Volume Ii Part 16 (1/2)
”I wish you would get on with it then,” said Tam; ”for if ye maun aye stop to laugh at your ain jests, we'll be a' dead o' hunger or ever the votes be ta'en. Nane but fools laugh at their ain sports.”
”Whisht, whisht, Tam,” returned Charlie,--”I hae a gay wide wizen when I am amang friends, but there are some things that I canna swallow for a'
that--Where was I at? Aye at the sacking o' Ravensworth.”
We drave the richest prey that morning that I ever yet saw lift.i.t, if we had gotten it a' hame. We had thirty horses laden wi' stuff, and other thirty led anes, besides thirteen score o' good cattle; and we gae the banks o' the Teme and the Blackburn an unco singe afore we left them. I was rather against the burning, but Habby wadna be stayed; ”Na, na; t.i.t for tat, Charlie. That will stand for Hawick and Abbotrule.”
We drave on, and drave on, as fast as the cattle could gang, and some o'
the heavy soft anes we were obliged to leave behind sair against our wills. We were terrified for raising the country, for we had sic a far drive: but luckily the Nevilles had ta'en amaist every man with them in their expedition into Scotland; and the first time that we hovered was on Tersit-moor in Northumberland, a little before the break o' day. At that place there was the strangest thing happened to us that ever happened to men,--and it was for that that I began my tale.
My heart had been unco sair a' the night wi' thinking about the bonnie Lady Neville o' Ravensworth; and I had often been sae grieved about her death, and her bairn's death, that I hardly kend what I was doing. I thought I saw her kneeling on her knee, and begging of me to spare her life, and the life o' her child; and then how cruel it was in me to rin away rummaging up the stair, and lose the opportunity of preserving her.
These thoughts had made my heart wholly inclined to pity, and, as soon as we lighted, I sought out Will Laidlaw o' Craik, to see if he had still been able, amang a' the confusion, to preserve the life of the child. Will had had a great deal o' trouble wi' him, chiefly from his a.s.sociates, but he had him still safe an' sound. He had stuffed him in a horse's pack o' blankets and sheets, _wi' his head out_, and had kept beside him a' the gate; and now when I found him he had laid the boy down on the heather to sleep, and had him weel happit up, and Will himsel was lying streekit beside him. He thought that I wad gibe him about the business, and tried to waive the subject; but when I told him how much I was pleased wi' what he had done, he grew rather crouser, and could speak about naething else but the boy and his little sayings to him by the way. ”Poor little dear soul!” said Will; ”I think some body had flung him o'er the castle wa' in an armfu' claes, and never kend; and wha kens but he may be the heir o' Ravensworth himsel. He has been sae miraculously saved that he will surely come to something. But do ye ken, Charlie, my heart is already sae closely knitted to that bit helpless bairn, that I wadna see ony ill come ower him for a' the kye on the Crib-Law.”
”Laidlaw, you shall never rue your kindness o' heart and attentions to that puir misfortunate bairn,” quo' I: ”The moment that I saw you take him up, and row him in a blanket, _wi' his head out_, as ye had been rowing up a wab, I resolved to reward you wi' my hale share o' the spulzie.”
”Never speak about that, Charlie; if we get safe hame wi' every thing we'll no differ about the spulzie.”
”Ha, but Will, your rowing up o' the bairn was a rare scene! ony other body but you, ye ken, wad hae taken the creature up in their arms and rowed a blanket about it: but instead o' that you doubled a pair o'
blankets their hale length on the green, laid the bairn across the one end o' them, and rowed it ower the body, and ower the body, and ower the body, till ye came to the far end; and it was but ill rowed up after a'--ha! ha! ha!”
”Hout, Charlie! deil a bit but ye're ower muckle ta'en up about trifles.
I wish ye wad think mair about the perilous situation we are in. Watch a wee while, and let me get a sleep.”
