A Widow's Tale, and Other Stories

As to the other tragedy, there were investigations without number. Roger was traced to the place where it was proved he was to have met Featherstonhaugh, and where it was supposed some sequel to the quarrel of the previous night, of which there had been various witnesses, had taken place. He was traced away from the fatal spot, having been met wildly wandering about the hills, haggard and agitated, asking the people he met if they had seen some one running that way. But no one had been seen running that way, and the hypothesis was that this was the explanation he had intended to give had not his courage failed him. But even if this defence had been true, he must have at least seen that a murder had been done: yet gave no alarm. And last of all, and most damning proof of guilt, he had fled. This convicted him with every one. His father, with a groan that rent every heart, after denying the possibility of Roger's flight as long as he could, retired to his library when there was no longer any doubt of it, and shut the door, and was seen by no one, even in his own house, for days. But there was Mary left, whose situation was more pitiful still. No one dared to intrude upon her in her first hours of grief. But she did not attempt to shut herself up. She put on her mourning-dress, as heavy as a widow's, as was due to poor Featherstonhaugh, but never forsook her brother's cause, protesting passionately that he had not done it. The vicar, who would have been a witness on the trial, and who was, indeed, called before the coroner's jury to tell of the quarrel which he had seen, did what he could to bring her, as people said, to see the truth. But Mr Weston could not shake her conviction. "You will all acknowledge it one day," she said, in her passion. "I do not know how, or when, but I am sure he will be cleared." The populace round shook their heads, but were very respectful to Mary, very tender of her in her great misfortune. And another line of Featherstonhaughs, distant cousins, came in, and dispersed Sir Richard's collections, and changed everything he had cared for. Thus one great house was entirely altered, and another made desolate, and the whole face of society changed in Waterdale. And after this great convulsion there was a long silence, and the new things grew natural and became old, as is the law of human affairs.

When years had passed, however, there arose one morning a strange rumour in Waterdale. Some time before it had crept into the knowledge of the country that some madman had escaped from an asylum, no one knew where, and was at large about the neighbourhood. People in lonely places had seen a wild figure passing by, and some had heard strange sounds, peals of horrible laughter, and inarticulate cries. On one occasion Mary Ridley even heard this sound of laughter, and had alarmed the neighbourhood, and sent out all the men in the village to beat the woods, declaring that she knew the sound, and who it was. And next morning a strange story ran like fire over the whole district. It was that a man had been found lying dead in that same tragic spot, which had become memorable far and near, where Sir Richard Featherstonhaugh got his death. The news of this came on a Saturday morning, when Elizabeth Murray was in her place in the market with all her merchandise, carefully arranged as always. She had been looking ill, everybody remarked. When the story came down from the head of the water by one envoy after another, Elizabeth left her stand unprotected and uncared for, and went away. She had lost all her fine colour, and had grown old – older than her years – but nevertheless, she marched steadily up the lakeside till she came to the place where they had carried the vagrant who was dead. Such an event had made a great commotion about, and there was much discussion among the men who clustered round the empty cottage in which the body had been placed. It filled them all with wonder to see Elizabeth come, slowly and silent, but with a death-like countenance, through the midst of them. She went into the room where the dead man lay. Those who had seen him had said that he was "a fine figure of a man," though wasted and savage with exposure, his hands and feet torn with the rough places he had been wandering through, and a long wild beard grown over half his face. She went into the room, shutting out the curious gossips about who came to peep and shrink with curiosity and horror. When she came out she locked the door. "The man who is lying there," she said, giving the key into the hands of the village constable, the same man who had (against his duty – but that was easily condoned in such a place) warned Roger Ridley to flee, "is my lad Abel, my eldest son, that has lost his reason for many a year. The Lord has delivered him at last; but he's not to be made a common show, my lad. I'll come and see to him, and that all's done for him that should be done."

"Your lad?" The wondering little crowd came closer and stared at her, whispering and pointing. "Lord bless us! Lizabeth Murray, your lad?"

