Вальтер Скотт
The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Complete
“D—n your prayers!” said the shorter fellow, “that’s a coin that won’t pass with us;” and at the same time made a motion to seize her.
“Stay, gentlemen,” Ratcliffe’s pass suddenly occurring to her; “perhaps you know this paper.”
“What the devil is she after now, Frank?” said the more savage ruffian—“Do you look at it, for, d—n me if I could read it if it were for the benefit of my clergy.”
“This is a jark from Jim Ratcliffe,” said the taller, having looked at the bit of paper. “The wench must pass by our cutter’s law.”
“I say no,” answered his companion; “Rat has left the lay, and turned bloodhound, they say.”
“We may need a good turn from him all the same,” said the taller ruffian again.
“But what are we to do then?” said the shorter man—“We promised, you know, to strip the wench, and send her begging back to her own beggarly country, and now you are for letting her go on.”
“I did not say that,” said the other fellow, and whispered to his companion, who replied, “Be alive about it then, and don’t keep chattering till some travellers come up to nab us.”
“You must follow us off the road, young woman,” said the taller.
“For the love of God!” exclaimed Jeanie, “as you were born of woman, dinna ask me to leave the road! rather take all I have in the world.”
“What the devil is the wench afraid of?” said the other fellow. “I tell you you shall come to no harm; but if you will not leave the road and come with us, d—n me, but I’ll beat your brains out where you stand.”
“Thou art a rough bear, Tom,” said his companion.—“An ye touch her, I’ll give ye a shake by the collar shall make the Leicester beans rattle in thy guts.—Never mind him, girl; I will not allow him to lay a finger on you, if you walk quietly on with us; but if you keep jabbering there, d—n me, but I’ll leave him to settle it with you.”
This threat conveyed all that is terrible to the imagination of poor Jeanie, who saw in him that “was of milder mood” her only protection from the most brutal treatment. She, therefore, not only followed him, but even held him by the sleeve, lest he should escape from her; and the fellow, hardened as he was, seemed something touched by these marks of confidence, and repeatedly assured her, that he would suffer her to receive no harm.
They conducted their prisoner in a direction leading more and more from the public road, but she observed that they kept a sort of track or by-path, which relieved her from part of her apprehensions, which would have been greatly increased had they not seemed to follow a determined and ascertained route. After about half-an-hour’s walking, all three in profound silence, they approached an old barn, which stood on the edge of some cultivated ground, but remote from everything like a habitation. It was itself, however, tenanted, for there was light in the windows.
One of the footpads scratched at the door, which was opened by a female, and they entered with their unhappy prisoner. An old woman, who was preparing food by the assistance of a stifling fire of lighted charcoal, asked them, in the name of the devil, what they brought the wench there for, and why they did not strip her and turn her abroad on the common?
“Come, come, Mother Blood,” said the tall man, “we’ll do what’s right to oblige you, and we’ll do no more; we are bad enough, but not such as you would make us,—devils incarnate.”
“She has got a jark from Jim Ratcliffe,” said the short fellow, “and Frank here won’t hear of our putting her through the mill.”
“No, that I will not, by G—d!” answered Frank; “but if old Mother Blood could keep her here for a little while, or send her back to Scotland, without hurting her, why, I see no harm in that—not I.”
“I’ll tell you what, Frank Levitt,” said the old woman, “if you call me Mother Blood again, I’ll paint this gully” (and she held a knife up as if about to make good her threat) “in the best blood in your body, my bonny boy.”
“The price of ointment must be up in the north,” said Frank, “that puts Mother Blood so much out of humour.”
Without a moment’s hesitation the fury darted her knife at him with the vengeful dexterity of a wild Indian. As he was on his guard, he avoided the missile by a sudden motion of his head, but it whistled past his ear, and stuck deep in the clay wall of a partition behind.
“Come, come, mother,” said the robber, seizing her by both wrists, “I shall teach you who’s master;” and so saying, he forced the hag backwards by main force, who strove vehemently until she sunk on a bunch of straw, and then, letting go her hands, he held up his finger towards her in the menacing posture by which a maniac is intimidated by his keeper. It appeared to produce the desired effect; for she did not attempt to rise from the seat on which he had placed her, or to resume any measures of actual violence, but wrung her withered hands with impotent rage, and brayed and howled like a demoniac.
“I will keep my promise with you, you old devil,” said Frank; “the wench shall not go forward on the London road, but I will not have you touch a hair of her head, if it were but for your insolence.”
