Part 13

She cheerfully obeyed, and the Bibles were laid upon the table. The psalm was read, and the voice of praise was raised; and as the hinds in the adjoining houses heard the sound, they followed the example of their master. Hitherto, like their employer, they had lifted their voices in thanksgiving but once a-week, as if a few minutes spent in praise and in prayer, and in the reading of a chapter, were all that was necessary for example to a family, or for gratitude to Him who sustained, protected, and gave them being from moment to moment. I should not dwell upon this, were it not that there are many good and Christian parents who conceive that they fulfil the injunction of "praying often with and for their children," by causing them to kneel around them on a Sabbath night. But this, certainly, is a poor fulfilment of the oath which they have taken--or which, if they have not taken, they are equally bound to perform. I do not say that the man who daily prays with his family will have the gratification of seeing all of them following in his footsteps, or that all of them will think as he thinks; but he may be of one sect, and some of them of another; yet, let them go where they will--let them be thrown into what company they may--let temptation assail them in every form, and absence throw its shadows over their father's house--yet the remembrance, the fervour, the words of a father's prayers, will descend upon their souls like a whisper from heaven, kindling the memory and awakening the conscience; and if the child of such a man depart into sin, the small still voice will not die in his ear. Nay, the remembrance of the father's voice will be heard in the son's heart above the song of the bacchanal, and the lowly remembered voice of psalms rise upon his memory, making him insensible to the peal of instruments. I have listened to the sonorous swell of the organ in the Roman church and the Episcopal cathedral, to the chant of the choristers and the music of the anthem, and I have been awed by the sounds; but they produced not the feelings of peace and of reverence--I might say of religion--which are inspired by the lowly voices of a congregated family joining together in their hymn of praise. I have thought that such sounds, striking on the ear of the guilty, would arrest them in their progress.

Such was the change which Henry Cranstoun introduced into the house of his host. From that moment, Agnes regarded him with a deeper interest, her father loved him, and her mother looked on him as a son. But, although his mind had been early imbued with serious impressions, he was a lover of all that was beautiful in nature--he was warm of heart and eloquent of speech--and his form was such as the eye of a maiden might look on with complacency.

Christmas had passed before he left the house of his mother's friend, and health again glowed on his cheeks, strength revisited his frame. No one that saw Henry Cranstoun upon his entering the house of Mr Percy three months before, and who had not seen him in the meanwhile, would have known him to be the same individual. But Agnes noted no change in him. She knew that his health was now restored; but she had begun to hope and love at the same moment, and she had never thought that Henry would die. His eyes had ever been bright to her--his voice ever pleasing; and her beauty, her gentleness, her sweetness of temper, her kindness, her looks, her tones of affection, had fallen upon his bosom, till every thought, save the thought of Agnes, was banished.

He was to leave her father's house: he bade her _farewell_. Till that moment, they had not known how dear they were unto each other. They had never spoken of love; and, to hearts that do love, there is little need for such declarations. The affection of every glance, the guarded delicacy of every action, speaks it more plainly than the impassioned eloquence of language. True eloquence is feeling, and feeling dictates the words to be used, pouring them forth in the full tide of the heart's emotion; but, though love also be feeling, it is not of that kind which makes men eloquent. True love is dumb as true gratitude. It speaks from the glowing eye and the throbbing bosom; from the hand passionately grasped--not from the tongue.

Henry and Agnes said little; but they fell upon the necks of each other when they parted. She wept, and from his eyes the tear was ready to fall. He kissed her brow, and said that in the spring he would return.

He left Northumberland, and his parents welcomed him as one received from the dead. He was strong and healthy, and he alone, of all their children, seemed to have overcome the power of the destroyer. Yet a week never passed but he wrote to his friends, who had snatched him as from the gates of death; or rather, I should say, that he wrote to the gentle Agnes, requesting that the expression of his gratitude might be given to her parents, until he returned to thank them. But spring came; and with it Henry Cranstoun returned to Till-side. Health still glowed in his eyes, and beamed upon his cheeks. He was fond of angling, and, with his rod in his hand, he sought amusement in the gentle art; yet his favourite pastime afforded him no pleasure, save when Agnes was by his side, and then they would sit down on the brae-side together, with her hand in his, and the fishing-rod on the ground, and they forgot that he had gone out to fish, until evening came, and he returned with his creel empty.

