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Printed by George Ramsay St Co, Edinburgh, 1823. THE TRIALS OF • » • • MARGARET LYNDSAY, BY THE AUTHOR OF LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF SCOTTISH LIFE. WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH: AND T. CADELL, LONDON. MDCCCXXIII. THE TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. CHAPTER I. Thirty years ago there stood, under the shelter of the highest line of the Braid-hills, a cluster of cottages, remarkable for their romantic, yet homely beauty. A few intermingled sycamore and horse-chesnut trees ris- ing in the midst of them, and seeming to belong to all alike, connected these lowly dwellings in one spirit of contentment and peace ; so that they looked as if inha- bited by a few families bound together by the ties of blood, and following the same quiet and retired occu- pation. Each had its own small garden in front, in- closed by its hawthorn and sw T eetbriar hedge, and humming cheerfully with its own hive of bees. Be- hind the hamlet was an old pasturage, not wholly clear- ed of furze, fern, and broom, and shaded by a wood on the hill- side, in whose thick covert the blackbirds 645258 2 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. and linnets built their nests, and where they were heard singing, from a great distance, in the calm of the morning or evening sunlight. The rich cultivation that belongs to the neighbourhood of a large city came close up. to the past era] bounds of this almost suburban vil- lage, — and was.stopt in its progress only by the na- f ure or the ground, which, full of little dells or glens, guarded the green domain from alteration or decay. Thus beautiful within itself, Braehead had also a command over a wide range of beauty. Between it and the city were many ancient and venerable groves, over which the Castle-rock lifted its battlements ; while the long high pile of buildings terminated against the line of the rural Carton-hill and the magnificent ridge of the Salisbury Craigs. In front a thousand inclosures of variegated verdure stretched down to the dazzling Frith ; and far off, to the west, were the great High- land mountains. Little sensible, perhaps, were the simple dwellers in Braehead of the pleasures which such scenes in- spire j for they were the children of labour and poverty ; yet Nature wastes not her power in vain, and no doubt it mingles unconsciously with the happiness of every human heart. The rising and setting sun, as its light burnishes the cottage window, does more than merely awaken to toil, or give a welcome summons to rest— and in a country like Scotland, where thought- ful intelligence has long been the character of lowly life, it is not to be supposed that even the poorest and TRIALS OF MARGARET LVN'DS.W. 8 most ignorant are ever wholly indifferent to the won- derful works of God. In this hamlet lived the family of Walter Lynd-ay. the narrative of whose fortunes may perhaps not be unaffecting to those who feel a deep interest in every exhibition, however humble, of the joys and sorrows, the strength and the weakness of the human heart. Walter Lyndsay was the son of a man of education and talent, who had followed the hard and ill-requited profession of a surgeon in a small country parish, and had died, of a rapid malady, in the prime of life. — The boy had been apprenticed to a printer in Edin- burgh, a friend of his father's, and having excel- lent talents he had been appointed foreman only a few weeks before the death of him whose last mo- ments were made happy by thoughts of his only son's good conduct and prosperity. As his wife and that son were watching by the bed-side the approach of the fatal hour, the dying man asked Walter to read to him the nineteenth chapter of St John. As the youth's faltering voice had finished the twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh verses, his father asked him to re- peat them — and it was done. r* When Jesus, therefore, saw his mother and the disciple standing by whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son ! " Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother ! and from that hour that disciple took her unto hi< own home." 4 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. At these words, his father folded his hands together across his breast, and that was the last perceptible mo- tion. His wife saw she was a widow — and looked al- ternately towards the bed that now bore her husband's corpse, and her only son with the Bible yet unclosed upon his knees. There was no shriek in that silent room — only a few sobs and some natural tears. This widow did not belong to a faint-hearted and repining race. Her forefathers had been servants of God in tribulation and anguish, — and she had swerved not from their pure and high faith, in the midst of her own many afflictions. She went solemnly up to the clay, and kissed once and again the same dead smile, — and from that hour thought of her husband's soul in heaven, not of the mortal weeds which it had dropt to decay. Adam Lyndsay died poor ; and after his small debts and the expences of his decent funeral had been paid, it appeared that nothing remained to his widow. They had brought up respectably several children, who had all died in the bloom of youth, except Walter, and their slender means had also been diminished by va- rious unforeseen misfortunes. Walter's kind heart was glad within him, when he saw his mother perfect- ly resigned in her utter destitution, and so did the wi- dow's heart sing for joy, when her son told her, that during his lifetime she should never want, but must come and sit at her wheel, peacefully and cheerfully, by his own fire-side. She felt it was a pure and deep TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 5 happiness prepared by Nature for her soul to be sup- ported, in her old age, by the son whom alone God had spared out of all her fair flock ; and when, on that night of her widowhood, she knelt down in soli- tary prayer, she blessed God for that delightful and holy dependence, in which she was thenceforth to rely on her first-born. A few days after the funeral, Walter Lyndsay went to inquire for the health of Gilbert Craig, one of his father's best friends, who had been taken ill in the church-yard during the funeral, and led away before the sods had been smoothed down over the grave. Wal- ter met the daughter of the old man at the door, and there was no need of words to tell him that she was an orphan. Alice Craig had, from childhood, been so in- timate with the family of the Lyndsays, that she consi- dered Walter quite in the light of a brother. She now wept piteously, and would not be comforted. After an hour past in the dim and desolate house, poor Alice said to him, " Oh ! Walter, I know not what is to become of me ; I have no relations but my uncle, and he, you know, does not like us. Will you speak to your mo- ther before you go back to Edinburgh, and prevail on her to let me lodge with her as a servant ? I will be careful of her and her's; and will work late and early for my bread. My father wept;— yes, forgetful of himself, he wept, a little before he died, for my sake He prayed that your mother would be kind to inc.— and made me promise that I would live with lui . if she would take me, as a servant." 6 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. Walter looked at Alice as she uttered these humble words with a pale face and anxious eyes, and he thought on the strict friendship there had so long been between their dead fathers. He remembered seeing- Gil- bert's care-worn countenance at the funeral, oversha- dowed with sorrow, and touched, although he then knew it not, with the first symptoms of a mortal sick- ness. " Your father, Alice, got his death at my fa- ther's funeral." Her sobs were not yet suppressed, — and her sweet face was drenched in tears. Walter, after a deep pause, went up to her, and gently kissing her cheek, said, — " Yes, Alice, you shall live with my mother; but not as a servant. God bless you — I will go to my mother, and send her to you. The widow will bring comfort to the orphan." It was at that hour Walter Lyndsay resolved to make Alice Craig his wife. She, in her simplicity, loved no one else, and did not think she had so loved even him ; so, after a few months, they were married — and Walter took his wife and mother with him to Edinburgh. They had all been born in the coun- try, and its images were silently gathered round their hearts, not to be dissevered without a painful regret. Walter's business kept him all day in the city — but his humble dwelling was now as much in the country as his father's house at Briary-bank — and, under the united care of his wife and mother, it soon became by far the prettiest of all the pretty cottages of Brae- head. TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 7 Walter was but a poor man, but lie was able to support his wife and mother comfortably and credit- ably — and in that he was rich to his heart's desire. They could sit at a frugal board — they could attend Divine service decently clad — they had even where- withal sometimes to relieve the wants of others — poor neighbours fallen into decay — or the passing beggar, wayworn, famished, and houseless, and perhaps not less an object of human charity, because brought thus miserably low by his own follies, vices, or crimes. TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. CHAPTER II. In this same Cottage they had now lived nearly six- teen years, with various fluctuations of fortune in their humble existence, but always rather above than below the world. They had married very young — and were both yet in the prime of life, now that their four child- ren were fast growing up by their side. Margaret, the eldest, had seen her fifteenth birth-day, Laurence was a year younger, Esther eleven, and Marion ten years old. Laurence, who had worked with his father, was a fine lively bold lad, full of fun and frolic, and liable to be carried way into idle and dangerous adventures, by very slight temptations. Yet he was a kind brother, and wished always to be a dutiful son ; so that, not- withstanding his frequent failings, he had been the life and soul of the house, which never looked like itself when he chanced to be absent. But his heart lay to- wards a sea-life, so he allowed himself to fall into the way of the press-gang, and sailed in a frigate to the West Indies. TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 9 Esther was blind, having lost her eyes in the small- pox. That disease had sadly marred her beauty, and all the neighbours seemed at first to grieve for its loss, almost as much as that of the child's sight, for she had been singularly fair, and they all said that " there never had been such bonny blue een, as those that were now white in their sockets." But, although her beauty was gone, something even more sweet and endearing had taken its place upon her countenance. An ex- pression of constant contentment — a faint smile, rarely overclouded, was on her cheeks and about her lips ; and her voice was the sweetest ever heard. She never listened to any tune but she remembered it; and, before she was nine years old, she could sing all the old Scot- tish airs, many of them in a way of her own, than which nothing could be more pathetic. She was skil- ful even in needle- work — and in a few lessons from an ingenious blind man acquired the art of delicately plaiting almost every ornamental article that could be framed of straw. And thus did the blind child con- tribute her mite to the support of her parents' house. Marion had suffered a still severer affliction. From a fever in which she had struggled between lift and death, she had recovered with a stricken mind. Some; thing had touched her brain in the mystery of that dreaming disease, and it was plain to all that the ne- ver, in this