This intimation seemed to compose in some degree the vehement passion of the old hag; and while her exclamations and howls sunk into a low, maundering, growling tone of voice, another personage was added to this singular party.
“Eh, Frank Levitt,” said this new-comer, who entered with a hop, step, and jump, which at once conveyed her from the door into the centre of the party, “were ye killing our mother? or were ye cutting the grunter’s weasand that Tam brought in this morning? or have ye been reading your prayers backward, to bring up my auld acquaintance the deil amang ye?”
The tone of the speaker was so particular, that Jeanie immediately recognised the woman who had rode foremost of the pair which passed her just before she met the robbers; a circumstance which greatly increased her terror, as it served to show that the mischief designed against her was premeditated, though by whom, or for what cause, she was totally at a loss to conjecture. From the style of her conversation, the reader also may probably acknowledge in this female an old acquaintance in the earlier part of our narrative.
“Out, ye mad devil!” said Tom, whom she had disturbed in the middle of a draught of some liquor with which he had found means of accommodating himself; “betwixt your Bess of Bedlam pranks, and your dam’s frenzies, a man might live quieter in the devil’s ken than here.”—And he again resumed the broken jug out of which he had been drinking.
“And wha’s this o’t?” said the mad woman, dancing up to Jeanie Deans, who, although in great terror, yet watched the scene with a resolution to let nothing pass unnoticed which might be serviceable in assisting her to escape, or informing her as to the true nature of her situation, and the danger attending it,—“Wha’s this o’t?” again exclaimed Madge Wildfire.
“Douce Davie Deans, the auld doited whig body’s daughter, in a gipsy’s barn, and the night setting in? This is a sight for sair een!—Eh, sirs, the falling off o’ the godly!—and the t’other sister’s in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh; I am very sorry for her, for my share—it’s my mother wusses ill to her, and no me—though maybe I hae as muckle cause.”
“Hark ye, Madge,” said the taller ruffian, “you have not such a touch of the devil’s blood as the hag your mother, who may be his dam for what I know—take this young woman to your kennel, and do not let the devil enter, though he should ask in God’s name.”
“Ou ay; that I will, Frank,” said Madge, taking hold of Jeanie by the arm, and pulling her along; “for it’s no for decent Christian young leddies, like her and me, to be keeping the like o’ you and Tyburn Tam company at this time o’ night. Sae gude-e’en t’ye, sirs, and mony o’ them; and may ye a’ sleep till the hangman wauken ye, and then it will be weel for the country.”
She then, as her wild fancy seemed suddenly to prompt her, walked demurely towards her mother, who, seated by the charcoal fire, with the reflection of the red light on her withered and distorted features marked by every evil passion, seemed the very picture of Hecate at her infernal rites; and, suddenly dropping on her knees, said, with the manner of a six years’ old child, “Mammie, hear me say my prayers before I go to bed, and say God bless my bonny face, as ye used to do lang syne.”
“The deil flay the hide o’ it to sole his brogues wi’!” said the old lady, aiming a buffet at the supplicant, in answer to her duteous request.
The blow missed Madge, who, being probably acquainted by experience with the mode in which her mother was wont to confer her maternal benedictions, slipt out of arm’s length with great dexterity and quickness. The hag then started up, and, seizing a pair of old fire-tongs, would have amended her motion, by beating out the brains either of her daughter or Jeanie (she did not seem greatly to care which), when her hand was once more arrested by the man whom they called Frank Levitt, who, seizing her by the shoulder, flung her from him with great violence, exclaiming, “What, Mother Damnable—again, and in my sovereign presence!—Hark ye, Madge of Bedlam! get to your hole with your playfellow, or we shall have the devil to pay here, and nothing to pay him with.”
Madge took Levitt’s advice, retreating as fast as she could, and dragging Jeanie along with her into a sort of recess, partitioned off from the rest of the barn, and filled with straw, from which it appeared that it was intended for the purpose of slumber. The moonlight shone, through an open hole, upon a pillion, a pack-saddle, and one or two wallets, the travelling furniture of Madge and her amiable mother.—“Now, saw ye e’er in your life,” said Madge, “sae dainty a chamber of deas? see as the moon shines down sae caller on the fresh strae! There’s no a pleasanter cell in Bedlam, for as braw a place as it is on the outside.—Were ye ever in Bedlam?”
“No,” answered Jeanie faintly, appalled by the question, and the way in which it was put, yet willing to soothe her insane companion, being in circumstances so unhappily precarious, that even the society of this gibbering madwoman seemed a species of protection.
