CHAPTER I. ON THE EYE OF A GRAND WEDDING.

A wild and wintry night, in a wild and wintry scene! The old turnpike road running through the mountain pass, lonely at the best times, seemed quite deserted now.

The old Scotch toll-gate keeper sat shivering over his blazing hickory wood fire, and listening to the dashing rain and beating wind that seemed to threaten the destruction of his rude dwelling.

His old wife sat near him, spinning yarn from a small wheel that she turned with the united action of hand and foot.

“Ugh!” shuddered the old man, as a blast fiercer than ever shook the house, “it ’ill ding down the old dwelling next, and no harm done! An it were once blown away, the company would behoove to build us anither strong enough to stand the storms o’ these parts. Hech! but it’s awfu’ cold.”

“Pit anither log on the fire, gudeman. Wood’s plenty 24enough, that’s a blessing,” said the old woman, without ceasing to turn her wheel.

“Wha’s the use, Jenny? Ye’ll no warm sic an old place as this. Eh, woman, but whiles my knees are roasting, my back is freezing.”

“Aweel, then gae away to bed wid ye, Andy, and I’ll tuck ye up warm, and bring ye your hot toddy.”

“Nay, Jenny, worse luck, I maun sit up to let the bridegroom through the gate.”

“The bridegroom? Hoot, man! He’ll no pass the road on sic a wild night as this.”

“Will he no, and his bonny bride waiting? Jenny, woman, what like o’ wind or weather would ha’ stopt me the day we were gaun to be married? So ye maun gie me my pipe, gudewife, for I bide here to open the gate for the blithe bridegroom to pass through.”

“But he maun see that no tender lassie can take the road in sic a storm as this, and they were to be married by special license at nine, and gae away in a grand travelling carriage at ten, to meet the steamboat at eleven. But that can no be now, for the rain is comin’ down like Noah’s flood, and the wind blowing a hurricane, to say naething o’ the roads all being turned into rinning rivers,” argued Jenny.

“It will be for her to decide whether it can or canna be. It will be for him to take the road in the worst weather that ever fell from heaven, if it be to keep his tryst with his troth-plighted bride. So gie me my pipe, Jenny, for I’se stop up to let the bridegroom gae by.”

“He willna come now, and so ye’ll see, gudeman,” said the wife, as she filled his pipe, and pressed the tobacco well down into the bowl with her big fore finger.

“An he does na come through wind or rain or snow, or ony ither like o’ weather the Lord please to send this night, and I were Miss Anna Lyon, I’d cast him off in the 25morn like old shoes,” nodded Andy, as he took the pipe from his wife and put it into his mouth.

“But don’t ye see, gudeman, that it’ll be nae use. She canna travel on sic a night as this.”

“I’m no that sure she will be called upon to travel the night. I heard a rumor they had changed all that. And there was to be a grand wedding at the old Hall, and a hall and a supper, and that the bonny bride and bridegroom wouldna gae away till the morn. And I’se believe it,” said Andy, taking the big tongs, picking up a live coal, and beginning to light his pipe.

“Hoot, man, that will be no decent. She’ll behoove to marry and gae away like ither brides, but she’ll no be married and gae away the night. The wedding maun be pit off,” said Jenny, resuming her place at the wheel.

“Pit off! It hae been pit off twice a’ready, once when the old Judge Lyon died, then when the old lady died. An it be pit off a third time, it ’ill never take place. But it will no be put off. He’ll keep his tryst, and she’ll keep her word. Worse luck that I hae to bide up to let him through.”

“An he maun come, pity he could na ha’ come sooner.”

“Hoot, gudewife, how could he? The steamer does na stop at the Stormy Petrel Landing until nigh noon, and it will be a good fifty miles from here. And he travelling in his ain carriage without a change of horses all the way over sic roads, and in sic weather as this? How will he come sooner?”

“Eh! but I wish he were here!” cried the old woman.

“There he’ll be now!” exclaimed the old man, rising and listening, as in a temporary lull of the tempest the sound of carriage wheels was heard dashing, rumbling and tumbling along the road.

“Take your big shawl about you,” said Jenny, rising and reaching down a heavy gray “maud” from its peg, 26and throwing it over Andy’s shoulders, as, with a lighted candle in his hand, he went to open the door.

“Hech, sirs! what a night to take the road in! Naething but a waiting bride should fetch a man forth in sic weather!” exclaimed the old toll-taker, as a blast of wind and rain blew out his candle, and whirled his shawl up over his head.

