THE LOST LITTLE ONES.
I have a story to tell relative to what happened to Sir George and Lady Beaumont, the excellent and beloved proprietors of the Hermitage, in a neighbouring county. At the period of which I speak, their family consisted of five children, three sons and two daughters; and their eldest, a daughter called Charlotte, was then nine years of age. She was a remarkably clever child, and a great favourite of her parents; but her mother used to remark that her vivacity required checking, and, notwithstanding her partiality for her, she never failed to exercise it when it became necessary. It would have been well had others acted equally judiciously.
It happened one day, as the family were going to sit down to dinner, that Charlotte did not make her appearance. The maid was sent up to her room, but she was not there. The dinner-bell was ordered to be rung again, and a servant was at the same time dispatched to the garden; and this having been done, Sir George and his lady proceeded with the other youngsters to the dining-room, not doubting but Charlotte would be home immediately. The soup, however, was finished without any tidings of her, when, Lady Beaumont seeming a little uneasy, Sir George assured her there was no cause for alarm, as Charlotte would probably be found under her favourite gooseberry bush. Lady Beaumont seemed to acquiesce in this, and appeared tolerably composed, till the servant who had been sent to the garden came back to say that she was not there. Sir George insisted that the man had probably passed her without seeing her, the garden being so large; but the servant averred that he had been through the whole of it, and had shouted repeatedly Miss Charlotte’s name.
“Oh!” exclaimed Sir George, “she has pretended not to hear you, Robert, and, I daresay, will be back immediately, now that she has succeeded in giving you a race round the garden; however,” added he, “you may go back again, and take Samuel and Thomas with you, and if you do not find her hiding herself in the garden, you may take a peep into the shrubbery, as she may slip in there, on seeing you returning; and as you go along, you may call to her, and say that dinner waits, and that Lady Beaumont is much displeased with her being out at this time of the day. And now, my love,” continued Sir George to his lady, “just let us proceed with dinner, and compose yourself.”
Lady Beaumont forced a smile, and busied herself in attending to her young ones; but her own plate was neglected, and her eyes were continually turned towards the window which looked upon the lawn.
“What can keep Robert, papa?” said Charles to his father.
“Indeed, my boy,” said Sir George, “I do not know. Charlotte,” continued he to Lady Beaumont, “do you see any thing?”
“They are all coming back,” exclaimed Lady Beaumont, “and alone!” and she rose hastily from her chair.
Robert and the other men now entered, and reported that they had searched every spot in the garden and the shrubbery, but without finding any trace of her; and the people who had been working there all day had seen nothing of her. Lady Beaumont now became excessively alarmed, and Sir George himself was far from easy, though he appeared before his lady to treat the matter lightly.
“She’ll have gone up to the cottages to see her god-brother,” said Sir George; “or perhaps have wandered over to the mill.”
“And if she has fallen into the stream!” ejaculated Lady Beaumont.
“Now, dear Charlotte, do not needlessly alarm yourself; there’s no fear but we shall soon find her.”
“God grant it!” said Lady Beaumont, “but my mind misgives me sadly.”
Messengers were now dispatched to the cottages, and to the mill, and in various other directions around the Hermitage, but all came back without having obtained any tidings of the missing child. Sir George, now very seriously alarmed, gave private directions for having the fish-pond, and the stream which ran at the bottom of the garden, carefully dragged. It was done, but nothing was found. The whole household was now in motion, and as the story spread, the tenants and neighbours came pouring from all quarters, with offers to search the country round in every direction; so much was Sir George esteemed and beloved by all classes. Their offers were thankfully accepted, and after choosing their ground, and dividing themselves into different parties, they set out from the Hermitage, resolved, as they said, to find the little one, if she was above ground. Sir George and his lady went out as the parties set off in their different directions, and continued walking up and down the avenue, that they might the sooner perceive the approach of those bringing intelligence; but hour after hour elapsed, and no one came. Sir George then proposed that Lady Beaumont should go home and see the young ones put to bed. She did so, but soon returned again.
“I know,” said she, answering Sir George’s look, “that you wished me to remain at home and rest myself; but what rest can there be for me, till we have some intelligence of”——and her voice faltered.