“Never in Bedlam?” said Madge, as if with some surprise.—“But ye’ll hae been in the cells at Edinburgh!”
“Never,” repeated Jeanie.
“Weel, I think thae daft carles the magistrates send naebody to Bedlam but me—thae maun hae an unco respect for me, for whenever I am brought to them, thae aye hae me back to Bedlam. But troth, Jeanie” (she said this in a very confidential tone), “to tell ye my private mind about it, I think ye are at nae great loss; for the keeper’s a cross-patch, and he maun hae it a’ his ain gate, to be sure, or he makes the place waur than hell. I often tell him he’s the daftest in a’ the house.—But what are they making sic a skirling for?—Deil ane o’ them’s get in here—it wadna be mensfu’! I will sit wi’ my back again the door; it winna be that easy stirring me.”
“Madge!”—“Madge!”—“Madge Wildfire!”—“Madge devil! what have ye done with the horse?” was repeatedly asked by the men without.
“He’s e’en at his supper, puir thing,” answered Madge; “deil an ye were at yours, too, an it were scauding brimstone, and then we wad hae less o’ your din.”
“His supper!” answered the more sulky ruffian—“What d’ye mean by that!—Tell me where he is, or I will knock your Bedlam brains out!”
“He’s in Gaffer Gablewood’s wheat-close, an ye maun ken.”
“His wheat-close, you crazed jilt!” answered the other, with an accent of great indignation.
“O, dear Tyburn Tam, man, what ill will the blades of the young wheat do to the puir nag?”
“That is not the question,” said the other robber; “but what the country will say to us to-morrow, when they see him in such quarters?—Go, Tom, and bring him in; and avoid the soft ground, my lad; leave no hoof-track behind you.”
“I think you give me always the fag of it, whatever is to be done,” grumbled his companion.
“Leap, Laurence, you’re long enough,” said the other; and the fellow left the barn accordingly, without farther remonstrance.
In the meanwhile, Madge had arranged herself for repose on the straw; but still in a half-sitting posture, with her back resting against the door of the hovel, which, as it opened inwards, was in this manner kept shut by the weight of the person.
“There’s mair shifts by stealing, Jeanie,” said Madge Wildfire; “though whiles I can hardly get our mother to think sae. Wha wad hae thought but mysell of making a bolt of my ain back-bane? But it’s no sae strong as thae that I hae seen in the Tolbooth at Edinburgh. The hammermen of Edinburgh are to my mind afore the warld for making stancheons, ring-bolts, fetter-bolts, bars, and locks. And they arena that bad at girdles for carcakes neither, though the Cu’ross hammermen have the gree for that. My mother had ance a bonny Cu’ross girdle, and I thought to have baked carcakes on it for my puir wean that’s dead and gane nae fair way—But we maun a’ dee, ye ken, Jeanie—You Cameronian bodies ken that brawlies; and ye’re for making a hell upon earth that ye may be less unwillin’ to part wi’ it. But as touching Bedlam that ye were speaking about, I’se ne’er recommend it muckle the tae gate or the other, be it right—be it wrang. But ye ken what the sang says.” And, pursuing the unconnected and floating wanderings of her mind, she sung aloud—
“In the bonny cells of Bedlam,
Ere I was ane-and-twenty,
I had hempen bracelets strong,
And merry whips, ding-dong,
And prayer and fasting plenty.
“Weel, Jeanie, I am something herse the night, and I canna sing muckle mair; and troth, I think, I am gaun to sleep.”
She drooped her head on her breast, a posture from which Jeanie, who would have given the world for an opportunity of quiet to consider the means and the probability of her escape, was very careful not to disturb her. After nodding, however, for a minute’or two, with her eyes half-closed, the unquiet and restless spirit of her malady again assailed Madge. She raised her head, and spoke, but with a lowered tone, which was again gradually overcome by drowsiness, to which the fatigue of a day’s journey on horseback had probably given unwonted occasion,—“I dinna ken what makes me sae sleepy—I amaist never sleep till my bonny Lady Moon gangs till her bed—mair by token, when she’s at the full, ye ken, rowing aboon us yonder in her grand silver coach—I have danced to her my lane sometimes for very joy—and whiles dead folk came and danced wi’ me—the like o’ Jock Porteous, or ony body I had ken’d when I was living—for ye maun ken I was ance dead mysell.” Here the poor maniac sung, in a low and wild tone,
“My banes are buried in yon kirkyard
Sae far ayont the sea,
And it is but my blithesome ghaist
That’s speaking now to thee.