"Ay. Is it such a merry sight, the face o' a woman that has lost her firstborn, and that thanks the Lord? Go away to your bairns, you silly women, and let me and him be."

"But, 'Lizabeth, there will be an inquest – there must be an inquest."

"That's true," she said. She was quite calm, and made no show of her feelings, whatever they were. "But, John Johnston, you'll keep them off that come from curiosity, to glower and girn at my lad," she said, with a sudden burst of passion. Then subduing herself in a moment, "Good morning to you all; I've much to do this day," she said.

Old Mr Landale was the nearest magistrate, and to him she went direct, without pause or delay. She was a long time with him, and came out exhausted and pale, but rejecting all the anxious offers of help he made her. "We were all attached to him – all of us," the old gentleman said, attending the peasant woman to the door with still more agitation than Elizabeth showed; and after that Mr Landale convulsed his own household with the strangest news – news that threw the whole valley into such excitement as had never swept over it in the memory of man before.

Six months after, Roger Ridley came home with his wife and children – two of them – one a boy, who was heir to all the family honours, such as they were. But though Mr Ridley forgave and acknowledged his son's family with something like joy, and relief that the honour of his name was restored, there was not much cordiality, as long as he lived, between the old squire and the young squire. The little heir pleased the old man, and recommended the pretty young mother to him; but he never forgave his son the wild generosity which plunged all his family into such grievous trouble. If it was generosity or if it was cowardice, or a false sense of honour, or mere panic in face of a horrible accusation and the network of circumstantial evidence in which he was trapped, no one could decide. But when Roger came home everybody condemned him. It was said on all sides that he would have been acquitted if he had had the strength of mind to stand his trial. "I never believed it for a moment," every one said; and all kinds of imputations of weakness and cowardice were made against him. From these accusations it is not our place to defend Roger. Who does not feel, looking back upon a great emergency, that he ought to have done differently, and that another time would find him in a very different mind? He had thought so himself a hundred times, after that wonderful night of excitement when he and his bride went over the hills, like Abraham, not knowing where they went. No other lord or squire in all the north country had an experience to fall back upon such as Roger Ridley had. He had lived the strangest life for these years, and he had not approved of himself any more than his father and his neighbours had approved; but to be faithful to the consequences of a false step, even when you perceive it to be false, is something. He came back a sadder if not a wiser man; no longer the gay hero of the countryside, but very serious, taking almost a gloomy view of everything. His old friends said that his wife did not understand him – could not enter into his ways of thinking – and perhaps this was true enough; but the fact was that he had gone beyond himself as much as beyond Lily. And by-and-by he got into parliament as member for the county, which was a great honour, and did his duty perhaps all the better for having been transplanted for a time out of the higher places and the sunshine into the darker shades of life.

As for Lily, she came home a beautiful woman, of so unusual a style of beauty that she reigned henceforward undisputed over the water, no pretty girl of the moment being able to stand before her matured splendour. She had developed other qualities as well – a talent for dress which no one had suspected, and for hospitality and society and lavish expenditure, which took the world by surprise. She behaved quite as she ought to her mother, everybody said, sending the children to see her, and visiting her periodically with much attention. But when Elizabeth died, a year or two after Mr Ridley's return, and Dick, left alone, emigrated, shutting up the little cottage at Overbeck, it was said that Lily showed every symptom of relief. They said she was glad to be relieved from her family in these legitimate and natural ways, and it was only then that she blossomed out into full splendour. If she was perhaps always a little rustic in manner, that was thought to be piquant when she became the leading lady of the county; and by the time her children grew up nobody recollected any longer that once upon a time she had been the village Lily, the daughter of a woman who sold butter in the market. All that is over so long ago.

And Elizabeth Murray sleeps by the side of her son Abel, in the churchyard, as quietly as if he had lived and died among the fells like herself. The anguish and the struggles are only for a time. Peace is the end of all, for all men. And what does it matter now in the silence, that a little while ago there were madness and raving, and such pangs as overpowered nature, in these two mouldering forms? Time and Death tranquillise all.