Thus five years passed on, and twice in every year Henry Cranstoun visited his friends in Northumberland. He had commenced practice in Edinburgh; fair prospects opened before him; his marriage-day was fixed; and need I say that the bride was Agnes?

The ceremony was to be performed in the parish church, which was situated about a mile from her father's house. Henry was only expected to arrive an hour or two before the marriage was to take place. The bosom of fair Agnes throbbed with tumultuous joy. Her parents gazed upon her, blessed her, and were happy. She sat before them, arrayed, a bride for the altar. He whom she loved and they esteemed was that day to make her his wife. Her mother gazed on her with pride--she blessed her Agnes. Her father's heart glowed within him. The bridemaidens were come--Agnes was impatient, but still happy; no fear, no doubt, had risen in her mind. She knew her Henry.

But the last hour arrived, and Henry came not. Her uneasiness increased. The servants were sent to a neighbouring hill; but no chaise, no horseman, appeared in sight. Agnes became unhappy; paleness overspread her cheeks. The company were silent. Her father's watch hung over the mantelpiece, and she sat at the opposite side of the room; yet its ticking fell upon her ears slow and heavy, as sounds from a hammer on an anvil. Tears, which she had struggled to conceal, now gathered in her eyes. Some evil had befallen Henry, she said, and wept.

The hour which had been appointed for the ceremony was past; but still he came not. Her fears, her anxiety, increased, and she wept the more, refusing to be comforted. She knew not what she feared; but her breast was filled with misery. She had received a letter from him but three days before. She read it again--it breathed the language of impassioned affection, but his truth she doubted not; yet there was an incoherency, a vehemence, in some parts of the letter, which were not like the style of Henry. A vague horror shot across her thoughts, and her hand trembled, as she laid the letter aside.

Still the servants were despatched to see if he approached, and at length they brought tidings that two horsemen were riding towards the house. Agnes strove to wipe away the tears from her eyes, but her heart yet throbbed, and others rose in their place. The horsemen drew near the house. Those of the company who beheld them from the windows drew back with a look of dismay. Agnes clasped her hands together, as she beheld the expression of their countenances. The evil she apprehended was about to be revealed. The parish clergyman and the minister of the congregation to which Mr Percy belonged entered the room. She started from her seat as they entered--she wrung her hands on her bosom--her eyes seemed fixed and motionless with misery--her lips moved--her tongue struggled for utterance.

"Be comforted!" said one of the reverend visiters, kindly.

"Is my Henry dead?" she exclaimed--"is he dead?"

"He is not dead," was the reply; "but----" and the clergyman hesitated a moment to proceed.

"_His mind is dead!_" added the wretched bride, and sank back in her mother's arms. The dismal thought flashed upon her soul; the vague horror that she had shrunk from before became tangible--the incoherence and vehemence of passages in his last letter were suddenly and fearfully interpreted.

The tidings which the clergyman had to communicate, her fears had already told. The mind of Henry Cranstoun had become a wreck. A cloud fell upon his reason; and, on the day that he was to lead his bride to the altar, he was placed an inmate of the gloomy cells of Bedlam.

Several months had passed, and the grief of Agnes became more tranquil, but not less deep. She entreated permission to visit her bridegroom in the place of his confinement, and her parents fondly endeavoured to dissuade her from her purpose; but it became the one--the ruling wish of her heart--and they consented. Her father accompanied her to the dreary prison-house. But I shall not attempt to describe the heartrending interview, nor to tell how the iron which fettered him entered her soul. He knew her--he wept before her as a child--he exclaimed, "My brain!--my brain!" and pressed his hand upon his brow. Around him were strewed scraps of paper; she beheld her name upon each; they were covered with verses of love and of wildness. But I will not dwell upon the harrowing scene, upon the words that were spoken, and the fitful gleams of reason that flitted across his soul, as his eyes remained riveted on the face he loved. But when her father, with a faltering voice, suggested that they should depart, and took her hand to lead her from the cell, a scream of loud and bitter agony burst from the wretched maniac. "Agnes--Agnes!" he cried; and his wailing was as the lamentation of a lost spirit. Anguish overpowered her, and she was borne insensible from the cell in her father's arms.