“Shut the door, gudeman, or we’ll both be drowned in our ain house, and bide a we till I bring ye the lantern. Ye’ll no be able to take a lighted candle out there,” said Jenny, as she ran to a corner cupboard and brought forth an old horn machine big enough for a lighthouse or a watch tower. She lit the candle end that was in it, and handed it to Andy.

He having meanwhile, fastened his great shawl with several strong pins and skewers, once more opened the door, and went forth into the pitch dark night and raging storm.

A spacious travelling carriage stood at the toll-gate, with two crimson lamps glowing luridly through the dark, driving tempest.

Holding down his hat with one hand and carrying the lantern with the other, old Andy pushed on towards the carriage, and saw that its door stood open, and a young man in a heavy travelling cloak was leaning out.

“Be gude to us, sir! is it yoursel’, sure enough? Troth, I said ye would come,” said Andy, with a welcoming smile.

“Come! why, to be sure I would come. Did you think that any sort of weather would have stopped me on such an occasion as this? Why, Birney, I would have come if it had rained pitchforks, points downward, or wild cats and mad dogs,” laughed the young man.

“Sae I said, sir; sae I said!”

“But, Birney, my friend, I must get out and stretch my limbs a little. I want to be able to stand when I get to the Hall; but really, I have been cramped up in this close carriage 27so many hours, riding over this beast of a country so many miles, without seeing a single place where I could stop for refreshment, that—that—in short, Birney, you must let me out and let me in,” said the traveller.

“Surely, Mr. Alexander! surely, sir! and much honor to my humble home,” said the old toll-taker, smiling, and bowing respectfully.

The young man, notwithstanding his “cramped” condition, leaped lightly from his carriage, drew his travelling cloak closely around him, hoisted a large umbrella, and unceremoniously preceded his host to the house, where he burst suddenly in upon Jenny, who was in the act of taking a kettle of boiling water from the fire.

“Gude save us! Mr. Alick, is it yoursel’? I could hardly believe ony gentleman in his sober sinses would take the road on sic a night!”

“It is myself, Mistress Birney—that I know; but as to being in my sober senses, I am not quite so sure. I see you’ve got some hot water there. I hope you have also got a sample of that fine old Scotch whiskey your husband used to drink in remembrance of your old country. If so, Mistress Birney, I’ll thank you to make me a tumbler of hot toddy. It would be very acceptable in such weather as this,” said “Mr. Alick,” as he threw off his cloak and his cap, and dropped himself down into old Andy’s own arm-chair, in the warm chimney corner.

“Surely, sir! surely, Mr. Alick! I’se make it directly. I’se e’en now just gaun to mix the gude man’s night drink for himsel’,” smiled Jenny, hospitably.

“All right! mix mine at the same time,” said the young man, stretching out his feet to the fire, and indulging in a great yawn.

“And mix it in the big stone pitcher with the zinc cover, so it will keep hot while we sit and drink the bonny bride, Miss Anna Lyon’s health,” said old Andy as he came in and closed the door to keep out the driving rain.

28“Oh, look here! You know I’ve no time for health-drinking; I’m due at the Hall these three hours; only this horrid weather, and these beastly roads have delayed me,” exclaimed Mr. Alick, rising impatiently and standing before the blazing fire.

He was a very good-looking young fellow, as he stood there. He had a tall, well-proportioned form, fine regular features, a fair, roseate complexion, light yellow hair, and bright blue eyes—smiling eyes that seemed to love all they looked upon.

Quickly and skilfully Jenny Birney made the toddy and poured it into large tumblers that she had previously heated by scalding them out with boiling water.

Once more Mr. Alick dropped himself into old Andy’s chair, while he received one of the glasses from his host.

“Eh, there sir; it’s as hot as love!” said the old man, as he passed the pitcher that his guest might replenish his glass at his pleasure.

“It is very good,” admitted the young man when he had finished his second tumbler. “Many thanks to you, Mistress Birney for the aid and comfort you have given me. I feel as if you had saved my life. I can now do the distance between this and the Hall without breaking down. And now I must be off. Good evening to you, Mistress Birney.”

And the traveller put on his cloak and cap, took up his umbrella, and escorted by Andy, left the cottage.

“Oh, by the way, Birney, you may bring out some of that hot stuff to my coachman. Poor devil! it will do him no harm after he has been perched up there so long in the rain. But hark ye, Birney! don’t let it be too stiff; I don’t want the fellow to see more mists before his eyes than the night and the storm make,” said Mr. Alick as he got into the carriage.

Old Andy toddled back to his house, and after a few 29minutes reappeared at the carriage with a mug of the same restorative for the man as he had lately administered to the master.