“Well, well, then,” said Sir George, pressing her arm in his, “let us take a few more turns—surely we must hear something soon.”
The people now began to come dropping in from different quarters, but all had the same melancholy answer—no one had seen or heard of her. The hearts of the poor parents were sadly depressed, for daylight was fast closing in, and almost all those who had set off on the search had now returned, and amongst them their faithful servant Robert, principally from anxiety to learn if any intelligence had been obtained of his favourite. But when he found that all had returned unsuccessful, he declared his determination to continue the search during the night; and he, and a good many others who joined him, set off soon afterwards, being supplied with torches and lanterns of various descriptions.
This determination gave new hopes to the inmates of the Hermitage, and Lady Beaumont endeavoured to rally her spirits; but when at length, as daylight broke, Robert and his party returned alone, and without intelligence, nature exhausted gave way, and she fell senseless in her husband’s arms.
In the morning Robert tapped at Sir George’s door, and communicated quietly to him his recollecting to have seen a rather suspicious-looking woman near the Hermitage the previous day, and that he had just heard from a neighbour, that a woman of that description, with a child in her arms, had been seen passing to the eastward. Orders were immediately given for a pursuit on horseback;—Sir George giving directions to bring in every one whom they suspected; saying, that he would compensate those who had reason to complain of being used in this way. But, though many were brought to the Hermitage, and large rewards were offered, yet week after week passed over without bringing them the smallest intelligence of their lost little one.
Some months had elapsed since their child had disappeared, and the minds of the parents had become comparatively composed, when their attention was one evening attracted by the appearance of an unusual number of people in the grounds below the terrace, and whose motions it seemed difficult to understand.
“What can have brought so many people there?” asked Lady Beaumont; “and what are they doing?”
“Indeed, my love, I do not know,” said Sir George, “but there’s Robert, passing down the walk, and he will tell us;” and he called to Robert, who, however, seemed rather not to wish to hear; but Sir George called again, and so loudly, that Robert was obliged to stop. “Robert,” said Sir George, “what do these people seek in the low grounds there?”
“They are looking for —— of Widow Watt’s, your honour,” said Robert.
“Did you hear what it was, my dear?” said Sir George to his lady.
“No,” said Lady Beaumont; “but probably her pet lamb, or more likely her cow, has strayed.”
“Is it her cow that’s amissing, Robert?” called Sir George.
“No, your honour,” said Robert.
“Her lamb then, or some other beast?” asked Sir George.
“Naething o’ the kind, your honour,” answered Robert.
“What then?” demanded Sir George, in a tone that showed he would be answered.
“Why, your honour, they say that wee Leezie Watt’s no come hame, and the folk are gaun to seek for her; and nae doubt they’ll soon find her,” added Robert, stepping hastily away to join them.
Sir George had felt Lady Beaumont’s convulsive grasp of his arm, and gently led her to a seat, where after a while she became more composed, and was able to walk to the Hermitage.
“And now,” said she, on reaching the door, “think no more of me, but give all your thoughts to the most likely means of restoring the poor child to its widowed parent.”
“Spoken like yourself,” said Sir George, pressing her hand; and immediately flew to give directions for making the most thorough and effectual search. But this search, alas! proved equally unavailing as the former one, and no trace whatever could be found of the widow’s child.
The story, joined to the disappearance of Sir George’s daughter, made a great noise, and created considerable alarm in that part of the country; and this alarm was increased fourfold, when, in three weeks afterwards, another child was lost. The whole population now turned out, and people were stationed to watch in different places by night and by day. But no discovery was made; and, to add to their horror, child after child disappeared, till the number of the lost little ones amounted to seven. Parents no longer durst trust their children for a moment out of their sight. They went with them to school, and also went to bring them back again; and these precautions had the best effect, many weeks having elapsed without anything unpleasant happening. The neighbours now began to congratulate each other on the probability, or rather certainty, that those who had inflicted so much misery in that quarter of the country had gone somewhere else, and that they would now be able to live in some kind of peace and comfort. But this peaceful state was not destined to continue.
One of Sir George’s best tenants, David Williams, had been busily engaged in ploughing the whole day, and was thinking of unyoking and going home, when his wife looked over the dyke, and asked him how he was coming on. “But whaur,” continued she, “are the bairns? are they at the t’ither end o’ the field?”