world, would be the same child as before. But there was nothing painful or repulsive about the altered creature ; on the contrary, to a stranger lh« 10 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. seemed more than commonly pretty and engaging, and it was not till she spoke that her condition appear- ed. She had been a gay and intelligent girl before the fever ; her forehead was open and smooth, as if full of sense and feeling ; and her features, unchanged, were still fine beneath the vacant and bewildered expression that so mournfully passed along their beauty. Her parents never permitted her to stray many steps out of their sight ; but she seemed generally to be happy, out or in doors. Her silence often had with it a me- lancholy look, but it might be the appearance and not the reality of grief, for immediately on being spoken to, she came out of these dim moods with a careless smile, and was made happy in a moment with any trifle — a flower, or an insect, or any creature that moved before her in life. Well, indeed, might she be called by a word, tenderly and pitifully applied to those so af- flicted, an " Innocent ;" yet now and then she made use of words, especially in her prayers, that seemed in the darkness and confusion of her few erring thoughts to give intimations of something not to be explained — something beyond the reach of her weak and bewildered reason. A clear light at times broke in transitory streaks over the twilight of her spirit — so that, in the profound meaning of that scriptural ex- pression, her parents felt that " her life was hidden with God." In such a family, along with much joy, there must often have been much sorrow — when little Esther lost 12 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 11 her eyes — and when poor Marion came out of the fe- ver with an altered mind — and on many many other occasions besides of unavoidable trial. But, although disease had often entered the house, death had passed by, as if relenting or awed by the power of their pray- ers; and the blind white eyes of Esther, and the wan- dering words of Marion made these children objects of deeper and tenderer love, and, perhaps, even of a more soul-searching happiness. But even although far greater afflictions had befallen this family, they might have been patiently and un- repiningly borne by the parents, for the sake of one blessing alone, bestowed upon them in the eldest daughter, Margaret. Even her own mother, although to a deeply religious heart like hers, and one also filled with all maternal solicitude, beauty seemed in a child a possession rather fitted to awaken fear than pride, sor- row than joy— even she could not look upon Margaret Lyndsay without blessing her fair face and her plea- sant form. And her blind sister used to say, « Mar- garet, I am sure, is the bonniest lassie in a the town, for her voice is the saftest amang them a', and when I am falling asleep in her arms at night, her breath is as sweet as that o' the violets that the gardener frae the Castle brings, when he comes for my baskets." She was good, beautifid, and happy-now that youth was dawn- ing upon her; and after all the trials she afterwards went through, the same thing might have been said ot- her with equal truth ; for that union was not then in,- 12 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. paired, when the silver had mixed with the bright au- burn of her hair, and when the joyful lustre of her hazel eyes had been dimmed by perpetual weeping of solita- ry and hopeless tears. Walter's mother was still alive— now an old infirm woman, upwards of threescore and ten. She was as acute in her mind as ever, and as warm in her heart ; but a palsy had stricken her some years before, and she had ever since been unable to walk. Dressed in a manner rather above, but yet most becoming her present very humble lot, she sat in her arm-chair by the fire-side, and, with her trembling withered hands, and head that was slightly shaken by the effects of the malady, employed herself in knitting, or in reading her Bible, or the various histories of Scotland's Reli- gious Martyrs. The native ease and even dignity of her manner, accompanied by the power of a strong understanding not uncultivated, and the impressive sanctity of old age, would have been seen to advan- tage in a much higher rank of life. Her furrowed face, her tremulous hand, and her grey-haired head, moving in somewhat melancholy guise, wholly ob- scured any symptoms of lowly birth or demeanour, and rendered her such a lady-like matron as one might have expected to see in the hereditary house of some ancient family. She belonged to a race that had sworn and died for the Covenant; and with her religion was a strong and steady light, in which all her thoughts lay like outward objects distinctly defined below the sun- TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. td shine. Shewas not religious only at the hour of morning and evening prayer, and in the house of God, when she- had strength to go there ; but at all times God was pre- sent with her, and her life was happy in the solemn ex- pectation of death. Her grandchildren often stood round her knees with mingled affection, wonder, and awe, when she was relating to them true tales of the martyrs — here, beautiful Margaret, with her head glittering like a star before the old woman's faded eye-sight — there, the blind Esther, sitting with her face fixed on the speaker, as if every feature gazed — and there too, perhaps, that other harmless thing at times shedding tears, it knew not why, that were suddenly dried up again in smiles whose causeless and unintelligible lustre was even still more affecting. Such was the Family of the Lyndsays at Braehead, where they had lived nearly sixteen years, but which they were destined soon to leave in sorrow — and for ever. 14 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY CHAPTER III. There had been for several years a deeper cause of heartfelt misery in this family than the ordinary course of Nature bringing inevitable distresses ; and the time was at hand when the cup of their griefs was to be filled to the overflowing brim. Walter Lyndsay had truly loved Alice Craig when he married her; and however much his conduct now belied him, he loved her still with a tender and troubled affection. But he was not a man of firm and fixed principles, and espe- cially he had been long wavering in his religious be- lief. He had met with many clever men in his own trade who were Free-Thinkers, and he had gradually suffered deistical opinions to enter his mind, till they had destroyed his very capacity of faith, and left him an Unbeliever, very ignorant, and even aware of his ignorance, yet unwilling and unable to return to the Christian creed. After this change had taken place in the character of his mind, his feelings towards his old pious mother, which had formerly been those almost of reverence, TRIALS OF MARGARET I.YND3AY. 15 underwent a painful reversal, and he now regarded her as under the power of a delusive and savage bi- gotry. A sort of angry and scornful pity towards her sometimes forced its way into his heart, especially when with that maternal authority which he once had cheerfully obeyed without an effort, she rebuked him for any slight symptom of indifference or derision. In her presence he felt, for the most part, the inde- structible power of her original and lofty character ; but when relieved from that habitual bondage, his mind was free to wander through the dim mazes of scepticism; and then the remembrance of her most peculiar tenets and doctrines, and of her stern approba- tion of many terrible and questionable deeds, strength- ened his doubts of the truth of the Christian system itself, with which in her soul these were all identified. The austerity of his mother's religious faith seemed to him to increase, as merely human feelings fell away from her aged spirit ; and, in that uncertain and un- happy temper, he received with sourness and dissatis- faction her most earnest and solemn warnings, and beseechings, and advices — all of which, in another frame of mind, would have seemed to him what they were, most truly touching, and even sublime, in a mother within the shadow of death passionately of her son's salvation. His feelings towards his wife were altogether dif- ferent. She was a meek, mild, quiet, still-hearted woman, free from all selfishness, and from the sudden 16 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. power of any strong passion. She had seen, long be- fore his mother, her husband's changing heart, and had striven to win it back by unupbraiding tenderness and by unobtrusive tears. She did not represent her own griefs — not even the situation of their family, in some respects so melancholy and helpless — as reasons to in- duce her husband not to question the faith in which he had been born, and had so long lived in happiness. But she spoke of the New Testament itself, and of the character of our Saviour. On such a subject, inno- cence, purity, and submissive serenity of soul were eloquent indeed ; and sometimes, even at midnight, when his disconsolate wife beseeched him to think on all these holy things in the same spirit he had once done, he took her kindly to his bosom, and bade God bless her — but, although with an affectionate, not with a religious heart. Her own calm and gentle faith in Di- vine revelation was as indestructible as that of that ani- mated, eager, and impassioned old Saint kindling over the persecutions of her ancestors who had feared not to bathe their hands in blood, and to repel with aveng- ing steel the murderer and oppressor. But when she saw, day after day, that her husband's heart was alike proof against his mother's denunciations and her own meek entreaties, she sank into a deep and settled me- lancholy, and had all the appearance of a person fast fading away in a consumption. There was no diminution of a wife's perfect love in this almost broken-hearted creature ; nay, a sense of TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 17 her husband's miserable state of soul made him for far dearer than ever, for a sacred terror, at times al- most reaching distraction, was now rarely absent from her mind, and all the passages in Scripture foreboding evil to such as shut their eyes upon the light crowded upon her memory, and engraved themselves there in spite of her will. When the heart is miserable on ac- count of a dearly beloved object, the face often seems as if revolted affection were the cause of its gloom. Walter began silently to himself to accuse his wife of unkindness, and when at last he so reproached her, the agony of her soul was such that she uttered not "a single word, but sought to hide her unhappy face for a while from his angry eyes. Day by day, change slight and imperceptible was taking place in an inter- course, that, for so many years, had been one of unin- terrupted cordiality, tenderness, and trust ; and Alice felt at last, that along with his religion had gone much of his love, and that she, the bride of his youth, and the mother of his children, did not, as before, wholly and happily possess his heart. She had but too good reason so to think ; yet Walter had hitherto seldom been absolutely unkind, — never brutal ; and he often threw so much gentleness into his demeanour towards her, as if repenting of his alienation, that poor Alice, at such moments, felt her heart sicken with the very joy of hope. But those bursts of tender- ness came from a soul whose feelings were changed, al- though its conscience, as it severely knew, still remain- 18 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. ed the same. Their prayers were not now said toge- ther on bended knees, — or seldom so ; the Sabbath-day came not now with healing under its wings,, to lead them arm in hand with their children to the House of God, — whatever