy, yet I will serve her with the best of my blood, and I will serve you for her sake; and no one can serve you to such purpose, for no one can know the circumstances so well—so speak without fear.'
'I am not afraid, sir,' said Jeanie, collecting her spirits. 'I trust in God; and if it pleases Him to redeem my sister's captivity, it is all I seek, whosoever be the instrument. But, sir, to be plain with you, I dare not use your counsel, unless I were enabled to see that it accords with the law which I must rely upon.'
'The devil take the Puritan!' cried George Staunton, for so we must now call him—'I beg your pardon; but I am naturally impatient, and you drive me mad! What harm can it possibly do to tell me in what situation your sister stands, and your own expectations of being able to assist her? It is time enough to refuse my advice when I offer any which you may think improper. I speak calmly to you, though 'tis against my nature; but don't urge me to impatience—it will only render me incapable of serving Effie.'
There was in the looks and words of this unhappy young man a sort of restrained eagerness and impetuosity which seemed to prey upon itself, as the impatience of a fiery steed fatigues itself with churning upon the bit. After a moment's consideration, it occurred to Jeanie that she was not entitled to withhold from him, whether on her sister's account or her own, the fatal account of the consequences of the crime which he had committed, nor to reject such advice, being in itself lawful and innocent, as he might be able to suggest in the way of remedy. Accordingly, in as few words as she could express it, she told the history of her sister's trial and condemnation, and of her own journey as far as Newark. He appeared to listen in the utmost agony of mind, yet repressed every violent symptom of emotion, whether by gesture or sound, which might have interrupted the speaker, and, stretched on his couch like the Mexican monarch on his bed of live coals, only the contortions of his cheek, and the quivering of his limbs, gave indication of his sufferings. To much of what she said he listened with stifled groans, as if he were only hearing those miseries confirmed, whose fatal reality he had known before; but when she pursued her tale through the circumstances which had interrupted her journey, extreme surprise and earnest attention appeared to succeed to the symptoms of remorse which he had before exhibited. He questioned Jeanie closely concerning the appearance of the two men, and the conversation which she had overheard between the taller of them and the woman.
When Jeanie mentioned the old woman having alluded to her foster-son—'It is too true,' he said; 'and the source from which I derived food, when an infant, must have communicated to me the wretched—the fated— propensity to vices that were strangers in my own family.—But go on.'
Jeanie passed slightly over her journey in company with Madge, having no inclination to repeat what might be the effect of mere raving on the part of her companion, and therefore her tale was now closed.
Young Staunton lay for a moment in profound meditation and at length spoke with more composure than he had yet displayed during their interview.—'You are a sensible, as well as a good young woman, Jeanie Deans, and I will tell you more of my story than I have told to any one.— Story did I call it?—it is a tissue of folly, guilt, and misery.—But take notice—I do it because I desire your confidence in return—that is, that you will act in this dismal matter by my advice and direction. Therefore do I speak.'
'I will do what is fitting for a sister, and a daughter, and a Christian woman to do,' said Jeanie; 'but do not tell me any of your secrets.—It is not good that I should come into your counsel, or listen to the doctrine which causeth to err.'
'Simple fool!' said the young man. 'Look at me. My head is not horned, my foot is not cloven, my hands are not garnished with talons; and, since I am not the very devil himself, what interest can any one else have in destroying the hopes with which you comfort or fool yourself? Listen to me patiently, and you will find that, when you have heard my counsel, you may go to the seventh heaven with it in your pocket, if you have a mind, and not feel yourself an ounce heavier in the ascent.'
At the risk of being somewhat heavy, as explanations usually prove, we must here endeavour to combine into a distinct narrative, information which the invalid communicated in a manner at once too circumstantial, and too much broken by passion, to admit of our giving his precise words. Part of it indeed he read from a manuscript, which he had perhaps drawn up for the information of his relations after his decease.
'To make my tale short—this wretched hag—this Margaret Murdockson, was the wife of a favourite servant of my father—she had been my nurse—her husband was dead—she resided in a cottage near this place—she had a daughter who grew up, and was then a beautiful but very giddy girl; her mother endeavoured to promote her marriage with an old and wealthy churl in the neighbourhood—the girl saw me frequently—She was familiar with me, as our connection seemed to permit—and I—in a word, I wronged her cruelly—It was not so bad as your sister's business, but it was sufficiently villanous—her folly should have been her protection. Soon after this I was sent abroad—To do my father justice, if I have turned out a fiend it is not his fault—he used the best means. When I returned, I found the wretched mother and daughter had fallen into disgrace, and were chased from this country.—My deep share in their shame and misery was discovered—my father used very harsh language—we quarrelled. I left his house, and led a life of strange adventure, resolving never again to see my father or my father's home.
'And now comes the story!—Jeanie, I put my life into your hands, and not only my own life, which, God knows, is not worth saving, but the happiness of a respectable old man, and the honour of a family of