“But after a’, Jeanie, my woman, naebody kens weel wha’s living and wha’s dead—or wha’s gone to Fairyland—there’s another question. Whiles I think my puir bairn’s dead—ye ken very weel it’s buried—but that signifies naething. I have had it on my knee a hundred times, and a hundred till that, since it was buried—and how could that be were it dead, ye ken?—it’s merely impossible.”—And here, some conviction half-overcoming the reveries of her imagination, she burst into a fit of crying and ejaculation, “Wae’s me! wae’s me! wae’s me!” till at length she moaned and sobbed herself into a deep sleep, which was soon intimated by her breathing hard, leaving Jeanie to her own melancholy reflections and observations.
CHAPTER SIXTH
Bind her quickly; or, by this steel,
I’ll tell, although I truss for company.
Fletcher.
The imperfect light which shone into the window enabled Jeanie to see that there was scarcely any chance of making her escape in that direction; for the aperture was high in the wall, and so narrow, that, could she have climbed up to it, she might well doubt whether it would have permitted her to pass her body through it. An unsuccessful attempt to escape would be sure to draw down worse treatment than she now received, and she, therefore, resolved to watch her opportunity carefully ere making such a perilous effort. For this purpose she applied herself to the ruinous clay partition, which divided the hovel in which she now was from the rest of the waste barn. It was decayed and full of cracks and chinks, one of which she enlarged with her fingers, cautiously and without noise, until she could obtain a plain view of the old hag and the taller ruffian, whom they called Levitt, seated together beside the decayed fire of charcoal, and apparently engaged in close conference. She was at first terrified by the sight; for the features of the old woman had a hideous cast of hardened and inveterate malice and ill-humour, and those of the man, though naturally less unfavourable, were such as corresponded well with licentious habits, and a lawless profession.
“But I remembered,” said Jeanie, “my worthy fathers tales of a winter evening, how he was confined with the blessed martyr, Mr. James Renwick, who lifted up the fallen standard of the true reformed Kirk of Scotland, after the worthy and renowned Daniel Cameron, our last blessed banner-man, had fallen among the swords of the wicked at Airsmoss, and how the very hearts of the wicked malefactors and murderers, whom they were confined withal, were melted like wax at the sound of their doctrine: and I bethought mysell, that the same help that was wi’ them in their strait, wad be wi’ me in mine, an I could but watch the Lord’s time and opportunity for delivering my feet from their snare; and I minded the Scripture of the blessed Psalmist, whilk he insisteth on, as weel in the forty-second as in the forty-third psalm—‘Why art thou cast down, O my soul, and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.’”
Strengthened in a mind naturally calm, sedate, and firm, by the influence of religious confidence, this poor captive was enabled to attend to, and comprehend, a great part of an interesting conversation which passed betwixt those into whose hands she had fallen, notwithstanding that their meaning was partly disguised by the occasional use of cant terms, of which Jeanie knew not the import, by the low tone in which they spoke, and by their mode of supplying their broken phrases by shrugs and signs, as is usual amongst those of their disorderly profession.
The man opened the conversation by saying, “Now, dame, you see I am true to my friend. I have not forgot that you planked a chury,69 which helped me through the bars of the Castle of York, and I came to do your work without asking questions; for one good turn deserves another.
But now that Madge, who is as loud as Tom of Lincoln, is somewhat still, and this same Tyburn Neddie is shaking his heels after the old nag, why, you must tell me what all this is about, and what’s to be done—for d—n me if I touch the girl, or let her be touched, and she with Jim Rat’s pass, too.”
“Thou art an honest lad, Frank,” answered the old woman, “but e’en too good for thy trade; thy tender heart will get thee into trouble. I will see ye gang up Holborn Hill backward, and a’ on the word of some silly loon that could never hae rapped to ye had ye drawn your knife across his weasand.”
“You may be balked there, old one,” answered the robber; “I have known many a pretty lad cut short in his first summer upon the road, because he was something hasty with his flats and sharps. Besides, a man would fain live out his two years with a good conscience. So, tell me what all this is about, and what’s to be done for you that one can do decently?”
“Why, you must know, Frank—but first taste a snap of right Hollands.” She drew a flask from her pocket, and filled the fellow a large bumper, which he pronounced to be the right thing.—“You must know, then, Frank—wunna ye mend your hand?” again offering the flask.