The chilled and wearied coachman turned it down his throat almost at a gulp, returned the mug, and thanked the donor.

Then he gathered up his reins, cracked his whip, and started his horses at as brisk a trot as might be deemed safe on that dark night over that rough road.

The old turnpike-keeper hurried out of the storm into the shelter of his own cottage.

“Hech! it’s an awfu’ night! I’m glad he’s come and gone. We may pit up the shutters now, gudewife; we’ll no be troubled wi’ ony more travellers the night,” said old Andy, as he shook his shawl free from the clinging rain drops, and hung it up in its place.

“Now sit ye down in your own comfortable chair, gudeman, and I’ll brew ye a bowl o’ hot punch. Eh, hinney, ye’ll be needing it after sic’ an exposure to the elements,” said Jenny, as she replaced the kettle over the blaze, and drew Andy’s old arm-chair before the fire.

With a sigh of infinite relief, he let himself sink into the inviting seat, kicked off his heavy shoes, and stretched his stockinged feet to the genial warmth of the hearth. Andy did not rejoice in the luxury of a pair of slippers.

“Eh, Jenny, woman, it’s good to feel oneself at ease at one’s own fireside at last,” said the old man, as he took from the hand of his wife a smoking tumbler of punch.

“‘It’s hot as love,’ as you say,” she nodded.

“Eh, so it is; what’s the hour, gudewife?”

“It’s gone weel on to ten,” she answered, glancing at the tall old clock that stood in the corner, and reached from floor to ceiling.

“And I’se gaun to bed immediately, no to be bothered wi’ any more travellers the night,” said Andy, blowing and sipping his punch.

30But Andy reckoned without his host, as many of his betters do.

Just at that moment there came a rap at the door, so low, however, that it could scarcely be heard amid the roaring of the storm.

Yet both husband and wife turned and listened.

It was repeated.

“What’s that?” asked Andy.

“There’s some one outside,” said Jenny.

The rap was reiterated.

“Who the de’il can it be, at this unlawful hour o’ the night? Gae see, Jenny, woman. And if it’s ony vagrants bang the door in their faces. I’se no be troubled wi’ ony more callers the night!” cried the old man, impatiently.

Before he had well done grumbling, the old woman had gone to the door and opened it, letting in a furious blast of wind and rain.

“Gude guide us!” she exclaimed, starting back, aghast, at what she saw without.

“What the de’il is it then, gude wife?” nervously demanded Andy, starting up and seizing his old musket from its hooks above the chimney-piece. Andy was thinking only of thieves, as is usual with many who have little to lose.

“Pit up your gun, gude man, it’s no what ye think,” said Jenny, once more approaching the door to peep out at the wretch that stood dripping and shivering outside.

“For the love of Heaven, let me in a little while. I will not stay many minutes,” pleaded a plaintive voice from the darkness.

“Who is it?” inquired Andy, coming cautiously forward in his stocking feet.

“It’s some poor lassie, as far as I can make out. Come in wi’ ye then,” said Jenny, stretching the door wide open, though the wind and the rain rushed in, flooding the floor where they stood.

31“Ay, come in, and ye maun, and dinna stand there like a lunatic keeping the door open and letting in the weather,” growled Andy, as he toddled back to his comfortable chair and dropped into it.

Before he had half uttered his churlish invitation, the stranger had entered, and now stood in the room, with the rain running from her dark raiment, while Jenny shut and bolted the door.

“Now then, who are ye? and what brings ye tramping on sic a night as this?” sternly demanded Andy, as he turned and stared at the stranger.

She wore a long dark gray cloak with a hood; the cloak completely concealed her form and its hood overshadowed her face. That was all that Andy could make of her appearance then.

“Who are ye, I ask, and where are ye gaun the night,” he angrily repeated.

The stranger did not answer except by dropping her face upon her open hands.

“Andy, dinna ye see she canna speak? For the sake of our own poor lost Katie, we maun have pity. Come away to the fire, my poor lass, and dry your clothes, whiles I get ye something warm to take the chill out o’ your poor shivering body,” said Jenny, kindly placing her hand upon the girl’s shoulder and gently urging her towards the fire-place.

“I’m of opinion that ye’d better find out who she is, and where she came from, and where she’s gaun, before ye press upon her the hospitalities of an honest house,” grumbled Mr. Birney.

“Whist, gude man! I might speer a dizzen questions, but dinna ye see for yoursel’ that she’s in na condition to answer ane?” said Jenny, in a low voice.

Andy growled something in which the words “tramping hizzy” were the only ones audible.