Will then laid his arm over the boy and the hott o' claes, and fell sound asleep. Our men were a' placed two and three around the hale muir to guard the cattle, and all were resting on their arms, to be ready to rush together on any alarm. I was sitting and keeping a good look out a' round about, and Will he was swuffing and sleeping. Every thing was quiet, except now and then that the hum of an ox was to be heard which missed his neighbour, or the eiry whistle o' the moss-plover. It was a while before the day-sky, and I was just beginning to turn drowsy, when I thought I saw something white on the muir, about two hundred strides from me. ”St Mary be my buckler!” said I to mysel: ”What can you be? It is surely a flight o' white mist risen out o' the earth, for I see it moving. If it be a mist fawn, as I dare say it can be naething else, it has drawn itself up into a form the likest that of a woman of ought ever I saw.” As I was mumbling and speaking this to mysel, I perceived that it still drew nearer, and that it wasna ane o' the fairy fawns o' mist whiles to be seen stealing about i' the night-time, but a lady a' clad in white. It glided athort the moor, and athort the moor, as if it had been looking for something it had lost; and at last I saw it spring away from one point to another at a considerable distance, as swift as a flash o' fire, as if something had startled or offended it. I learned after that the point from which it fled was the very spot where Habby Elliot lay, and who at that time was lying in a sound and troubled sleep. When it again stopped, its motions were very extraordinary,--for though the morning was dark, there was such a pale and a pure whiteness about it, that I saw it the better. It was like a streamer o' light, or the reflection of a starn in the water, that aye in the darkest nights appears brightest. When it paused at the place I mentioned, it bent its body backward, its arms were crossed on its breast, and I saw like its hair streaming in the air behind it. Then it spread both its hands toward heaven, as in the act of making fervent supplication. From that point it came straight toward me, after giving a s.h.i.+ver that made all my een dazzle.
”Will Laidlaw!” cried I, but in a violent whisper below my breath; ”Will Laidlaw o' Craik! for G.o.d's sake waken up, and see what this is.”
I was sitting, but Will sprang to his feet, and seized his sword.
”Where? where? where? Where is it, Charlie? Where is it, callant?”
whispered he. I pointed to it, but durst not speak. Will rubbed his een and rubbed his een, and at length perceived it. ”I do believe, lad, that is some hizzy--and a weel dressed ane she is,” said he; still speaking in a whisper, and sitting down close beside me. ”What on G.o.d's earth can she be seeking on this waste at sic an untimely hour?” I durst hardly draw my breath, let be to answer him; and sae he continued, ”I think it wad hae been as decent-like an she had lain still in her bed rather as comed raiking out amang a wheen wild men on sic a wild height. Oho! I'll wager my neck it is some spy in disguise.”
She was by this time within ten paces o' us, and we both sat still in breathless suspense till she came close to us. I thought I had seen the face before, but couldna tell where, till she kneeled on one knee at my feet, crossed her hands, and looked me in the face with the most piteous expression of countenance. Then I saw it was the lady o' Ravensworth, and in the very posture that I had seen her for the first and last time.
Yet there was no anger in her face; it seemed merely a look of supplication; and at length she touched her lips three times, as an intimation that she wished to speak and could not. As for me, my mouth was sealed; and that I might see nae mair than I had seen, I threw mysel agroof, wi' my face to the ground, and held by the heather firmly wi'
baith my hands.
Honest Will had nae suspicions o' ony thing beyond nature; and at length he says, ”What are you wanting wi' us, Madam, that ye're making a' thae murgeons?”
”You do not know me,” returned she, ”but that young warrior beside you does. He has been guilty of a neglect that he will rue till the day of his death. But, for another deed of mercy that you and he have done, your fates are averted, and your heads shall be covered in the hour of danger, which is fast approaching. You have saved a child from the devouring flames;--if you dare to wrong a hair of that child's head, how dreadful will be your doom! There is a terrible hour approaching;--look at his breast that you may know him again, for I cannot see the fate of the day. But if you would thrive on earth and be admitted into heaven, guard and preserve that dear child--That child is mine--”
”Say nae mair, honest woman,” says Will, perfectly undismayed, ”an the child be yours you're perfectly welcome to him. It was to save his bit innocent life that I brought him away, and no for ony greed o' other folks bairns. I kendna wha was aught him, but sin he be yours I'll deliver him safe into your hands. Take care an' no let him get cauld, for the morning air is no gude for a bairn.”
So saying, Will howked the boy out o' the mids o' a great heap o' claes, rowed him up as weel as he could, and then said, after two or three sobs, ”I like ill to part wi' him, but a mother's aye a mother.” Then he kissed him, and added, ”Fare-ye weel, my wee man! You and I will may-be never meet again; but, whether or no, you will be nae the waur o' a trooper's blessing. An ye be spared ye'll be a man when auld Will Laidlaw's head is laid i' the grave. Hae, honest woman, there's your son, and G.o.d bless you baith!”
She bent her body over him in the most affectionate way, and stretched her arms as if to embrace him, but she neither touched him nor any part of Laidlaw's claes. The boy had awakened, and when Will held him out to give him up to his mother, he cried out, ”No-no-no-no. No go ty'e, no go t'ye. Daddy's boy feared, daddy's boy feared.”
”Gude faith, sae ye may, my man! thinks I to mysel, ”an ye kend about a'
this as weel as I do!”