their thoughts were, never were their words of a future life, for Alice feared to speak now to her husband of that which had formerly stolen upon their hearts in hours both of joy and affliction. There was no communion of their souls now, — for his was shut up in the consciousness of change, and hers in that of love unchangeable, but, alas ! now nearly hope- less of him for whose sake would she gladly have walked straight forward unto the death. Perhaps there is a diseased pleasure in the troubled emotion of guilt that keeps the falling spirit so closely attached to it that it loses the power of a pure and reasonable happiness, and then adheres sullenly or fiercely to the error of its ways, although it knows they lead to infamy and death. It may have been so with this infatuated man. He loved his wife and his child- ren, — if not as he once loved them, — yet better than all other objects on this earth. He could not lose the memory of so many smiles, tears, joys, griefs, tender words, and warm sighs of blameless delight, for so many long years. He remembered them all too too well, when foolishly and wickedly absenting himself from Braehead. Yet still their'power to recal him from destruction was dead and gone. It was gone never to return, till, at the approach of that awful hour, when all TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 19 the old sacred emotions of the soul, which guilt may have driven away from her sanctuary, will once more, and for the last time appear, either to confound or to console, and when all low, foul, and earthly thoughts will moulder away into the damp and dark- ness of the grave. Walter Lyndsay was not only a reformer in religion, but also in politics, and he had for some time been one of the Friends of the People. It was now a dark day over all Europe. Anarchy had taken the place of despotism, and Atheism trampled down superstition. The same thick and sullen atmosphere which preceded that dire earthquake in France, was spreading over this country. — The poor caught the moral contagion, and there were thousands and tens of thousands that, in the sudden blindness of that frenzy, began to mock at Christianity and its blessed symbol, — the Cross. Paine, a name doomed to everlasting infamy, undertook to extinguish religion in the hearts and on the hearths of the poor, and the writings of the igno- rant blasphemer were now read at Scottish ingles instead of the "" Big ha-Bible, ance their father's pride." Wal- ter Lyndsay brought to Braehead a copy of the Age of Reason. For some months the health of the grandmother had rapidly declined, and she had requested to be allowed to remain always in her small bed-room. So the old arm-chair, in which the famous Mr Ren wick had once sat in her grandfather's house, was removed from the 20 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. place it had occupied for so many happy years, and the dying woman wished to be left much alone. Her eyes were now almost dark, — but her hearing was little im- paired, and duly morning and evening, Margaret Lynd- say sat by the bed-side, and read to her some chapters of the Bible. Bed-ridden and blind, she knew not that her son had concealed below his roof a book that derided the sufferings of our Saviour on the Cross. She was spared that pang, although another more deadly, but less hideous, was in preparation for her. The reck- less Unbeliever yet so far respected his mother's grey hairs, that he left her on her death-bed to her Bible read by Margaret's sweet voice, which, however, he durst not more than once trust himself to hear. That, too, was accidentally, — and the divine words, repeated by such a voice, and with such a face, in the ear of a dying Christian, — (his own mother and his own daugh- ter,) — so penetrated and stabbed his soul, that, in the bitter agony of the moment, he wished that he were dead, or never had been born. As for his wife, she felt too surely that her power over his mind was now gone. She had been told, either in malice or pity, by an anonymous friend, that her husband's aifection had, for some time, been bestowed on a worthless and guilty object ; and there was often so wild and angry a trouble in his heart, that she believed that such indeed was his guilt. One night, in a miserable and convulsive dream, he moan- ed out a woman's name, which she had never heard TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAV. 21 before; and there seemed to be affection in the un- happy voice of his dream. She removed not her arm from around his neck, — but she knew, in her cold and heavy heart, that other arms than hers were now dear- er there, and from that hour she felt her wretchedness hopeless and complete. She strove to banish the be- lief, but it returned with the same sickening certainty ; and Alice half upbraided herself with the selfishness of that virtuous love, that made her weep more rueful tears over her husband's infidelity to herself, than even over his disbelief in Him who died to save sinners. It was not now the same house. Blind Esther iut at her work as usual, but her singing voice was now mute. All those beautiful hymns and anthems, and all the old Scottish airs, in which love and religion seem to blend together, and the grateful heart wor- ships God in the same strains by which it expresses the constancy and the truth of its human affections, — all now were silent. Even poor Marion sat still in a corner, and without her smiles, as if dim fears had found out some latent feeling in her heart, and struck her few words dumb. Yet it was not always thus. Wal- ter Lyndsay sometimes yet passed whole evenings at home, which, but for the remembrance of the past, might have been almost thought happy. Then with a heart true in some of its strings to the sweet sounds of other days, he would sometimes lay his hand on Esther's head, and ask her for « an auld sang," which she, too too happy to hear again the kind request, 22 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. would warble forth in a voice quivering with delighted filial affection. But what would have become of the whole family, if it had not been for Margaret Lyndsay ? A few months ago, and she was a gay joyous creature, borne about like a butterfly by every breeze, as if happiness were her employment, and all life one long summer. But on a sudden, and without regret or sorrow, or one repining thought, she saw into the nature of her own condition, and also in some degree into her mother's melancholy; and then her former thoughtless joy seemed to be wickedness and cruelty towards her dear mother, while her whole bliss lay in all the tender and most incessant offices of filial love. To see her mother recover her health and happiness, and her father in all respects the same as before, was now the sole single passion of her heart, by day and by night. In the enthusiasm of her young and innocent heart, that as yet knew not the power either of guilt or of misery, she feared not that in a little time her parents would be as well as ever ; and often, in the strong delusion of her yearning love, she smiled, and danced, and sang for a few moments, as if there had already been a perfect reconcilement of all jarring and unhappy things. In one of those moments, she flew to a shelf where Paine' s book was lying, into which she had once looked with disgust and terror, and ever af- terwards thought of it as a loathsome toad, or stinging serpent that had crawled into the house, — and press- 10 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAV. 23 ing it down into the red embers, left it to be consumed to ashes. She soon recovered to a fear of her father's anger; but she felt that she had utterly destroyed out of existence something hideous and hateful, and that fear was of short duration. On her father's return home that evening,, she told him gently what she had done ; and although he frowned fiercely, yet in a few minutes he called her to him on some slight ex- cuse, and kissed her brow. For Margaret was not yet sixteen years of age, and beautiful as an angel ; and, lost man as he was, he rejoiced that his beloved daugh- ter shuddered at the wretch who denied his Saviour and his God. 24 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY CHAPTER IV. The family of Walter Lyndsay had never been rich, and hitherto at the end of a year all had been blithe and happy, if not one single small debt re- mained unpaid. Health and industry were their whole stock, and hitherto it had always yielded compe- tence and comfort. The children had been taught to read by their grandmother, and Walter himself had in the evenings instructed those who could be so instructed in writing and accounts. That was their simple cheap education. Margaret and Esther had, for several years, bought and made their own plain garments, and there never had been any thing but decent and thoughtful thrift in that calm house- hold. But for some months past, there had been a diminution, not only in those little comforts which cheer the life of poverty, but even in the necessaries of life. Walter had at last irreconcileably quarrelled with his employer, his father's friend ; and his earn- ings were now scanty and irregular. No one in the house complained, nor with young or old was TRIALS OF MARGA11ET LYNDSAY. %L> there a single dissatisfied or sullen look. The oat- meal chest had never yet been quite empty, and they could still pay for their weekly allowance of milk. With that they were satisfied, and thus were able to preserve to the old woman in her last days those comforts which old age requires, but which, had she suspected the worst, that high-souled matron would have put away from her in disdain, and not even have allowed a fire to be lighted to warm her palsied limbs. Alice was not without a becoming pride ; and mi- serably poor and poorer as they now were each suc- ceeding day, none of the neighbours had any reason to think, from what they saw, that the family was in want. Some few articles of apparel, that she had worn in better days, were sold to buy bread ; but the white gown in which she was married she laid care- fully aside, and every thing she had worn on that too happy day. Whatever Walter had given her, when their hearts were undissevered, seemed now sacred to her soul in its deep distress ; and she would almost have thought it her duty to keep all such things, even if she and her children had been dying of hunger. It was not much that they could do for themselves. Mar- garet had the constant tendance of her grandmother, who might die alone, if left for an hour. Esther, although always busy, could not always dispose of her work '; and the mother, broken-hearted and feeble, did what she could with her needle, but often earned only a few pence in a whole day. Yet not the less 26 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. gratefully did they say grace before and after meals ; and when the Lord's Prayer was repeated, they felt the force of that request, and most humbly did they breathe it, " Give us this day our daily bread !" In this state of things, one day Alice received a let- ter from her husband, which she read, and then sat down in a stupor like a swoon. In it he informed her, " that he had been imprisoned on a charge of High Treason by a timid and tyrannical Government, but that, if executed, he should lose his head in a just cause." Each word which he had chosen contained to his wife's ear the most horrid meanings ; and in the swift thoughts of fear, she already saw a scaffold red with his life-blood. The tugging palpitation of her heart soon ceased in an icy coldness, and Margaret supported her to her bed. The terrified girl opened the little window, and the rich odours of the honey- suckle and moss-roses in a moment filled the room. Her mother soon revived, but for several days was unable to rise, so utterly had the sudden shock dashed her little remaining strength. She