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF JOHN PERCIVAL

CHAPTER I

John Percival was a nephew of a banker in Edinburgh, destined from his childhood to the service of the bank – which was considered by all the family the greatest good luck that could have happened to a boy. His uncle, who like the boy was John Percival, and who was his godfather – or namefather, as we say in Scotland – as well as his uncle and his patron, and was connected with him by every possible tie, was a childless man: childless, too, in the most secure way, – not an old bachelor who might marry at any moment, but a staid married man with a wife younger than himself, yet not so young as to be dangerous. He was, though the old man did not say so, nor do anything to raise expectations, universally considered as his uncle's heir; and did so consider himself calmly, without impatience or preoccupation with the subject, and very far from wishing to shorten his uncle's life by a single day. He was thought the most fortunate boy in the family; but I don't think he considered himself as such, and especially when he set out on a wintry day at noon in the stage-coach for Duntrum, a large provincial town in the south of Scotland. It may be divined that it was not to-day or yesterday, according to the popular phrase, when this journey took place: for nowadays one whisks off from Edinburgh to Duntrum in the morning, and whisks back again at night, having several hours in which to do one's business between, and no fatigue to speak of. It was very different in those days, when from noon to nearly midnight the coach joggled over the frost-bound country; and even in his corner in the interior, where John was forced to place himself by the anxieties of his elders, who kept up a pleasing fiction that he was delicate – it was very difficult even under a pile of plaids and topcoats to keep warm. He was going to serve for a year in the bank at Duntrum to give him a knowledge of country business and the ways of rustic depositors and clients, – a knowledge which John felt to be very unnecessary, seeing that his life was to be spent, not in Duntrum, but in Edinburgh, and at the least in the manager's office, not at the counter selling money as if it were tea or sugar. He did not like this change of scene at all, perhaps because the season was at its height in Edinburgh, and all the entertainments of the year hurrying upon each other; but chiefly because it was the sordid side of business, the lower part of the profession, as this foolish young man thought, which he was being sent to study. He did not appreciate the advantage of knowing everything connected with his trade, which the elders know so much better than the young people. Indeed, to tell the truth, he was not sure at all that he was fond of banking, or thought it every way so superior an employment as many people thought. His own opinion was that if he were left at peace to live upon his own little bit of money, and pursue his own tastes, he would be a much happier man. He had a notion, indeed, that he might possibly turn out a great painter or a great writer if he were thus left to himself to cultivate the best that was in him. It was a pity that he felt the possibilities were equal in respect to these two pursuits. It might be either which would bring him fame and fortune, but certainly one of them. If he had been sure that it was either this or that, there would have been more hope for John: but he was not sure, – he thought at one time he could have been a painter, had he time and encouragement to try, and then again another time that he could be a novelist or a poet. Perhaps on the whole it was just as well for him, that, with such excellent prospects, and the certainty of coming to a good end, if he behaved himself, he should have been what he was – a banker's clerk.

But whatever it might end in eventually, it was very hard lines, he thought, that he should have to leave Edinburgh in the middle of the season when everything was in full swing. There was not much in those days, at least not the tenth part so much as now, of football and golf. These games were played, but they were not the essence of life. Strange to say, young men found other things to talk about, other things to occupy them which were not all deleterious. For one thing, they took a great deal more interest in dances and all sorts of assemblies, in which the boys met with the girls of their own class, than the ordinary run of "manly young fellows" do now. I suspect they fell in love much more freely than they do now. They wanted to meet, to talk to, to laugh with these girls, as they like now to make themselves comfortable in a smoking-room, or rave about breaking a record on the links. I do not say which is best, not knowing; but at least one must confess that it is quite different. It is possible that John had even more than one incipient flirtation on his hands. He did not at all like to leave, for a hum-drum provincial town near the Border, with all its local questions and prejudices which he would not understand, the cheerful bustle of Edinburgh, the gay assemblies and all the private entertainments that abounded at this cheerful time of the year.