“No, no,—when a woman wants mischief from you, she always begins by filling you drunk. D—n all Dutch courage. What I do I will do soberly—I’ll last the longer for that too.”
“Well, then, you must know,” resumed the old woman, without any further attempts at propitiation, “that this girl is going to London.”
Here Jeanie could only distinguish the word sister.
The robber answered in a louder tone, “Fair enough that; and what the devil is your business with it?”
“Business enough, I think. If the b—queers the noose, that silly cull will marry her.”
“And who cares if he does?” said the man.
“Who cares, ye donnard Neddie! I care; and I will strangle her with my own hands, rather than she should come to Madge’s preferment.”
“Madge’s preferment! Does your old blind eyes see no farther than that? If he is as you say, dye think he’ll ever marry a moon-calf like Madge? Ecod, that’s a good one—Marry Madge Wildfire!—Ha! ha! ha!”
“Hark ye, ye crack-rope padder, born beggar, and bred thief!” replied the hag, “suppose he never marries the wench, is that a reason he should marry another, and that other to hold my daughter’s place, and she crazed, and I a beggar, and all along of him? But I know that of him will hang him—I know that of him will hang him, if he had a thousand lives—I know that of him will hang—hang—hang him!”
She grinned as she repeated and dwelt upon the fatal monosyllable, with the emphasis of a vindictive fiend.
“Then why don’t you hang—hang—hang him?” said Frank, repeating her words contemptuously. “There would be more sense in that, than in wreaking yourself here upon two wenches that have done you and your daughter no ill.”
“No ill?” answered the old woman—“and he to marry this jail-bird, if ever she gets her foot loose!”
“But as there is no chance of his marrying a bird of your brood, I cannot, for my soul, see what you have to do with all this,” again replied the robber, shrugging his shoulders. “Where there is aught to be got, I’ll go as far as my neighbours, but I hate mischief for mischiefs sake.”
“And would you go nae length for revenge?” said the hag—“for revenge—the sweetest morsel to the mouth that over was cooked in hell!”
“The devil may keep it for his own eating, then,” said the robber; “for hang me if I like the sauce he dresses it with.”
“Revenge!” continued the old woman; “why, it is the best reward the devil gives us for our time here and hereafter. I have wrought hard for it—I have suffered for it—and I have sinned for it—and I will have it,—or there is neither justice in heaven or in hell!”
Levitt had by this time lighted a pipe, and was listening with great composure to the frantic and vindictive ravings of the old hag. He was too much, hardened by his course of life to be shocked with them—too indifferent, and probably too stupid, to catch any part of their animation or energy. “But, mother,” he said, after a pause, “still I say, that if revenge is your wish, you should take it on the young fellow himself.”
“I wish I could,” she said, drawing in her breath, with the eagerness of a thirsty person while mimicking the action of drinking—“I wish I could—but no—I cannot—I cannot.”
“And why not?—You would think little of peaching and hanging him for this Scotch affair.—Rat me, one might have milled the Bank of England, and less noise about it.”
“I have nursed him at this withered breast,” answered the old woman, folding her hands on her bosom, as if pressing an infant to it, “and, though he has proved an adder to me—though he has been the destruction of me and mine—though he has made me company for the devil, if there be a devil, and food for hell, if there be such a place, yet I cannot take his life.—No, I cannot,” she continued, with an appearance of rage against herself; “I have thought of it—I have tried it—but, Francis Levitt, I canna gang through wi’t—Na, na—he was the first bairn I ever nurst—ill I had been—and man can never ken what woman feels for the bairn she has held first to her bosom!”
“To be sure,” said Levitt, “we have no experience; but, mother, they say you ha’n’t been so kind to other bairns, as you call them, that have come in your way.—Nay, d—n me, never lay your hand on the whittle, for I am captain and leader here, and I will have no rebellion.”
The hag, whose first motion had been, upon hearing the question, to grasp the haft of a large knife, now unclosed her hand, stole it away from the weapon, and suffered it to fall by her side, while she proceeded with a sort of smile—“Bairns! ye are joking, lad—wha wad touch bairns? Madge, puir thing, had a misfortune wi’ ane—and the t’other”—Here her voice sunk so much, that Jeanie, though anxiously upon the watch, could not catch a word she said, until she raised her tone at the conclusion of the sentence—“So Madge, in her daffin’, threw it into the Nor’-lock, I trow.”
Madge, whose slumbers, like those of most who labour under mental malady, had been short, and were easily broken, now made herself heard from her place of repose.