informed Margaret and Esther too of their father's situation, but it was to be concealed from her mother, as they all knew it would kill her at once. Margaret Lyndsay went of her own accord, and knocked at the prison-door. The jailor at first looked at her with callous indifference, but when she told her name, and that she had come to see her father, he took her in without speaking, and shut the heavy TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 27 gate. Margaret heard neither the hinge nor the bolt j she beheld nothing distinctly, — only steep stairs, mouldy walls, and small grated windows, as if she saw them not — till the jailor, whom she closely followed, stopt short at a cell, and in a moment she was on her father's breast. Walter Lyndsay was not prepared for this ; and his soul, which a few minutes before had been sullen, and irritated, and inflamed, suddenly misgave him, and he clasped his Margaret to his bosom, and kissed, not without tears, her white open forehead, and the soft- ness of her neck. " Oh ! father — that dreadful letter — but it is not, cannot be true — you never were guilty, I am sure, of any crime that deserved death,— and you will soon be let out of prison, — and then, — O father — father — surely you will come back to Brae- head every evening, and never leave us any more." In a few minutes, Walter Lyndsay, half ashamed of his emotions, relieved himself from his daughter, and beckoned her to sit down on the edge of his iron-bed- stead, which she did in silence ; for she now saw a well-dressed man in the cell, whom she had not before observed, looking on her with eyes of tenderness and compassion. She wiped away her tears, and said, with a faint smile, in answer to her father's question, that all at Braehead were supporting themselves wonder- fully, and that her mother would soon be better, when she was told how well he was looking, and that he was not afraid. " She does not know I am lure. 28 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. or she would have tried to rise up and come with me, for she is not very ill,, only weak." The prisoner spoke tenderly, but shortly, about his wife ; for there was a confusion of upbraiding and remorseful thoughts in his soul. It was not, however, possible for him to withstand the glad and sparkling beauty of his belov- ed daughter, as her young buoyant heart, cheered by the sight and presence of her father, even al- though it was in prison, sent up the flushings of filial affection and hope over all her sweet countenance, and brightened her tears with the frequently recurring light of uncontrollable smiles. There was nothing like despondency in her father's face ; and the tone of his voice was firm and unfaltering. Just before her departure, she went close up to him, whispered something into his ear, and put her hand into his breast. He started at that whisper, and then holding in his hand the guinea she had given him by stealth, said, " No, my good child, let those who imprisoned me support me ;" and Margaret saw from his frown, that she must not hope to enjoy the bliss of her filial cha- rity. It was, however, great relief to have seen her fa- ther ; and she felt assured from the extreme tenderness with which he had received her unexpected embrace, that she was still his " dear Margaret." Without any real cause for comfort, she still felt comforted ; and was descending the steep winding street that led from the prison towards Braehead, when a touch fell upon her TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 29 shoulder, and there was the gentleman whom she saw in her father's cell. He took her affectionately by the hand — and then said that he would accompany her into the country. Margaret felt, as they walked along, as if God had sent to her an angel from heaven. The stranger told her not to allow themselves at Braehead to be too miserable about their father, for that the charge against him could not be substantiated — that most probably he would not be tried at all ; but if tried, certainly acquitted. This was enough for Margaret. She never dreamt of doubting one word this benevolent person said ; and, as the sun shone out as they passed through the beau- tiful elm groves of the Meadows, and across the smooth verdure of Burntsfield Links, she felt happier than she had ever done before she had known such grief and such terror. Poverty — disgrace — misery — all that could happen in this world were as nothing, unworthy of one single fear, since she now believed that her fa- ther's life was not in jeopardy. The stranger offered kindly to give her money ; but she reminded him of her guinea, which she had that morning received from a lady who had always hither- to forgotten to pay for some of Esther's baskets, and said that they could all put over very well till their father was set free. She then communicated to him every particular of their situation at Braehead ; but hoped he would not tell her father more than was ne- cessary, lest it might too much distress him in his im- 30 TRIALS OP MARGARET LYNDSAY. prisonment. " You are a good sweet girl, Margaret, — God bless you — farewell. You say that you will visit your father again on Thursday. I will see you then. God bless you;" and, looking one moment around, he kissed her cheek, and returned to the city. Margaret visited her father several times during the next fortnight ; and either in going or returning from the prison, frequently both, she was accompani- ed by Mr Edwards. He was an Englishman, of no profession ; but entertaining, as he told her, the same political sentiments with her father, he had formed a friendship for him, and was determined to see him through his great difficulties. His manner was kind- er and kinder to Margaret every day ; and he even said to her on parting, "I must not kiss you any more, Margaret, for I am already in love. You are, indeed, the prettiest little maiden in all Scotland ; but you are more like my daughter than my sweetheart. I only wish I were ten years younger for your sweet sake." Margaret was in her sixteenth year ; and as inno- cent in all her thoughts as parents could wish their child to be ; but she had lived among homely people, and was not wholly ignorant of the sins and the guilt that prevail in the world ; and there was some- thing in Mr Edwards' behaviour this day which per- plexed and disturbed her — something unlike his first fatherly kindness and protection. She wished that he would not again walk with her; and she did TRIALS OF MARGARET LVNDSAY. 31 not say to her mother that she had seen him that day. She had a dim fear and suspicion — not per- haps of meditated guilt — for that could not enter a heart so young, so afflicted, and so disposed to natural gratitude ; but of something needless and inconsistent in his constant meeting with a poor girl like her ; and which did not seem quite accounted for by the interest he took in her father's situation. Her mother was now somewhat stronger ; and Margaret hoped that on her next visit to the prison they might go together ; and then she should have nothing evil to fear. They did so; but they found the wretched man pacing about his cell in a state of frantic distraction. He scarcely received his wife's quiet kiss, and then in a stern voice ordered Margaret to sit down. " You did not tell me that Edwards walked home with you every day from the prison. Alice, did she tell you ?" Margaret felt the error of her concealment— neither could she say that she knew it not to be wrong. She saw by her father's enraged eyes that something was connected with her walks with Mr Edwards which she did not fully understand; and, therefore, she sat quaking and mute. " The ruffian would ruin our child, Alice ;" and so saying, he tore his hair, and dashed his head against the wall. " He of- fered me money for my Margaret, for he knew that we are desperately poor ; he told me that our child loved him ; and that he would make her happy and comfortable for life. A purse of gold was in my 82 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. hand; but its weight was enough to sink me down to hell. I seized the villain by the throat ; but the jailor rescued him ; and he left the prison but a few minutes ago. Did you see him, Margaret ?" — " No, fa- ther, I did not ; and I hope that God will prevent one so wicked from ever coming near us again. Oh ! fa- ther, he said that your life was safe ; and, therefore, did I indeed love him ; but have no fears, father or mother, for me, for although I have many faults, I am and ever will be free from all thoughts of such sin." With these words she knelt down on the cold stone floor, with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, and exclaimed, " O God of Mercy, and Thou my gracious Redeemer, pre- serve me from evil, so that my parents may never be unhappy for my sake." Her sweet eyes were turned towards the vaulted stone roof of the cell ; but they saw it not in the deep passion of her prayer. The soul of the affectionate child looked into heaven, and seem- ed to prostrate itself before the footstool of God. In her innocence, her Maker was to her a benign and gracious Being, inhabiting eternity, yet with an ear like that of an earthly benefactor, open to hear the voice of earthly anguish, and the very beatings of her agitated heart. Her father stood with his eyes fixed upon her as she knelt, and wept, and smiled, and prayed. Such a sight would have touched a heart of stone ; but his was not so hardly framed ; and, perhaps, at that moment, when he looked upon his own mortal child, a weeping intercessor between him and heaven, he remembered TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 3$ other more awful thoughts, and shuddered to feel that they had been wilfully banished from the bosom of him a sinner. In an hour all their various passions were apparent- ly allayed within the cell. The father had brought himself within the shadow of an ignominious death had denied his Saviour, and left his sweet family in poverty. There was other unrevealed sin in his heart ; but neither guilt nor agony could blind him for a moment to the horror of his daughter's pollution. Tenderly — distractedly — he kissed her on leaving the cell; and, when the fair creature and his pale wan wife disappeared, and the door shut him into his soli- tude, he lay down upon the floor, and drenched it, as well he might, with scalding tears ; for while remorse was at work within his heart, he yet knew that the fu- ture (if his life were to be saved) was to be deeper dyed in guilt even than the past, and that he had sworn unto one who had a fatal power over him frantic oaths to go open-eyed and headlong to perdition. 