“The bairns!” said David, “I haena seen them; but is’t time for their being back frae the school?”
“Time!” exclaimed his wife; “muckle mair than time, they should hae been hame an hour syne; and that brought me out to see gif they were wi’ you, as you said ye wad may be lowse and gang to meet them!”
“’Od, I was unco keen,” said David, “to finish this bit lea, and had nae notion it was sae far in the day.”
“Preserve us!” exclaimed Matty, “gif anything has happened to them!”
“Nonsense,” cried David, “when there’s three o’ them thegither; but, here,” says he, “tak ye the beasts hame, and I’se be off, and will soon be back wi’ them; sae dinna vex yoursel.”
“I hope it may be sae,” said Matty, “but my heart misgies me sair—however, dinna wait to speak about it.”
David Williams was not long of reaching the school, where he learned from the mistress, that his children had remained a good while after the rest, expecting him to come for them; but that they had at length set out to meet him, as she understood, and that they had been gone above an hour, and she thought they would have been home long ago. “But, perhaps,” continued she, “they may have called in at their aunt’s, for I heard them speaking of her to-day.”
David took a hasty leave, and posted away to his sister’s, but the children had not been there, nor had any one seen them. His brother-in-law, John Maxwell, seeing his distress, proposed taking one road, while David took the other, towards home, and to meet at the corner of the planting near his house. They did so, and arrived nearly at the same time, and each without having heard or seen anything of the children. David Williams was now in a perfect agony, and the perspiration ran like water from his forehead.
“Maybe they’re hame already,” said his brother-in-law; “I daurna gang up mysel to speir, bit we’ll send yon herd laddie.”
John went, and gave the boy his directions to ask, first, if David Williams was at hame, and then to ask, cannie-like, if the weans were in. He then sat down beside David, keeping his eye on the cottage, when he sees Matty come fleeing out like one distracted.
“Down, David! down wi’ your head, man,” cried John, “that she mayna see us.” But Matty had got a glimpse of them, and came right down on them as fast as she could run.
“Whaur’s my bairns, David?” cried she; “whaur’s our bonnie bairns? I kent weel, whenever the callant askit if they were come hame, what was the meaning o’t. They’re lost, they’re lost!” continued the poor woman, wringing her hands, “and what’ll become o’ me?”
“Now Matty, Matty, my ain wife,” said David, “dinna ye gang on at that gate, and hurt yoursel; naebody but John and me has been looking for them, and we’ve come straught hame, and there’s a heap o’ ither ways, ye ken, that they may hae gane by.”
“Ay, ower mony—ower mony ways, I’m doubtin’,” said Matty mournfully, shaking her head; “but dinna let us put aff time this gate. Rin ye baith an’ alarm the neebours, and I’ll awa to the Hermitage, where we’re sure to get help; and God grant it mayna end wi’ mine as it did wi’ ithers!”
“By heavens!” exclaimed Sir George, while the blood mounted to his forehead, “but this is infamous. Ring the alarm bell,” continued he, “and let all my tenants and domestics turn out on foot or on horseback, and form as large a circle round the place as possible; and let them bring out all their dogs, in case this horrid business is caused by some wild animal or another which may have broken from its keeper; and Robert,” continued Sir George, “see that no strangers are allowed to pass the circle, on any pretence whatever, without my having seen and examined them.”
These orders were immediately obeyed, and the alarm having spread far and near, an immense body of people quickly assembled, and commenced a most determined and active search, gradually narrowing their circle as they advanced.
Lady Beaumont, ascending to the top of the Hermitage, which commanded a view of the whole surrounding country, watched their proceedings with the most intense interest; trusting that the result would be not only the restoration of David Williams’ children, but the discovery also of the others which had disappeared, and of her own little one amongst the number. At times, single horsemen would dash from the circle at a gallop, and presently return with some man or woman for Sir George’s examination; and while that lasted, Lady Beaumont’s heart beat fast and thick; but the dismissal of the people, and the re-commencement of the search, painfully convinced her that no discovery had yet been made; and sighing deeply, she again turned her eyes on the searchers. At other times, the furious barking of the dogs, and the running of the people on foot towards the spot, seemed to promise some discovery; but the bursting out from the plantation of some unfortunate calf or sheep, showed that the people had been merely hastening to protect them from the unruly animals which had been brought together, and who, having straggled away from their masters, were under no control.
