Hunted and Harried, R. M. Ballantyne [the unexpected everything txt] 📗

Many months passed away, during which Andrew Black, clean-shaved, brushed-up, and converted into a very respectable, ordinary-looking artisan, carried on the trade of a turner, in an underground cellar in one of the most populous parts of the Cowgate. Lost in the crowd was his idea of security. And he was not far wrong. His cellar had a way of escape through a back door. Its grated window, under the level of the street, admitted light to his whirling lathe, but, aided by dirt on the glass, it baffled the gaze of the curious.

His evenings were spent in Candlemaker Row, where, seated by the window with his mother, Mrs Wallace, and the two girls, he smoked his pipe and commented on Scotland’s woes while gazing across the tombs at the glow in the western sky. Ramblin’ Peter—no longer a beardless boy, but a fairly well-grown and good-looking youth—was a constant visitor at the Row. Aggie Wilson had taught him the use of his tongue, but Peter was not the man to use it in idle flirtation—nor Aggie the girl to listen if he had done so. They had both seen too much of the stern side of life to condescend on trifling.

Once, by a superhuman effort, and with an alarming flush of the countenance, Peter succeeded in stammering a declaration of his sentiments. Aggie, with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes, accepted the declaration, and the matter was settled; that was all, for the subject had rushed upon both of them, as it were, unexpectedly, and as they were in the public street at the time and the hour was noon, further demonstration might have been awkward.

Thereafter they were understood to be “keeping company.” But they were a grave couple. If an eavesdropper had ventured to listen, sober talk alone would have repaid the sneaking act, and, not unfrequently, reference would have been heard in tones of deepest pathos to dreadful scenes that had occurred on the shores of the Solway, or sorrowful comments on the awful fate of beloved friends who had been banished to “the plantations.”

One day Jean—fair-haired, blue-eyed, pensive Jean—was seated in the cellar with her uncle. She had brought him his daily dinner in a tin can, and he having just finished it, was about to resume his work while the niece rose to depart. Time had transformed Jean from a pretty girl into a beautiful woman, but there was an expression of profound melancholy on her once bright face which never left it now, save when a passing jest called up for an instant a feeble reminiscence of the sweet old smile.

“Noo, Jean, awa’ wi’ ye. I’ll never get thae parritch-sticks feenished if ye sit haverin’ there.”

Something very like the old smile lighted up Jean’s face as she rose, and with a “weel, good-day, uncle,” left the cellar to its busy occupant.

Black was still at work, and the shadows of evening were beginning to throw the inner end of the cellar into gloom, when the door slowly opened and a man entered stealthily. The unusual action, as well as the appearance of the man, caused Black to seize hold of a heavy piece of wood that leaned against his lathe. The thought of being discovered and sent back to Dunnottar, or hanged, had implanted in our friend a salutary amount of caution, though it had not in the slightest degree affected his nerve or his cool promptitude in danger. He had deliberately made up his mind to remain quiet as long as he should be let alone, but if discovered, to escape or die in the attempt.

The intruder was a man of great size and strength, but as he seemed to be alone, Black quietly leaned the piece of wood against the lathe again in a handy position.

“Ye seem to hae been takin’ lessons frae the cats lately, to judge from yer step,” said Black. “Shut the door, man, behint ye. There’s a draft i’ this place that’ll be like to gie ye the rheumatiz.”

The man obeyed, and, advancing silently, stood before the lathe. There was light enough to reveal the fact that his countenance was handsome, though bronzed almost to the colour of mahogany, while the lower part of it was hidden by a thick beard and a heavy moustache.

Black, who began to see that the strange visitor had nothing of the appearance of one sent to arrest him, said, in a half-humorous, remonstrative tone—

“Maybe ye’re a furriner, an’ dinna understan’ mainners, but it’s as weel to tell ye that I expec’ men to tak’ aff their bannets when they come into my hoose.”

Without speaking the visitor removed his cap. Black recognised him in an instant.

“Wull Wallace!” he gasped in a hoarse whisper, as he sprang forward and laid violent hands on his old friend. “Losh, man! are my een leein’? is’t possable? Can this be you?”

“Yes, thank God, it is indeed—”

He stopped short, for Andrew, albeit unaccustomed, like most of his countrymen, to give way to ebullitions of strong feeling, threw his long arms around his friend and fairly hugged him. He did not, indeed, condescend on a Frenchman’s kiss, but he gave him a stage embrace and a squeeze that was worthy of a bear.

“Your force is not much abated, I see—or rather, feel,” said Will Wallace, when he was released.

“Abated!” echoed Black, “it’s little need, in thae awfu’ times. But, man, your force has increased, if I’m no mista’en.”

“Doubtless—it is natural, after having toiled with the slaves in Barbadoes for so many years. The work was kill or cure out there. But tell me—my mother—and yours?”

“Oh, they’re baith weel and hearty, thank the Lord,” answered Black. “But what for d’ye no speer after Jean?” he added in a somewhat disappointed tone.

“Because I don’t need to. I’ve seen her already, and know that she is well.”

“Seen her!” exclaimed Andrew in surprise.

“Ay, you and Jean were seated alone at the little window in the Candlemaker Raw last night about ten o’clock, and I was standing by a tombstone in the Greyfriars Churchyard admiring you. I did not like to present myself just then, for fear of alarming the dear girl too much, and then I did not dare to come here to-day till the gloamin’. I only arrived yesterday.”

“Weel, weel! The like o’ this bates a’. Losh man! I hope it’s no a dream. Nip me, man, to mak sure. Sit doon, sit doon, an’ let’s hear a’ aboot it.”

The story was a long one. Before it was quite finished the door was gently opened, and Jean Black herself entered. She had come, as was her wont every night, to walk home with her uncle.

Black sprang up.

“Jean, my wummin,” he said, hastily putting on his blue bonnet, “there’s no light eneuch for ye to be intryduced to my freend here, but ye can hear him if ye canna see him. I’m gaun oot to see what sort o’ a night it is. He’ll tak’ care o’ ye till I come back.”

Without awaiting a reply he went out and shut the door, and the girl turned in some surprise towards the stranger.

“Jean!” he said in a low voice, holding out both hands.

Jean did not scream or faint. Her position in life, as well as her rough experiences, forbade such weakness, but it did not forbid—well, it is not our province to betray confidences! All we can say is, that when Andrew Black returned to the cellar, after a prolonged and no doubt scientific inspection of the weather, he found that the results of the interview had been quite satisfactory—eminently so!

Need we say that there were rejoicing and thankful hearts