Seven long and dreary years passed, and the mind of Henry was still bewildered; still was he an inmate of the melancholy asylum, and no hope was entertained of his recovery. But the heart of Agnes knew no change--for him she still shed the secret tear and offered up the secret prayer.

But her father's fortunes were altered. He had been induced to enter into a speculation with one who deceived him, and in it the industry of years was swallowed up and lost. He was obliged to leave his farm, and he now resided in a small cottage in its neighbourhood. Still there were many who sought the hand of the fair Rose of Till-side; but she chose rather to brood over the remembrance of poor ruined Henry than to listen to their addresses. But amongst them was a young gentleman named Walker, whose condition was far above hers, and who for two years had vainly sought a place in her affections. In the day of her father's distress, he had been his friend, and he yet sought to place him again in a state of independence. The health of Mr Percy, also, began to decline; the infirmities of age were growing upon him; and the little that he had been able to save from the wreck of his capital was wasting rapidly away. He became melancholy with the thought that he should die a pauper, or leave his wife and his daughter in want; and, in the presence of Agnes, he often spoke of Mr Walker--of the excellence of his character--of his wealth--of what he had done for him in the midst of his misfortunes--of what he still desired to do--and of his affection for her. She listened to her father's words in sorrow and in silence, and, on her pillow by night, she wept because of them. To her the remembrance of Henry Cranstoun was dearer than the temptations of wealth, and her heart clung to him with a constancy which neither time, misery, nor hopelessness could shake. She was grateful to her father's friend for the kindness he had shown him, and for the generosity of the proposals he had made--yet she found that she could not love him, that her bosom had room for none but Henry.

Poverty, however, entered her parents' dwelling, and her father seemed drooping for lack of nourishment which his increasing feebleness required. Her mother, too, sat silent and melancholy, occasionally raising her eyes to her daughter's face, with a look that implored her to save her father. The old man had been ordered wine daily; but their penury was now such that they could not purchase it, and the plainest food had become scanty on their table.

Such was their situation, and they were sitting sorrowful together, when Mr Walker entered the room. He approached Agnes respectfully, he took her hand.

"Dear Agnes," he began, "can one with so kind a heart look with indifference on the wants and the sufferings of a father and a mother? It is in your power to make them happy, to restore them to prosperity. For two years I have sought your hand, without meeting one look of encouragement or one word of hope. Yet believe me, Agnes, I admire the constancy which induces you to cherish a hopeless passion, and reject me. If not for my sake, yet for the sake of your poor father, for that of your fond mother, yea, for your own sake, dearest, permit me to call you mine. I do not ask your love now; give me but your esteem, and I will study to deserve your affection. Dear friends, plead for me," he added, addressing her parents.

Her father laid his hand upon hers--"Dear Agnes," said he, "your father is now a poor man--he is very poor. I fear the hand of death is already upon me; and when I am gone, who will provide for your poor mother--who will protect thee, my child? It is the only wish of my heart to see you provided for, and your father would die in peace. And oh, my Agnes, as your father's dying request, permit me to bestow your hand upon this generous youth."

"Save us, my sweet one!" cried her mother, and she flung her arms around her daughter's neck.

"It is done!" exclaimed Agnes, bursting into tears; and she stretched out her hand to Mr Walker.

A few weeks afterwards, and the village bells rang a merry peal, children scattered flowers, and there was joy on every face, save upon the face of the fair bride, who went as a sacrifice to the altar. She heard not the words of the clergyman as he read the ceremony. She trembled, she would have fallen to the ground, but that the bridesmaid supported her.

The marriage party were returning by a footpath from the church, the sorrowful bride resting on the arm of her bridegroom. A stranger met them--he turned aside, that they might pass. His eyes fell upon the countenance of the bride.