34 TRIALS OF MARGARET LTNDSAY. CHAPTER V. True pity and compassion had been felt for the poor Lyndsays by all their neighbours., ever since Walter's imprisonment. For a while they called at the house as usual, and said nothing ; but by degrees Alice found heart to speak of her husband's misfor- tune to those whom she most liked and respected, and their simple sympathy sometimes afforded her discon- solate mind an extraordinary relief. There were not wanting some who defended him, without knowing more of his alleged guilt, than that he wished to make things better for poor people, and more equality in the world ; but his wife knew too well that Walter was a misguided and guilty man, and such justification never yielded her any pleasure. Her chief anxiety w r as to know from her neighbours what they heard respect- ing the probable issue of his trial. In that rank of life, although there is often perhaps as much truth of feeling as in any other, there is not in general much of what is called its delicacy ; and, on this occasion, several scrupled not to say plainly, but solemnly,, that TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 35 they feared it would go hard with Walter Lyndsay, and that his life would be taken. At these conversations Margaret was always pre- sent ; and the thought of death at all, but especially of one violent and ignominious, is more insupportably terrible to a very young heart than it ever can be to one that has had more experience of the uncertainty and worthlessness of life. Accordingly, the grave and solemn sounds of all those voices, the gloom on all those countenances, and the passionate earnestness with which the neighbours crowded together almost every hour in small knots, evidently to know if any thing farther had been heard about her father, — were never withdrawn from her imagination, and her soul fed solely on fear and terror. Her life became almost insupportable ; and she felt assured, that, if her father were to be put to death, she also would die that moment, or lose her senses with grief and horror. Sometimes she indistinctly heard chance words from people passing by, who did not know her, that seemed to have dreadful reference to her father. When she looked towards the huge city from Braehead, she thought it always frowned now under black and thun- dery clouds— and that surely never, never had there been such a sunless summer. Her dreams were al- most every night so dreadful, that she feared to go to bed; and at last she so carried into sleep itself her waking horror, that, as soon as the visionary scaffold arose with her father standing upon it, and the exe- 36 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. cutioner with his axe, she knew or hoped it to be a dream, and convulsively shrieked herself awake. One evening, after a day darkened and disturbed by many hints, and hearsays, and rumours, each more shocking and fearful than another, Margaret walked by herself to Edinburgh for some medicine for her grandmother. On her return by a solitary footpath, it being then nearly dark, she met a man, who came suddenly out from the old grove of Burntsfield House. It was Edwards. She felt as if an evil spi- rit were at her side. The dead silence — the gloomy darkness — the solitariness — all struck a sort of super- stitious fear into her heart which she heard beating before a word was said. She then thought over the first words of the Lord's Prayer, — but still her feet were rooted to the ground. The dark figure was close upon her ; and her father's rage — her own dim fears of guilt, sin, and cruelty — her fervent prayer in the prison for deliverance from evil — and now a freez- ing horror that crept over and along her very bones, all joined together, sent a vague thought into her cold heart that some unearthly shape stood there in the gloominess, and that an evil spirit, perhaps the Enemy of mankind, had sought and found out his prey ; so she stood gasping and motionless, as a bird under the fas- cination of a serpent. " Poor girl," said Edwards, " I see you are fright- ened. But do not tremble — I will do you no harm. TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 137 Your father misunderstood my meaning altogether. But what will become of you — when he is dead?" At that last word Margaret Lyndsay suddenly found her power of speech. " Since he is to die, nothing can keep my mother or myself alive — and we shall all be buried together." « No — that cannot be. His crime is treason — and the body of a traitor is not buried." Margaret, in the light of terror, understood his words, and almost sank to the ground. " Your father, Margaret, is a bad man, and deserves to die. But I can save him — yes, his life is in my hands. If I appear on the day of trial, a witness for the Crown, and to save myself I should do so, no in- terposition can save him from judgment. But — say the word — and I will save his life." « What word, Sir ? — I will say or do any thing, so that you shed not my father's blood." " Margaret Lyndsay, come and sit down with me on this bank, and fear nothing." He put his arm round her, and they sat down together. Such was the entire prostration of her soul, with all its dear af- fections, before the being whom she suddenly believed to have power over her father's life, that she let her- self be pressed closely to his side, even with a feeling of guardianship and preservation. For to save her fa- ther she would have walked into the lion's den ; and now, desperate as her fancies had been of this person, and wicked as she knew him to be, all fear W«l SW«1- 38 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYND5AY. lowed up in filial love; and it was enough to know that he could, and perhaps would save the life of him, the thought of whose death was distraction and indescrib- able agony. ' ' Tell me, tell me," said the child, " what you can do for my father, and I will bless you for ever. Yes, I will bless you, even although you be wicked in other things ; and so, also, will God forgive you, for he is a God of mercy." — " You are very young, Margaret, . — but maidens younger than you have been married be- fore now. If you will marry me, I will hide myself — as I have done for some time — and your father shall not die." Margaret asked eagerly if he would save her fa- ther's life, and he answered " Yes." " I will marry you if you do so — you will come to Braehead after my father's return there, and I will tell him who saved his life. I am a mere child, Sir — but in a year or two I will marry you — I swear it before the great God, al- though I know not well what I say. My father did not know you wished to marry me." At this time Margaret Lyndsay felt a sort of shud- dering horror towards him who was thus almost un- intelligibly speaking to her of marriage, but a still more hideous horror of her father's execution. The whole was like the bewilderment of a dream ; and when she saw the huge black cloud of the old trees so high above them, and then felt herself drawn towards the side of this terrific disposer of life and death, with what seemed an arm of iron, while all was death- like stillness and glimmering around, she made a wild TEIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 39 effort to leap out of the terrifying trance, and sprung suddenly to her feet. Edwards held her with a cruel grasp — and in a moment Margaret Lyndsay knew that his designs were not merciful, and that she was in the power of an unpitying ruffian. " You must be my wife this very night, child — I will take you to my own lodgings in a secret part of the city — and you will sleep in my bosom, before wit- nesses — that is a marriage in Scotland." Margaret now heard his words with a different dread ; for she believed now, unsuspecting though she was, that he had not the power he said over her father's fate — or, if he had, that he was too wicked to save the life of any one. All at once she recovered her breath and strength, and became courageous even to her own surprise. She remembered her prayer to God in the prison-cell, when her father warned her against the wickedness of this very monster ; and even now she called upon his holy name. She believed now that she had been way- laid for some wicked and cruel end, and that, although this man might even murder her, and bury her body at the foot of one of the old trees, he had no power to bring her father to the scaffold. That belief was sud- den joy ; and strong in its inspiration, Margaret spoke aloud to the villain, and told him that he had not power to touch a hair of her father's head. Edwards, disappointed at this sudden return of her resolution, told her to remember no one was near, and that she was in his power to do with her what he wished. 40 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. Her tears now fell solely for herself, and although she quaked in the grasp of that unrelenting fiend, yet was her pure soul firmer and less disturbed, and she be- lieved that God would yet save her from this evil. " The eye of God is never shut, and, though you may kill my body, you cannot touch my soul. But, O ! Sir, I am very young, and am afraid to die— do not — do not hurt me. This is a terrible place, and you stand by without speaking, but with a dreadful face. Dark as the night is, I see it is dreadful. Oh spare me, spare me, a poor, young, and, on the whole, not a wicked child !" And so shrieking out these words, Margaret fell down, nearly in a swoon — and then, half recovering herself, prayed for what she had just feared, instant death. Two black shadows advanced from among the trees, and loud hoarse angry voices w ere on her ear. In a few minutes she found that Edwards was in the hands of the officers of justice. " Well, Mr Spy, we have nabbed you in spite of all your skulking. You have friends who are as good traitors as yourself, but it was not right in a reformer to seize a mere child like this in a dark wood for violence, and perhaps murder." — cc The child of that fool, Walter Lyndsay, as I am a Christian and a thief-catcher. Margaret, did you meet him here by appointment ?" Margaret, overpowered by the joy of her sudden rescue, was still lying upon the ground. One of these rude and boisterous men lifted her up, saying, " I hae a bit lassie o' my ain at hame ;' and, TEIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 41 blessing God for her deliverance, Margaret hur- ried away along the foot-path, and in a short time was at Braehead, by the bed-side of her grandmo- ther. 42 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. CHAPTER VI. Walter Lyndsay was never brought to trial. It appeared that he had been made the dupe of design- ing men in a superior station ; and as some of them were under indictment of High Treason, the poor printer was liberated from prison. The heavy nailed door was opened, and he was turned out into the street without a single hiss or huzza, and unobserved by the few persons passing along on their own business. The infatuated man had not the virtue to go straight to his own family at Braehead. Perhaps he was ashamed to show himself to the neighbours in day-light, skulking home in contempt and poverty ; so, at least, he tried to persuade himself, and said inwardly, that it was better to wait till the dusk of the evening — but that was not the cause of his conduct. He then walked sullenly down a narrow lane near the prison, and ascending a dark narrow winding stone-stair, knocked at a garret-door. It was cautiously opened by a female hand, and he entered that room in which he had first become a hopeless and infatuated sinner. 