"Good-bye, my boy: we'll see you back whenever there's anything great going on," said one of the friends who were seeing him off. There was a little group of them round the coach door, bright-faced young men who had made a dart from the offices of several Writers to the Signet, or even from the Parliament House – to see the last of Percival, as they said.

"Perhaps," said John, with satirical bitterness, "if well-founded information reaches the bank that the world is coming to an end."

"In that case you may stay where you are," said the other; "we'll have enough to do thinking of ourselves. Hallo!" said this young man, feeling himself vigorously pushed aside from the coach door. This was the arrival of another passenger, by whom the group of young men were pushed aside to right and left by that free use of elbows and personal momentum which an energetic woman of the lower orders uses with so little scruple. This was a strong and vigorous maid-servant of middle age and weighty person, leading a veiled and muffled personage who followed her closely, and who bore the aspect of an old lady afflicted with toothache or "tic," or one of those affections of the face which were then treated freely with enveloping wraps to keep out the cold, and external applications, and a total indifference to personal appearance. Indeed in this case, as the face was entirely invisible, a thick veil of Spanish lace, in a large pattern of heavy and close design, covering the small amount which was not entirely obliterated by plaster and poultice applied to the right cheek, there was not perhaps any inducement even to undying vanity to attempt modification or concealment. The identity of the veiled person it was quite impossible to divine – her wrapped-up head was like a melon, a "sport" with one great bulge on the right side: a faint glimmer of an eye between the crevices of the lace pattern, a little colour, was all that was apparent; feature and form and expression were all lost in the portentous envelopments. She clung close to her protector with old and tremulous steps, and occasionally a faint waggle of the misshapen and enormous head.

"Can ye no' see it's an auld leddy with the rheumatics in her head – and jist you get out of the way, my fine callants, that kenna what trouble is. Gang round to the other side of the coach if you have any more blethers to say. Steady, mem, steady! take your time, this is the town corner, the furdest frae the winds: and I'll pull up the window-glass, and ye'll not feel a breath. You'll jist be as safe as gin ye were in your auld chair with the wings at hame."

During this speech, to which the young men listened awestruck, the old lady was carefully and with much precaution hoisted into the coach, a process which seemed more difficult than her short stature and apparently insignificant figure seemed to justify, the stout woman-servant growing redder and redder under the strain, although assisted by a porter who pushed from behind. When the process was accomplished the boys burst into a genial but suppressed laugh, with significant looks at John, who for his part could not but regard with a certain fascination the mass of nodding headgear which was to be his companion in the long drive. He could not take his gaze from her. The cold journey to Duntrum, leaving dinners and assemblies behind, was reason enough for despondency: but to travel with Medusa herself in a mail-coach! if by any chance the wrappings might come off, and her unfortunate fellow-passenger be turned to stone.

"I give you joy, Jack," whispered one of the attendant youths; "here's a bonny bride to bear you company."

"I'll tell May Laurie you were in capital fettle; a fair lady by your side and plenty of time to make your court."

"Nothing of the sort, Jack, my lad; I'll let her know you were preserved from every temptation," cried another – all this in not quite inaudible whispers, at the other door.