"O Heavens! my Agnes!" cried the stranger, in a voice of agony.

"Henry! my Henry!" screamed the wretched bride, and, starting from the side of the bridegroom, she sank on the breast of the stranger.

That stranger was indeed Henry Cranstoun. A severe illness had brought him to the verge of death, and with his restoration to health reason was restored also. He had come to take his bride to his bosom--he met her the bride of another. It was a scene of misery.

"O Agnes! Agnes!" groaned Henry, "would to Heaven I had died! You are another's, though your heart is mine! Farewell! Farewell!--we must meet no more! I have endured much, but never misery like this!"

She could only exclaim, "Henry!" and speech failed her--recollection fled. Henry Cranstoun struck his hand upon his brow, and rushed wildly away. Agnes was conveyed to her father's house, as being nearer than that of her bridegroom's. She was laid upon her bed, she seemed unconscious of all around, and her tongue only uttered the word "Henry." She rose not again from the bed on which she was laid, and within a week her gentle spirit fled. The shock which Henry had met with occasioned a relapse of the fever from which he had but recently recovered. He was taken to the village inn. He felt that death was about to terminate his sufferings, and when he heard of the death of his Agnes, he requested to be buried by her side. Within three weeks he died, and his latest wish was fulfilled--he was laid by the side of Agnes Percy, and a rose-tree was planted over their grave.

THE HENPECKED MAN.

Every one has heard the phrase, "_Go to Birgham!_" which signifies much the same as bidding you go to a worse place. The phrase is familiar not only on the Borders, but throughout all Scotland, and has been in use for more than five hundred years, having taken its rise from Birgham being the place where the Scottish nobility were when they dastardly betrayed their country into the hands of the first Edward; and the people, despising the conduct and the cowardice of the nobles, have rendered the saying, "_Go to Birgham!_" an expression of contempt until this day. Many, however, may have heard the saying, and even used it, who know not that Birgham is a small village, beautifully situated on the north side of the Tweed, about midway between Coldstream and Kelso; though, if I should say that the village itself is beautiful, I should be speaking on the wrong side of the truth. Yet there may be many who have both heard the saying and seen the place, who never heard of little Patie Crichton, the bicker-maker. Patie was of diminutive stature, and he followed the profession (if the members of the _learned professions_ be not offended at my using the term) of a cooper, or bicker-maker, in Birgham for many years. His neighbours used to say of him, "The puir body's henpecked."

Patie was in the habit of attending the neighbouring fairs with the water-cogs, cream-bowies, bickers, piggins, and other articles of his manufacture. It was Dunse fair, and Patie said he "had done extraordinar' weel--the sale had been far beyond what he expeckit." His success might be attributed to the circumstance that, when out of the sight and hearing of his better half, for every bicker he sold, he gave his customers half-a-dozen jokes into the bargain. Every one, therefore, liked to deal with little Patie. The fair being over, he retired with a crony to a public-house in the Castle Wynd, to crack of old stories over a glass, and inquire into each other's welfare. It was seldom they met, and it was as seldom that Patie dared to indulge in a single glass; but, on the day in question, he thought they could manage another gill, and another was brought. Whether the sight of it reminded him of his domestic miseries, and of what awaited him at home, I cannot tell; but, after drinking another glass, and pronouncing the spirits excellent, he thus addressed his friend:--

"Ay, Robin" (his friend's name was Robin Roughead), "ye're a happy man--ye're maister in your ain hoose, and ye've a wife that adores and _obeys_ ye; but I'm nae better than naebody at my ain fireside. I'll declare I'm waur: wife an' bairns laugh at me--I'm treated like an outlan' body an' a fule. Though without me they micht gang an' beg, there is nae mair respeck paid to me than if I were a pair o' auld bauchels flung into a corner. Fifteen years syne I couldna believed it o' Tibby, though onybody had sworn it to me. I firmly believe that a guid wife is the greatest blessin that can be conferred upon a man upon this earth. I can imagine it by the treasure that my faither had in my mither; for, though the best may hae _words_ atween them occasionally, and I'm no saying that they hadna, yet they were just like passin showers, to mak' the kisses o' the sun upon the earth mair sweet after them. Her whole study was to please him and to mak' him comfortable. She was never happy but when he was happy; an' he was just the same wi' her. I've heard him say that she was worth untold gold. But, O Robin! if I think that a guid wife is the greatest blessin a man can enjoy, weel do _I_ ken that a scoldin, domineerin wife is his greatest curse. It's a terrible thing to be snooled in your ain house--naebody can form an idea o't but they wha experience it.