12 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 43 The woman who had lived for some months in this garret, had been either the wife or the mistress — (she said the wifej— of one of Walter's brother Reformers. He had treated her with great brutality, and having once struck her a blow on the bosom, Walter chid him, and thereby excited first his anger, and then his jealousy. But there is no need to give the history of Walter's unfortunate and wicked connection with this beautiful but unprincipled female. Suffice it to say, that her husband left her, and that this weak man, believing that her desertion had been owing solely and entirely to himself, thought he was bound in honour, for by this time he had abandoned his reli- gion, to give her protection, if he could not give her support. She loved him with a violent and en- grossing passion, for Walter Lyndsay was a handsome man, and his manner and deportment far above the common level. Nor was she without talents, and some- thing that was amiable about her disposition ; she had also a fine person, a face singularly elegant, and a natu- ral fascination that seemed just adapted to seduce into sin a mind and a heart so distracted, and it may almost be said, so depraved as those of Walter Lyndsay had been for two or three years. She indeed loved him better than she did any other man, and she had been faithful to her paramour, even in uttermost destitution of the common necessaries of life. Of his wife and family she never had suffered him to speak ; at their names her eyes seemed to burn with shame, anger, 44 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. and hatred, and then would overflow with bitter and scalding tears. To her bosom he had now gone on his liberation from prison, and he told her truly that he had not yet spoken a word to any one else since he had left his cell. She embraced him eagerly, and pressed his body to her's — both emaciated — for a gar- ret had been her prison, and if pride had made Walter abstemious in his cell, so had necessity kept from her lips all but water and a crust. The jailor had put into Walter's hand, as he let him out of the prison, a couple of guineas, which he had got for that purpose from some one of the more generous reformers. So the wretched pair had a love-feast, re- galed themselves with meat and wine, and were merry. They swallowed them in recklessness and despair, with ghastly laughter between, and fatal embraces. All the world seemed changed for ever to the eyes of Walter Lyndsay. His character and credit were utterly ruined in Edinburgh, — he saw no possibili- ty of being able to support his family by any exer- tion there, — his domestic peace had long been destroy- ed, — entirely, as he felt, by his own guilt. She, for whom he had made that wretched sacrifice, had her arms round his neck, and her cheek on his ; — and long infatuated, and now maddened by a thousand passions, he started up, and offered to go with her to some dis- tant place — to live, if they could, by his trade, how- ever poorly, — if they could not, — to die of starvation. " The sooner the better, perhaps, we die," groaned 11 TRIALS OF MARGARET LVNDSAY. 45 out Walter ; « but let us swear never to part till that hour — Let us swear, not by the Bible, on which fools may pledge their faith, but on your forehead, and on mine, which is rending with pain, but which may this night ache no more, when resting, as it has often done, upon your bosom." They grasped each other by the hands, — vowed eternal truth,— and agreed to take their departure next day. Meanwhile, he said he would go to Braehead and bid farewell to his family, to prove to her the inflexible determination of his heart. Love, vanity, pride, madness, delusion, and sin heaved the breast of the friendless, forlorn, deserted, impassioned, and beautiful woman, at these evil and wicked words; and fearless now of the power of his wife and children, she offered to accompany him to Braehead — to wait at a little distance till he came back to her from his farewell to the inmates — and then to go with him to face poverty and death. It was late when he reached the door of his own house, — and had not his brain been inflamed with wine into a temporary madness, there was not wickedness enough in his breast to have suffered him to put his desperate purpose into execution. He violently threw open the door, and entered with a face on which the flush of debauchery looked fearful on the wan and ghastly hue brought there by the blue damps of a stone-cell. Alice and Margaret were sitting together, beside a small turf fire ; but neither of them could move on this great and sudden joy. They had known 46 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. he was not to die ; but they had expected everlasting expatriation. Now he stood before them in his own house — by the light of his own fire — and their hearts died within them. A sigh — a groan— a gasp, was his only welcome. He well knew the cause of such si- lence, but he determined to misunderstand it, that he might, by his own injustice and cruelty, fortify the savage resolution of his soul. " What kind of a re- ception is this for a husband or a father returning from long, cruel, and unjust imprisonment? But it matters not. I am come hither for a few minutes to say farewell to you all. Edinburgh is no place for me. You both know that I will send you all the money I can. But I must leave this to-night. So, wife, give me your hand: — I hope you are glad I am set free." These words struck upon their hearts just as they were recovering from the shock of joy. They both hung down their heads, and, covering their faces with their hands, both sorely wept. The infatuated man sat down between them, and spoke with a little more gentleness. But still his words were so hurried, and his looks so wild, that each thought within herself, that his confinement or his liberation had affected his reason ; and both likewise hoped, that, for a little while only, it might be even so. But soon they were sure that he was lost to them, perhaps for ever ; for there came a sterner expression over his countenance ; and in speaking of his departure, he used fewer words, but these were calm, unequivocal, and resolved. " I TRIALS OF MARGARET LYXDSAY. 47 have sworn, and I will keep to my oath, in face of persecution, and poverty, and death, to leave this ac- cursed Edinburgh, and all that belong to it. I will send you money when I can. But you have been able to support yourselves for some time. Alice — don't attempt to utter one word. — I will, and must go. — What, Margaret, will you dare to lift up a look or a word against your father ?" Margaret had risen from her stool, on which she had for years sat at night by her father's knees. But his stern voice stopt her, as she was about to take his hand, and beseech him not to leave them all in despair. She remained motion- less, with her pale and weeping face leaning towards him, almost in fear, while her mother sat still, cover- ing her face, and knowing, in the darkness of her sight and her soul, that all was lost. At that moment, all eyes were turned from the fitful glimmering of the peat-fire, towards the door of the small room in which the old woman lay, and which seemed slowly opening of itself. " God have mercy upon us \" said Walter Lyndsay, as his mother, who had been so long bed-ridden and palsy-stricken, came trembling and tottering towards them, with her long grey locks hanging over her dim eyes and withered cheeks, and her hands held up in angry and melancho- ly upbraiding of her sinful son. " If thou leavest thy wife and children, Walter, take with thee the curse of thy mother, along with the curse of thy conscience, and the curse of thy God !" And with these words, she, 48 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. who had, till this moment,, been for years a palsied cripple, fell down upon the floor, and, without motion or groan, lay as if she were dead. - It all past in a moment of wonder and amazement ; but the apparent corpse was soon lifted up and laid upon its bed. Alice and Margaret were busy in trying to restore her to life — hoping it might be but a swoon, from the grievous fall. Her miserable son, seeing that she was dead, rushed out of the house, with her curse yet shrieking in his ears, — and knew that, in this world, his misery was perfect. TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY- H) CHAPTER VII. Margaret Lyndsay, as soon as she missed her fa- ther by the bed-side, flew out of the little room, and thence into the open air, with a palpitating bosom. She saw no figure ; but, listening intensely, she heard the sound of hurried steps, which she instantly pur- sued. She soon caught sight of his shadow, and then discovered her father distractedly plunging down into one of the little broom y glens that intersected the slope of the hill. Onwards she flew as on wings, passionately calling upon him ; but he was so lost in the multitude of the miserable thoughts within him, that he heard not his daughter's voice. Of his own accord he stopt abruptly in the little hollow which his children had named " The Lintwhite's Nest,"— when Margaret, springing down the bank, half on her knees, and half clinging round him, cried out,— " O father ! father ! my dearest father — come back— come back, I beseech you in the name of the Almighty ; for my grandmo- ther is dead, and my mother herself white as ashes, and as like death as the dear old woman !" 50 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. The wretched man stood speechless, but frowning. He had hoped that he had escaped from the power of that dreadful scene, and was left at liberty to rush into destruction. But as he flew, in distraction, from his mother's curse, he was arrested by his daughter's blessing. The dear, soft, white, and tender arms of his first-born twined round him — her pale weeping face was fixed upon him — and the innocent and loving crea- ture's voice penetrated into the utter darkness of his soul. He kissed her many times, and held her long unto his heart, that it might feel the last close pres- sure of that bosom which had never cherished one unfilial thought, and which he was now going to leave unprotected amongst all the misery and wicked- ness of an afflicted and reckless world. And who had cursed him ? — His own mother, whom, upon the day his father died, he had taken under just and natural protection. The very words, which she had calmly spoken on that day by the bed-side of her dead hus- band, now recurred to him with horrible distinctness — words of love and gratitude — and his own truly filial reply. Was he the same man ? And how had Satan entered into and corrupted his heart, till all its best and most deeply-rooted feelings were tainted and wi- thered — root, leaf, branch, and stem — and his whole being given over to profligacy and perdition? He glared upon the creature before him — and scarce could believe that it was his sweet daughter Margaret — whom he had loved so entirely — whom he yet loved, not as TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 51 before, but distractedly, and with the passion of a lost madman ; and first stamping upon the ground, and then softly laying his quivering hand upon her head, he muttered, — " Go back, go back, Margaret, and I will follow by and by ; a friend is to meet me here whom you must not see — Go back, and tell your mother, that I will re- turn to Braehead." Margaret withdrew from his em- brace, and, almost incredulous, kept her beseeching eyes fixed upon him ; for the lie of his heart dashed his countenance with the sallow hue of falsehood, and he trembled from head to foot. He knew that he was de- ceiving her in whom there was no deceit — deserting her whom God had given — breaking for ever the bonds which love, virtue, and religion, have made most holy ; and all this for the sake of a passion that was almost unmixed misery, and wholly unmixed guilt, for the sake of a being abandoned and excommunicated, whose beauty was a bane, and whose affection had blighted both his and her hopes in this world and the world to come. Margaret knew not, could not know, all the con- vulsions in her father's heart. But she knew that he whom she had always honoured, revered, and yet loved with yearning tenderness, was afflicted with a strange sorrow, and abandoned to some incomprehensible sin. She watched his changing countenance—she hung upon the contortions of his frame— and the glitter of his eyes, and the groans that heaved his breast. Again 52 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. she rushed into his embrace, and sobbed out the name of her mother, and Esther, and poor Marion — and then implored and beseeched him, by her own love and her own grief, and by all the undeserved kindness and fond- ness he had always shown her — at meals — at prayer — and in her bed, when he came every night to kiss her, — to return to his house, and to be happy, in spite of all the misery that had ever afflicted him, with her mother and them all who would live and die for him, for him who had supported them all, and who had ever been and ever would be the best and most loving of all fathers. There was now a third person in the little glen, — and a voice somewhat hollow, but not without femi- nine softness, said, — " Walter, Walter, what is this ? Is she your child ? Order her home." — Margaret left her father's