John was glad when the coach finally started, leaving all these laughing faces behind; for he had a tender heart, and was remorseful at the thought of perhaps wounding an old and suffering person for whom he had on the contrary the greatest compassion. True, it was dreadful to see that misshapen head nodding from the opposite corner, and to know that whatever happened he must be its companion for so many hours. A horrible doubt seized him whether it would be possible for her to go so far without occasion to change her poultice or undo her cerements. He thought of the 'Veiled Prophet,' then just published, and wondered whether he might not have some ghastly revelation to undergo like that of the horrified hero. He thought in spite of himself of ill-smelling ointments and other sickening appliances. Poor creature! it might be a question with her of ease from distracting pain, or she might go on suffering, unwilling to expose her inflamed cheek, or run the risk of disgusting her companion. Poor old body! John tried to turn his back on her, to keep his eyes diverted on the view from the opposite window: but there was a fascination in the unknown which drew him back. He stole glances at her against his will, as if she had been a young beauty. He would have given much to see what was underneath the thick silken flowers of the veil, even though he was sure it would be chiefly poultices bound up with white-and-black handkerchiefs. These modes of wrappings were visible sometimes on Edinburgh streets as they are on those of Paris to-day. It would not be a pleasant sight: still it would be better than the mystery in the corner which sat there, like an image of stone, never showing any sign of life but by the occasional nodding of the distorted head. Was it palsy too, poor soul? had she all the ills that flesh is heir to? John was very sympathetic. The sight of that wrapped-up mass of suffering in the corner affected him very much. He would fain have done something to show his pity. He began to calculate how he should manage to help her out when the coach came to its first stopping-place to change horses and to afford the passengers an opportunity for "a snack." Probably she would not be able to take a snack or exert her suffering jaws. He thought perhaps he might got her some broth, which would give her no trouble except the trouble of undoing her veil. Broth was always to be had in a Scotch village about dinner-time. It would warm and comfort her, and perhaps even she could take it without undoing anything. He had a horrible desire to see the coverings undone, and yet he had so kind a heart that he would have been glad to think she could take a little broth without any trouble in that way, poor old soul!

However, he did his best to read his book for an hour or two, turning his mind from the lady in the corner. He would be out of temptation those fellows said. Well, yes, he was out of temptation in one way: but if his fellow-traveller had only been a moderately well-looking woman, even though young and responsive, he did not know that he would have been so much in temptation as with this mystery in the opposite corner, though he felt sure it was a repulsive mystery, and probably would have a sickening, and not an enticing, effect upon him. But he said to himself he would just like to know what it was. Poor thing! perhaps it was a dreadful embarrassment to her to find a man opposite to her, to be hampered in any effort to relieve herself which she might have made if alone. He could see that she pressed herself more and more into the corner, and leaned the weight of her poor head on the cushions. By degrees it occurred to him that he might make her more comfortable if she would allow him to make a roll of one of his plaids and put it at the place where no doubt her neck came, so that she could support her head more comfortably. He pondered over this a long time, and experimented on himself how he could do it, before, with much timidity and as fine a blush as if he had been aiding a beautiful princess, he at last ventured to speak.

"The cushions," he said, "are not very soft in these coaches."

The melon with the bulging side turned round to him with a swiftness he could not have thought possible, but nothing was said.

"I've been thinking," said John, "I've seen it done in – in my own family. You see, you roll up a thing like a small bolster, and then you place it just where your neck comes – "

He exemplified what he meant by rolling up a large comforter knitted in dazzling white wool, quite new and of his Aunt John's choicest manufacture, made expressly for this journey. It was large and soft, and John rolled it close till it became as round and smooth as a bolster, according to his homely simile.

"If you will let me," he said, rising, "I think I could place this – "

There was an agitated movement inside the draperies, and a voice that made John jump, between a squeak and a scream, came as it seemed out of the top of the misshapen head, "No! no! I cannot be touched. No! no!"

It made John jump; but after all, what was a voice any more than the other appearances, to daunt him when he had so honest an intention of doing well? He came a step nearer. "I am sure you will find it more – "

"No; keep away! No; keep away!" the voice repeated with shrill decision, not at all softened but made still more bewildering by a sudden tremor at the end. He paused for a moment with his white roll in his hand, and he distinctly saw the veiled figure shake with a strange sort of broken vibration, as if in one access after another of palsy, was it? or, if not, what else? He did not know what else it could be. He stood for a moment wavering, and then he retired and threw down the comforter impatiently upon the seat. "Well," he said, with a sigh also of impatience, "if you won't have it I cannot help it: still I am sure I could have made you more comfortable," he added, recovering his good-humour. And he resumed his book: but his attention was sadly distracted, for that spasmodic movement went on at intervals; and there even broke forth certain stifled sounds – was it moaning, was it the signal of some approaching calamity? He gazed earnestly over the top of his book, with a most compassionate face, and held himself on the alert to give any aid he could. But after a while his apprehensions were quieted: there seemed no reason to suppose that anything was going to happen, and these mysterious movements died away.