"Ye remember whan I first got acquainted wi' Tibby, she was doing the bondage work at Riselaw. I first saw her coming out o' Eccles kirk ae day, and I really thocht that I had never seen a better-faured or a more gallant-looking lass. Her cheeks were red and white like a half-ripe strawberry, or rather, I should say, like a cherry; and she seemed as modest and meek as a lamb. It wasna very lang until I drew up; and, though she didna gie me ony great encouragement at first, yet, in a week or twa, after the ice was fairly broken, she became remarkably ceevil, and gied me her oxter on a Sunday. We used to saunter about the loanings, no saying meikle, but unco happy; and I was aye restless whan I was out o' her sight. Ye may guess that the shoemaker was nae loser by it during the six months that I ran four times a-week, wet or dry, between Birgham and Riselaw. But the term-time was drawing nigh, and I put the important question, and pressed her to name the day. She hung her head, and she seemed no to ken weel what to say; for she was sae mim and sae gentle then, that ye wad hae said 'butter wadna melt in her mouth.' And when I pressed her mair urgently--

"'I'll just leave it to yersel, Peter,' says she.

"I thocht my heart wad louped out at my mouth. I believe there never was a man sae beside himsel wi' joy in this warld afore. I fairly danced again, and cut as many antics as a merryandrew. 'O Tibby,' says I,

'I'm owre happy now!--Oh, haud my head! This gift o' joy is like to be my dead.'

"'I hope no, Peter,' said she; 'I wad rather hae ye to live than dee for me.'

"I thocht she was as sensible as she was bonny, and better natured than baith.

"Weel, I got the house set up, the wedding-day cam, and everything passed owre as agreeably as onybody could desire. I thocht Tibby turning bonnier and bonnier. For the first five or six days after the weddin, everything was '_hinny_,' and '_my love_,' and '_Tibby, dear_,' or '_Peter, dear_.' But matters didna stand lang at this. It was on a Saturday nicht, I mind, just afore I was gaun to drap work, that three or four acquaintances cam into the shop to wush me joy, and they insisted I should pay off for the weddin. Ye ken I never was behint hand; and I agreed that I wad just fling on my coat and step up wi' them to Orange Lane. So I gaed into the house and took down my market coat, which was hangin behint the bed; and after that I gaed to the kist to tak out a shilling or twa; for, up to that time, Tibby had not usurped the office of Chancellor o' the Exchequer. I did it as cannily as I could; but she had suspected something, and heard the jinkin o' the siller.

"'What are ye doing, Patie?' says she; 'whar are ye gaun?'

"I had never heard her voice hae sic a sound afore, save the first time I drew up to her, when it was rather sharp than agreeable.

"'Ou, my dear,' says I, 'I'm just gaun up to Orange Lane a wee while.'

"'To Orange Lane!' says she; 'what in the name o' fortune's gaun to tak ye there?'

"'O hinny,' says I, 'it's just a neebor lad or twa that's drapped in to wush us joy, and, ye ken, we canna but be neebor-like.'

"'Ay! the sorrow joy them!' says she, 'and neebor too!--an' how meikle will that cost ye?'

"'Hoot, Tibby,' says I, for I was quite astonished at her, 'ye no understand things, woman.'

"'No understand them!' says she; 'I wish to guidness that ye wad understand them though! If that's the way ye intend to mak the siller flee, it's time there were somebody to tak care o't.'

"I had put the silver in my pocket, and I was gaun to the door mair surprised than I can weel express, when she cried to me--