“Indeed, mother, that’s a great lie, for I did nae sic thing.”
“Hush, thou hellicat devil,” said her mother—“By Heaven! the other wench will be waking too.”
“That may be dangerous,” said Frank; and he rose, and followed Meg Murdockson across the floor.
“Rise,” said the hag to her daughter, “or I sall drive the knife between the planks into the Bedlam back of thee!”
Apparently she at the same time seconded her threat by pricking her with the point of a knife, for Madge, with a faint scream, changed her place, and the door opened.
The old woman held a candle in one hand, and a knife in the other. Levitt appeared behind her, whether with a view of preventing, or assisting her in any violence she might meditate, could not be well guessed. Jeanie’s presence of mind stood her friend in this dreadful crisis. She had resolution enough to maintain the attitude and manner of one who sleeps profoundly, and to regulate even her breathing, notwithstanding the agitation of instant terror, so as to correspond with her attitude.
The old woman passed the light across her eyes; and although Jeanie’s fears were so powerfully awakened by this movement, that she often declared afterwards, that she thought she saw the figures of her destined murderers through her closed eyelids, she had still the resolution to maintain the feint, on which her safety perhaps depended.
Levitt looked at her with fixed attention; he then turned the old woman out of the place, and followed her himself. Having regained the outward apartment, and seated themselves, Jeanie heard the highwayman say, to her no small relief, “She’s as fast as if she were in Bedfordshire.—Now, old Meg, d—n me if I can understand a glim of this story of yours, or what good it will do you to hang the one wench and torment the other; but, rat me, I will be true to my friend, and serve ye the way ye like it. I see it will be a bad job; but I do think I could get her down to Surfleet on the Wash, and so on board Tom Moonshine’s neat lugger, and keep her out of the way three or four weeks, if that will please ye—But d—n me if any one shall harm her, unless they have a mind to choke on a brace of blue plums.—It’s a cruel, bad job, and I wish you and it, Meg, were both at the devil.”
“Never mind, hinny Levitt,” said the old woman; “you are a ruffler, and will have a’ your ain gate—She shanna gang to heaven an hour sooner for me; I carena whether she live or die—it’s her sister—ay, her sister!”
“Well, we’ll say no more about it; I hear Tom coming in. We’ll couch a hogshead,70 and so better had you.”
They retired to repose accordingly, and all was silent in this asylum of iniquity.
Jeanie lay for a long time awake. At break of day she heard the two ruffians leave the barn, after whispering to the old woman for some time. The sense that she was now guarded by persons of her own sex gave her some confidence, and irresistible lassitude at length threw her into slumber.
When the captive awakened, the sun was high in heaven, and the morning considerably advanced. Madge Wildfire was still in the hovel which had served them for the night, and immediately bid her good-morning, with her usual air of insane glee. “And dye ken, lass,” said Madge, “there’s queer things chanced since ye hae been in the land of Nod. The constables hae been here, woman, and they met wi’ my minnie at the door, and they whirl’d her awa to the Justice’s about the man’s wheat.—Dear! thae English churls think as muckle about a blade of wheat or grass, as a Scotch laird does about his maukins and his muir-poots. Now, lass, if ye like, we’ll play them a fine jink; we will awa out and take a walk—they will mak unco wark when they miss us, but we can easily be back by dinner time, or before dark night at ony rate, and it will be some frolic and fresh air.—But maybe ye wad like to take some breakfast, and then lie down again? I ken by mysell, there’s whiles I can sit wi’ my head in my hand the haill day, and havena a word to cast at a dog—and other whiles, that I canna sit still a moment. That’s when the folk think me warst, but I am aye canny eneugh—ye needna be feared to walk wi’ me.”
Had Madge Wildfire been the most raging lunatic, instead of possessing a doubtful, uncertain, and twilight sort of rationality, varying, probably, from the influence of the most trivial causes, Jeanie would hardly have objected to leave a place of captivity, where she had so much to apprehend. She eagerly assured Madge that she had no occasion for further sleep, no desire whatever for eating; and, hoping internally that she was not guilty of sin in doing so, she flattered her keeper’s crazy humour for walking in the woods.
“It’s no a’thegither for that neither,” said poor Madge; “but I am judging ye will wun the better out o’ thae folk’s hands; no that they are a’thegither bad folk neither, but they have queer ways wi’ them, and I whiles dinna think it has ever been weel wi’ my mother and me since we kept sic-like company.”