The day was now fast closing in, and the circle had become greatly diminished in extent; and when, in a short time afterwards, it had advanced on all sides from the plantations, and nothing but a small open space divided the people from each other, Sir George directed them to halt, and, after thanking them for what they had done, he requested them to rest themselves on the grass till refreshments could be brought from the Hermitage, after partaking of which they had best move homewards, as it seemed in vain to attempt anything more till next day. He then took leave of them, and hurried home to the Hermitage, from whence a number of people were soon seen returning with the promised refreshments.
Having finished what was set before them, and sufficiently rested themselves, most of them departed, having first declared their readiness to turn out the moment they were wanted. But when his friends proposed to David Williams his returning home, he resolutely refused, declaring his determination to continue his search the whole night; and the poor man’s distress seemed so great, that a number of the people agreed to accompany him. Robert, on being applied to, furnished them, from the Hermitage, with a quantity of torches and lanterns; and the people themselves, having got others from the cottages in the neighbourhood, divided into bands, and, fixing on John Maxwell’s house for intelligence to be sent to, parted in different ways on their search.
At first all were extremely active, and no place the least suspicious was passed by; but as the night advanced their exertions evidently flagged, and many of them began to whisper to each other that it was in vain to expect doing any good in the midst of darkness; and, as the idea gained ground, the people gradually separated from each other, and returned to their homes, promising to be ready early in the morning to renew the search.
“An’ now, David,” said John Maxwell, “let’s be gaun on.”
“No to my house,” cried David;—“not to my ain house. I canna face Matty, and them no found yet.”
“Aweel, then,” said John, “suppose ye gang hame wi’ me, and fling yersel down for a wee; an’ then we’ll be ready to start again at gray daylight.”
“An’ what will Matty think in the meantime?” answered David. “But gang on, gang on, however,” he added, “an’ I’se follow ye.”
John Maxwell, glad that he had got him this length, now led the way, occasionally making a remark to David, which was very briefly answered, so that John, seeing him in that mood, gave up speaking to him, till, coming at length to a bad step, and warning David of it, to which he got no answer, he hastily turned round and found that he was gone. He immediately went back, calling to David as loud as he could, but all to no purpose. It then occurred to him that David had probably changed his mind, and had gone homewards; and, at any rate, if he had taken another direction, that it was in vain for him to attempt following him, the light he carried being now nearly burnt out. He therefore made the best of his way to his own house.
In the meantime, poor David Williams, who could neither endure the thought of going to his own house nor to his brother-in-law’s, and had purposely given him the slip, continued to wander up and down without well knowing where he was, or where he was going to, when he suddenly found himself, on coming out of the wood, close to the cottage inhabited by a widow named Elie Anderson.
“I wad gie the world for a drink o’ water,” said he to himself; “but the puir creature will hae lain down lang syne, an’ I’m sweer to disturb her;” and as he said this, he listened at the door, and tried to see in at the window, but he could neither see nor hear anything, and was turning to go away, when he thought he saw something like the reflection of a light from a hole in the wall, on a tree which was opposite. It was too high for him to get at it without something to stand upon; but after searching about, he got part of an old hen-coop, and placing it to the side of the house, he mounted quietly on it. He now applied his eye to the hole where the light came through, and the first sight which met his horrified gaze was the body of his eldest daughter, lying on a table quite dead,—a large incision down her breast, and another across it!
David Williams could not tell how he forced his way into the house; but he remembered bolts and bars crashing before him,—his seizing Elie Anderson, and dashing her from him with all his might; and that he was standing gazing on his murdered child when two young ones put out their hands from beneath the bed-clothes.
“There’s faither,” said the one.
“Oh, faither, faither,” said the other, “but I’m glad ye’re come, for Nanny’s been crying sair, sair, an’ she’s a’ bluiding.”
David pressed them to his heart in a perfect agony, then catching them up in his arms, he rushed like a maniac from the place, and soon afterwards burst into John Maxwell’s cottage,—his face pale, his eye wild, and gasping for breath.