bosom, and saw, in the clear moonlight, the tall stately figure of that beautiful woman. She at first drew herself back as in fear, for the bold bright eyes abashed her, and she also knew, in her inmost heart, that this was the wicked person who had delud- ed her father, and brought all their misery into Brae- head. A holy anger warmed her blood when she be- held the adulteress kiss her father's cheek ; and she stept forward unawed, and bold in the purity of na- ture. " Why do you wile away our father frae us ? My mother is his wife, and loves him far better than ever you can do. His mother is lying yonder alone — dead on the bed. He has a blind lassie, and another TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 53 that is an innocent; and our mother has long been weak, and not able to work. I say, then, go your W ays — for the commandments of God are against you, and He will not spare them who work iniquity." Margaret Lyndsay had a sweet mild face — eyes of softest hazel — and the very spirit of gentleness breathed over her light auburn hair. But now there came a flash from the offended sanctity of her innocence, that, for a while, struck into that bad woman's heart. "Are you not afraid of the great God, whose eye is now up- on us ?" And so saying, she looked up to the heavens, where the moon was shining without a cloud, and whose blue serene face was sparkling with many thou- sand stars. There was deep and wide silence — only the sighs of this innocent child, and the groans of her wicked father. They came faster and faster — louder and louder. Margaret, beginning to hope that he was at last relenting, again folded him in her embraces, and strove gently to draw him towards her, and to- wards their deserted home. " Go away, woman — and may God bless you ! You have not the face of one that is very cruel. We all will bless you— and, poor as we are, you never shall want, while we can work. Our prayers will do something, perhaps, if they are sincere, which they will be ; and God will take pity on you and forgive you, if you will not kill us all— for without our father must we indeed all die of grief." His paramour now began to dread that Walter 54 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. Lyndsay might be lost to her, and fiercely grasping Margaret's arm, tore her from his side, and flung her with violence away, till she fell upon the bank. ec Did you fix this meeting with your brat to insult the woman you have ruined ? Was your throat stuffed with lies when I gave you all those endearments at parting but half an hour ago, and do you send this bosom for food to the worms ?" With these words she tore open her bosom — and the infatuated man laid down his head upon it. " Cursed be the hour, Walter, that your head first lay there — for you know that, till then, I was innocent. But go home — go home — and let me be buried — like a pauper and a prostitute — for you have made me both. No — not that — for I am true to you as the worm that never dies is true to an evil conscience." Margaret Lyndsay was sitting on the ground, stunned, and with her hands before her eyes ; and, when she dared again to look up, she saw only footsteps that had dashed and trampled the thick dews — her father and his Evil Spirit had disappeared. TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 55 CHAPTER VIII. Margaret continued sitting for a while, all by herself, and utterly disconsolate, in that little moon- light glen. During many a sweet sunny day, of many a long long summer, for heretofore almost all the whole year had been summer to her, had she and her brother, and her sister, and her companions, pursued their harmless plays, among these brooms, hollows, green knolls, and hawthorn thickets. Not unfre- quently had her father come, and joined them in the summer evenings, on his late return from his w T ork in the town ; and on the very last King's Birth-day, he had helped them to seek out the few yellow branches of the early- blossomed broom for garlands, to welcome that pleasant festival, in the very place where he had now deserted herself, her mother, and them all. But the calamity that had befallen them was too great to bear long reflection in the mind of a solitary girl in such a solitary place. The thought of her mother's misery went quite through her heart, and Margaret asked herself why she was sitting so long 56 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. idly there, when she was so much wanted at their un- happy home. She had left the dead — quiet now, and needing no attendance, for the sake of the living — disturbed, and sorely requiring what in madness he had spurned. She had done her duty, but she knew it not, for it was in a mental agony of passion that she had flown to him, and now it was in the last exhaustion of her heart that she crept back to the house of her widowed mother and her orphan sisters. She stopt for a moment at the door, to wipe the tears away that had stained her cheeks, and to tie up her long hair that had fallen down when that woman so cruelly dashed her to the ground, and as she was about to lift the latchet, she heard the sound of voices in the house. Her mother had come to the threshhold to look out into the moonlight for her daughter, and she now put her finger to her lips to enjoin silence. Mar- garet went in, and found several neighbours in the house, whom her mother had brought to look on the body of the old woman, lest any life remained. They were sitting solemnly, but not sadly, and without tears, for tears are seldom shed by the poor over the corpse of threescore and ten. Margaret saw at once that there was death, and she walked into her grand- mother's room. How different a sight from that which she had just left ! No disturbance here, — no ghastly contortions of countenance, — no blackening frowns, — no miserable eyes ; but perfect peace, — fea- tures overspread with a serene beauty, — smiles like TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 57 the moonlight, — and lids shut as if in a happy dream. The expression of that countenance was far milder now in death than it had ever been in life. All the gentlest and sweetest qualities of her soul, and it had many such, alone seemed to survive there. All that was hard, or stern, or austere, had passed away ; there was nothing to mar the passionless beauty of the venerable dead. So Margaret bent forward, and kissed the still Saint-like image ; her whole soul was at once quieted within her, and she knelt down in prayer. Nor did the deserted wife seem less wonderfully supported. She had been sitting by the death-bed of the mother of her husband, when that husband was leaning his head on a harlot's bosom. A few mo- ments before that mother died, Alice had raised her head upon the pillow, and thought she saw sense with- in her glazed eyes. " Oh ! take your curse off your son !" did she keep repeating, over and over again, with a piteous voice. The death-like image heard the meaning ; and, " O God of my fathers, forgive and bless my Walter !" were her last indistinct words. Then, indeed, was a weight, hard to be borne, taken off that conjugal heart; and now that the one was dead, and the other worse than dead, yet was she, in the elevation of her unconscious virtue, almost happy, and never more than at that dismal hour humbly thankful to Heaven. Two of the neighbours wished to remain all night in the house, but their kindness was acknowledged 58 TRIALS OP MARGARET LYNDSAY. and declined. There was at present no farther service to be done for the dead — blind Esther and helpless Marion were fast asleep — and both mother and daugh- ter longed to be left to themselves. They accompa- nied their good neighbours to the door ; one of whom, on parting, said, looking up, " Oh I but her soul has departed on a bonny quiet night — a nature, baith heaven and earth, is at rest !" When the door was shut for the night, her mother calmly bid Margaret sit down beside her, and asked her to tell what had happened to her during her ab- sence. It had been one of the first lessons instilled into the child's mind never to tell a lie ; and she now narrated, as far as she could, all that she had seen and heard. Few questions were put to her — for the broken-hearted wife and widow wished not to hear from such young and innocent lips more than was ne- cessary to let her fully understand the extent of her desolation. Neither did she break out into any excla- mations of grief or anger. Had she herself been forced to witness any part of what her daughter had seen, indignation would doubtless have mingled with a bitter sense of wrong and insult, and her blood might have boiled while misery wrung out her tears. But she had long known that there was guilt; and now that it had fallen to the lot of her own daughter to witness and reveal it, it was not fitting to use angry expressions towards a father in hearing of such a TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 59 child ; and, therefore, while she solemnly condemned the sin, most tenderly did she spare the sinner. It was right now that she should admit Margaret to her nearest and closest confidence — for on her affec- tionate and virtuous nature the orphan family was henceforth in a great measure to depend. So she told her more than she had ever done of her own early life — the affecting circumstances of her marriage her husband's perfect kindness for many years — a kindness which had unceasingly embraced them all, old and young, till bad men had sown irreligious thoughts in his heart, and then he forsook his own cheerful fire- side and quiet bed, till, lapse after lapse, known only to his own soul, he at last had fallen away utterly from God, and, lo ! the miserable end. Then, indeed, did Alice break forth into lamentation. The green fields about her father's house, — all her simple, innocent, and happy life about that quiet farm, laborious as it had been, — her father's sudden death, — Walter Lynd- say's compassion and love for her an orphan, — his dis- interested affection for one who was so poor, — their many blessed years, when every thing within doors, and without, went to their hearts' desire, — all came upon her with a weight not to be borne, and she wondered at the wickedness, the alteration, and the decay. Margaret sat still, and said nothing ; but not a word — not a tone of her mother's voice — not a sigh nor a tear escaped her heart. Hitherto her whole carec 60 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. and anxieties (and for one so young she had had not a few) had been for the present hour or day ; but now she saw that there was a future belonging to this life, and that she must never more be only a thoughtless, laughing, happy girl, but even sad, if not sorrowful, like her beloved mother. She felt satisfied in her in- nocent mind that she had already had too too much joy j and when she thought of that dreadful scene in the little glen, and then beheld her mother's resigna- tion taking quiet place of that distracted grief, she drew her stool nearer to her side ; and almost in an ecstasy of filial love told her to fear nothing, for that she herself, although young and ignorant, felt strong in the fear of God. It was now past midnight, and the last sparks of the peat-fire, which one of the neighbours had renewed unasked during the affliction, had quite gone out in the ashes. But the moon and stars had filled the room with so much clear light, that mother and daughter had seen distinctly each other's faces, and knew there- in that neither of them was sorely afraid of the future, with all its inevitable ills, " I will sleep with you to- night," said Margaret, with a sudden sob ; for she had lain every night, for a month past, on the bed where those other old lifeless limbs were now stretched in their coldness. So she assisted her worn-out mother to her bed, and they lay down together, with their arms across each