“Come, let me hae your cloak, hinny, to hang it up to 32dry. See, it’s wringing wet. Nay, nay, dinna resist gude offices,” said Mrs. Birney, with kind persistence, as she saw that the girl made some little, mute, pathetic resistance to the removal of her outer garment.

Jenny gently took it off her and hung it on the back of a chair to dry by the fire.

And the young stranger stood revealed in all her loveliness and sorrow.

She was a young, slight, graceful creature, with a thin, pale face, dark hair and dark eyebrows, long, black eye-lashes, and large, soft, gray eyes, so full of pleading sadness that their glances went straight to the heart of Jenny Birney. It was a child’s face; but ah, woe! it was a matron’s form revealed there.

“Wae-sooks!” exclaimed the good wife in consternation, as she gazed upon the young thing, and saw that, child-like as she looked, she had been married, or——ought to have been.

Again the little, pale hands went up and covered the little, woe-forn face.

“Sit ye down,” said Mrs. Birney, kindly. “Ye are no able to stand.”

And she drew her own low, cushioned chair to the chimney corner, and with gentle force pushed the poor child into it. And then she took down her little black tea-pot from the corner cupboard and began to make tea.

Mr. Birney watched the process in strong disapprobation.

His wife raised a deprecating glance to his face, murmuring, in a low tone:

“We maun be pitiful, Andy! for our poor lost Katy’s sake, we maun be pitiful.”

He answered that appeal by growling forth the words:

“Aweel, aweel, Jenny woman, hae your ain way! hae your ain way! Eh! but ye’ve had it these forty years and mair! And it’s no likely that ye’ll gie it up now!”

33And so saying, the old man put his pipe in his mouth and resigned himself to circumstances.

Mrs. Birney made a cup of tea and a round of toast, and set them on a little stand beside her guest.

“Now eat and drink and ye’ll be better. Nay, nay, dinna shake your poor little head! do as I bid ye. I had a child o’ my ain once. She has been in heaven, I hope, these twenty years. Sae ye see I hae a soft place in my heart for children, especially for lassies; sae eat and drink, and be comforted and strengthened, and then maybe ye’ll tell me how ye came to be out in the weather, and what I can do for ye besides giving you a bit and sup and a bed to lie on,” coaxed the good woman.

“Thanks, thanks,” murmured the girl, as she raised the cup, and with a feverish thirst eagerly drank the tea.

“Try some of the toast. It is done with milk; it will nourish ye,” hospitably urged Jenny.

“Please—I cannot eat a morsel, and—I must go now,” answered the young stranger, rising.

“Go now! Are ye daft?” exclaimed Mrs. Birney, in dismay; while Mr. Birney took the pipe from his mouth and stared.

“No, I am not ‘daft,’ though I know how mad my purpose must seem,” calmly answered the girl, taking her cloak from the chair upon which it was drying by the fire.

“But—I thought ye came here for a night’s lodging, and——”

“Oh, no; I had no such design,” sighed the girl.

“But—an ye didna come for a night’s lodging, what did ye come for?”

“I was nearly spent with struggling on in the face of the tempest. I was so beaten by the wind and the rain that I thought I should have dropped and died; I almost wish I had. But I saw the light in your window and I tried to 34reach it, and I did. I came in only to rest and breathe a little while, and get strength to go on again.”

“But where did ye come from, my poor child?” inquired the pitying woman.

“I came from Washington by the stage-coach. It put me down at the Cross Roads, ten miles from this place.”

“Gude save us! and ye walked all that way through the storm?”

“Yes, and was nearly exhausted; but now, thanks to your charity, I feel refreshed, and able to pursue my journey,” said the young girl, as she tied her cloak, and drew its hood over her head.

“Indeed, then, and ye’ll no do onything o’ the sort. Eh, sirs, are we heathen to let a wee bit lassie gae forth alane on sic a stormy winter-night as this, when we wouldna turn an enemy’s dog from the door? Sit ye down, my lass, and dinna ye mind the gudeman’s growling. His bark is aye worse than his bite,” said Mrs. Birney.

And here Mr. Birney took his pipe from his mouth, and spoke these gracious words:

“Bide ye here for the present, an’ ye will. I dinna like tramps as a permanent institution in the house, but I’ll no turn ye out into the storm, sae bide where ye be.”

And having uttered this oracle, old Andy replaced his pipe between his lips, and smoked vigorously to make up for lost time.

“Ye hear what the gudeman says? Hark ye now to the wisdom of age, and bide ye quiet till I make ye a bed, and I’ll wrap ye weel and pit ye warm to sleep the night, and in the morn ye may gae where ye like.”