“God be praised,” cried John Maxwell, “the bairns are found! But where’s Nanny?”
Poor David tried to speak, but could not articulate a word.
“Maybe ye couldna carry them a’?” said John; “but tell me whaur Nanny is, and I’se set out for her momently.”
“Ye needna, John, ye needna,” said David; “it’s ower late, it’s ower late!”
“How sae? how sae?” cried John; “surely naething mischancy has happened to the lassie?”
“John,” said David, “grasping his hand, she’s murdered—my bairn’s murdered, John!”
“Gude preserve us a’,” cried John; “an’ wha’s dune it?”
“Elie Anderson,” answered David; “the poor innocent lies yonder a’ cut to bits;” and the unhappy man broke into a passion of tears.
John Maxwell darted off to Saunders Wilson’s. “Rise, Saunders!” cried he, thundering at the door; “haste ye and rise!”
“What’s the matter now?” said Saunders.
“Elie Anderson’s murdered David’s Nanny; sae haste ye, rise, and yoke your cart, that we may tak her to the towbuith.”
Up jumped Saunders Wilson, and up jumped his wife and his weans, and in a few minutes the story was spread like wildfire. Many a man had lain down so weary with the long search they had made, that nothing they thought would have tempted them to rise again; but now they and their families sprung from their beds, and hurried, many of them only half-dressed, to John Maxwell’s, scarcely believing that the story could be true. Amongst the first came Geordie Turnbull, who proposed that a number of them should set off immediately, without waiting till Saunders Wilson was ready, as Elie Anderson might abscond in the meantime; and away he went, followed by about a dozen of the most active. They soon reached her habitation, where they found the door open and a light burning.
“Ay, ay,” said Geordie, “she’s aff, nae doubt, but we’ll get her yet. Na, faith,” cried he, entering, “she’s here still; but, gudesake, what a sight’s this!” continued he, gazing on the slaughtered child. The others now entered, and seemed filled with horror at what they saw.
“Haste ye,” cried Geordie, “and fling a sheet or something ower her, that we mayna lose our wits a’thegither. And now, ye wretch,” turning to Elie Anderson, “your life shall answer for this infernal deed. Here,” continued he, “bring ropes and tie her, and whenever Saunders comes up, we’ll off wi’ her to the towbuith.”
Ropes were soon got, and she was tied roughly enough, and then thrown carelessly into the cart; but notwithstanding the pain occasioned by her thigh-bone being broken by the force with which David Williams dashed her to the ground, she answered not one word to all their threats and reproaches, till the cart coming on some very uneven ground, occasioned her such exquisite pain, that, losing all command over herself, she broke out into such a torrent of abuse against those who surrounded her, that Geordie Turnbull would have killed her on the spot, had they not prevented him by main force.
Shortly afterwards they arrived at the prison; and having delivered her to the jailor, with many strict charges to keep her safe, they immediately returned to assist in the search for the bodies of the other children, who, they had no doubt, would be found in or about her house.
When they arrived there, they found an immense crowd assembled, for the story had spread everywhere; and all who had lost children, accompanied by their friends and neighbours and acquaintances, had repaired to the spot, and had already commenced digging and searching all round. After working in this way for a long while, without any discovery being made, it was at length proposed to give up the search and return home, when Robin Galt, who was a mason, and who had been repeatedly pacing the ground from the kitchen to the pig-sty, and from the pig-sty to the kitchen, said, “Frien’s, I’ve been considering, and I canna help thinking that there maun be a space no discovered atween the sty and the kitchen, an’ I’m unco fond to hae that ascertained.”
“We’ll sune settle that,” says Geordie Turnbull. “Whereabouts should it be?”
“Just there, I think,” says Robin.
Geordie immediately drove a stone or two out, so that he could get his hand in.
“Does onybody see my hand frae the kitchen?” asked he.
“No a bit o’t,” was the answer.
“Nor frae the sty?”
“Nor frae that either.”
“Then there maun be a space, sure enough,” cried Geordie, drawing out one stone after another, till he had made a large hole in the wall. “An’ now,” said he, “gie me a light;” and he shoved in a lantern, and looked into the place. “The Lord preserve us a’!” cried he, starting back.