other's breast. In a few minutes gracious nature gave up the soul of the child to sleep ; and TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 61 her face, so perfectly free from every touch of sin in the deep beauty of its repose, comforted the aching heart of the widow, as often and often before morning she sat up disturbedly in her bed, and clasp- ed her hands in an agony of pity and despair, for the sake of him who had gone away, never again, most probably, to see her in this life. 62 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. CHAPTER IX. A " fatherless family" are two melancholy words, and here there were many things to deepen their meaning, even to the most cold-hearted. The Lyndsays had always been in a condition of life some- what above the common, and had for many years been looked upon as a perfect pattern of domestic virtue, respectability, and happiness, by every one not only in Braehead, but over all the parish. Slight symp- toms of internal sorrow and decay had now and then been visible to a few more observant eyes, in the ne- glected and weedy state of their little garden, former- ly the neatest and richest of all, and in the pale faces and downcast eyes of mother and daughter, so unlike their customary expression of gaiety and contentment. Then bad rumours were afloat of a cruel husband, and an improvident father, till guilt was publicly and ineffaceably branded upon his name, and the best man in the village first incarcerated like a felon, had next vanished like a ghost. Then that venerable old woman, who had sat for years in her chair at TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 63 her busy wheel, till, palsy- stricken, her foot and hand were numbed into rest, and to turn over the leaves of her Bible was as much as she could do, dropt the body and disappeared. The son, a boy whom every body had liked, was far away, or dead, perhaps given to evil courses. The poor blind lassie was not heard singing so constantly as she used to do ; and she seldom finished a single song ; now a verse of some- thing plaintive, and immediately after a frolicsome and comic strain, stopt short of a sudden, as if it were frozen within her heart. That other harmless crea- ture alone was unchanged. Sometimes she would ask, with a momentary sadness on her earnest face, for her father and her grandmother ; but a word pa- cified her, and she would scarcely have known the difference, had she been told that the one had gone to bliss in heaven, and that the other was wandering in misery on the earth. It is a hard and painful thing to inhabit a house, where one has been perfectly happy, — after all that constituted that happiness, or on which it entirely de- pended, is for ever gone. And it is worst of all, when the change has been wrought, not by death, but by sin. So felt this deserted woman, when she looked up to the sheltering trees, and across the little gardens and glens of Braehead. Tins had been her Paradise, when hither she came after her marriage. Here had all the children been born, and their voices and their laugh- ter had filled all the air around, each succeeding year, 64 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. with more various and intermingled sounds. But now the place was stript of all that made it Brae- head, and a new character brought dismally over it, of melancholy, shame, and despair. To live there was impossible ; yet the widow looked on her orphans, and wished not for a while to die. She communicated to Margaret her intention of tak- ing a very low-rented dwelling, in some one of the ob- scure lanes of the Town, where they might be able, by their united work, to earn a subsistence ; and, perhaps, by and by, to open a reading and sewing school for the children of their poor neighbours. Margaret heard the proposal with a cheerful mind. She felt that she had no right to remain at Braehead ; and, therefore, she crushed at once all such wishes in her heart. A new destiny awaited her, in which, as long as her mo- ther remained tolerably strong, and she had her own health, there was nothing in the least appalling or re- pulsive. On the contrary, they would all be living to- gether, unobserved and quite by themselves. " We never hear," she would say, " my dear mother, of any families really dying of want, and many support them- selves without parents at all. There is no fear of us ; let us have our house in the ugliest darkest lane, if there it will be cheapest ; and we shall be as happy, and happier too, than many who live in the grandest streets or squares." Walter Lyndsay had deserted his family towards the end of August, — time crept on over thefloor of the house 12 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 65 of affliction,— and it was now the third week in No- vember. The house which the widow was about to leave had been the property of an old man in comfort- able circumstances, who, on hearing of their mis- fortunes, had instantly agreed to remit their half-year's rent altogether, or to take it when it might be con- venient for them to pay the sum. But he died, — and his heir, being a stranger, and in difficulties, the rent of four pounds was rigorously demanded. All the furniture, except one bed, a table, and two or three chairs, had been already sold, week after week ; — and to raise the sum of four pounds seemed to be impos- sible. But a few days before the term-day, a neigh- bour, woman, who had been married about the same time with Alice, had lived all along at Braehead, and had been familiar in the house, both in happiness and affliction, came in and sat down, with an air of absence and of restraint. — u Hae you ony bad news to tell me ?" said the easily alarmed widow ; — <( if sae, dinna fear to speak. Whatever be the will o' God that I should bear, He will give me strength for the burden. Is my Walter dead ?'' — " No, no, Alice — I ken naething about the puir man sin' he left Braehead — God bless him ; but you are the only widow woman, as ane may say, in the town ; and we hae heard about this sair distress o* the rent. W T e hae a' subscribed — Our husbands, oursels, and some o' the bit bairns too ; and here is four pound. May it dae nae guid to him who clawts it out o' the widow's house.'' E 66 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY, Alice had shed no tears for some weeks past — they had all settled down into her heart. But when she looked at the worthy woman who was herself so poor, and saw the purse in her lap — a sense of that great kindness from those who had so little to spare, smote her, and she wept. The sweet and benign spirit of humanity yet existed for her, the deserted and widow- ed one ; and something that she thought had been wi- thered and dead for ever began to stir within her heart ; something like joy in life, and a secret wish for its prolongation. " Yes, Sarah, I will take it ; — and well thou knowest, and all my other friends, that ' they who give unto the poor lend unto the Lord.' " The twenty-fourth day of November came at last — a dim, dull, dreary, and obscure day, fit for parting everlastingly from a place or person tenderly beloved. There was no sun — no wind — no sound in the misty and unechoing air. A deadness lay over the wet earth, and there was no visible Heaven. Their goods and chattels were few ; but many little delays occur- red, some accidental, and more in the unwillingness of their hearts to take a final farewell. A neighbour had lent his cart for the flitting, and it was now standing loaded at the door, ready to move away. The fire, which had been kindled in the morning with a few borrowed peats, was now out — the shutters closed — the door was locked — and the key put into the hand of the person sent to receive it. And now there was. TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 67 nothing more to be said or done, and the impatient horse started briskly away from Braehead. The blind girl, and poor Marion, were sitting in the cart— Mar- garet and her mother were on foot. Esther had two or three small flower-pots in her lap, for in her blind- ness she loved the sweet fragrance, and the felt forms and imagined beauty of flowers ; and the innocent carried away her tame pigeon in her bosom. Just as Margaret lingered on the threshold, the Robin red- breast, that had been their boarder for several winters, hopped upon the stone-seat at the side of the door, and turned up its merry eyes to her face. ec There," said she, " is your last crumb from us, sweet Roby, but there is a God who takes care o' us a'." The widow had by this time shut down the lid of her memory, and left all the hoard of her thoughts and feelings, joyful or despairing, buried in darkness. The assembled group of neighbours, mostly mothers with their children in their arras^ had given the " God bless you, Alice, God bless you, Margaret, and the lave," and began to disperse ; each turning to her own cares and anxieties, in which, before night, the Lynd- says would either be forgotten, or thought on with that unpainful sympathy which is all the poor can afford or expect, but which, as in this case, often yields the fairest fruits of charity and love. A cold sleety rain accompanied the cart and the foot travellers all the way to the city. Short as the distance was, they met with several other flittings, 68 TRIALS OF MARGARET LYN0SAY. some seemingly cheerful, and from good to better, — others with woe-begone faces, going like themselves down the path of poverty, on a journey from which they were to rest at night in a bare and hungry house. And now they drove through the suburbs, and into the city, passing unheeded among crowds of people, all on their own business of pleasure or profit, laugh- ing, jibing, shouting, cursing, — the stir, and tumult, and torrent of congregated life. Margaret could hardly help feeling elated with the glitter of all the shining windows, and the hurry of the streets. " Safe us, what a noisy town is this Edinburgh !" said blind Esther ; " and yet hear till that woman singing bal- lads. Waes me, but she has a sair cracked voice, and rins out o' the tune a thegither." Marion sat silent with her pigeon warm in her breast below her brown cloak, unknowing she of change of time or of place, and reconciled to sit patiently there, with the soft plumage touching her heart, if the cart had gone on, through the cold and sleet, to midnight. The cart stopt at the foot of a lane too narrow to admit the wheels, and also too steep for a laden horse. Two or three of their new neighbours, — persons in the very humblest condition, coarsely and negligently dressed, but seemingly kind and decent people, came out from their houses at the stopping of the cart-wheels, and one of them said, " Aye, aye, here's the flitting, I'se warrant, frae Braehead. Is that you, Mrs Lynd - say ? Hech, sers, but you've gotten a nasty cauld wet TRIALS OF MARGARET LYNDSAY. 69 day for coming into Auld Reekie, as you kintra folks ca' Embro. — Hae ye had ony tidings, say ye, o' your gudeman since he gaed afF wi' that limmer?— dool be wi' her and a' sic like." Alice replied kindly to such questioning, for she knew it was not meant unkindly. The cart was soon unladen, and the furniture put into the empty room. A cheerful fire was blazing, and the animated and interested faces of the honest folks who crowded into it, on a slight acquaintance, unce- remoniously and curiously, but without rudeness, gave a cheerful welcome to the new dwelling. " I thocht you wad na be the waur o' a bit fire, — so, though ye gied me nae orders, I raked thegither a wheen shav- ings, and wi' ane o' Jock's spunks I soon made a bleeze. They're your ain coals, and the lum's a grand drawer in a' win's. — -I kent that in Mr Jamieson's time, — for he often used to say that he had na a smoky house, although aiblins he might hae a scolding wife." — " Haud your tongue, you tawpie," cried an- other of the gossips, —