“What is’t—what is’t?” cried the people, pressing forward on all sides.
“Look an’ see!—look an’ see!” he answered; “they’re a there—a’ the murdered weans are there, lying in a raw!”
The wall was torn down in a moment; and, as he had said, the bodies of the poor innocents were found laid side by side together. Those who entered first gazed on the horrid scene without speaking, and then proceeded to carry out the bodies, and to lay them on the green before the house. It was then that the grief of the unhappy parents broke forth; and their cries and lamentations, as they recognised their murdered little ones, roused the passions of the crowd to absolute frenzy.
“Hanging’s ower gude for her,” cried one.
“Let’s rive her to coupens,” exclaimed another.
A universal shout was the answer; and immediately the greater part of them set off for the prison, their numbers increasing as they ran, and all burning with fury against the unhappy author of so much misery.
The wretched woman was at this moment sitting with an old crony who had been admitted to see her, and to whom she was confessing what had influenced her in acting as she had done.
“Ye ken,” said she, “I haena jist been mysel since a rascal that had a grudge at me put aboot a story of my having made awa wi’ John Anderson, wi’ the help o’ arsenic. I was ta’en up and examined aboot it, and afterwards tried for it, and though I was acquitted, the neebours aye looked on me wi’ an evil eye, and avoided me. This drave me to drinking and other bad courses, and it ended in my leaving that part of the kintra, and coming here. But the thing rankled in my mind, and many a time hae I sat thinkin’ on it, till I scarcely kent where I was, or what I was doing. Weel, ae day, as I was sitting at the roadside, near the Hermitage, and very low about it, I heard a voice say, ‘Are you thinking on John Anderson, Elie? Ay, woman,’ said Charlotte Beaumont, for it was her, ‘what a shame in you to poison your own gudeman!’ and she pointed her finger, and hissed at me. When I heard that,” continued Elie, “the whole blood in my body seemed to flee up to my face, an’ my very een were like to start frae my head; an’ I believe I wad hae killed her on the spot, hadna ane o’ Sir George’s servants come up at the time; sae I sat mysel doun again, an’ after a lang while, I reasoned mysel, as I thought, into the notion that I shouldna mind what a bairn said; but I hadna forgotten’t for a’ that.
“Weel, ae day that I met wi’ her near the wood, I tell’t her that it wasna right in her to speak yon gate, an’ didna mean to say ony mair, hadna the lassie gane on ten times waur nor she had done before, and sae angered me, that I gied her a wee bit shake, and then she threatened me wi’ what her faither wad do, and misca’ed me sae sair, that I struck her, and my passion being ance up, I gaed on striking her till I killed her outright. I didna ken for a while that she was dead; but when I found that it was really sae, I had sense enough left to row her in my apron, an’ to tak her hame wi’ me; an’ when I had barred the door, I laid her body on a chair, and sat down on my knees beside it, an’ grat an’ wrung my hands a’ night lang.
“Then I began to think what would be done to me if it was found out; an’ thought o’ pittin’ her into a cunning place, which the man who had the house before me, and who was a great poacher, had contrived to hide his game in; and when that was done, I was a thought easier, though I couldna forgie mysel for what I had done, till it cam into my head that it had been the means o’ saving her frae sin, and frae haein’ muckle to answer for; an’ this thought made me unco happy. At last I began to think that it would be right to save mair o’ them, and that it would atone for a’ my former sins; an’ this took sic a hold o’ me, that I was aye on the watch to get some ane or ither o’ them by themselves, to dedicate them to their Maker, by marking their bodies wi’ the holy cross:—but oh!” she groaned, “if I hae been wrang in a’ this!”
The sound of the people rushing towards the prison was now distinctly heard; and both at once seemed to apprehend their object.
“Is there no way of escape, Elie,” asked her friend, wringing her hands.
Elie pointed to her broken thigh, and shook her head. “Besides,” said she, “I know my hour is come.”
The mob had now reached the prison, and immediately burst open the doors. Ascending to the room where Elie was confined, they seized her by the hair, and dragged her furiously downstairs. They then hurried her to the river, and, with the bitterest curses, plunged her into the stream; but their intention was not so soon accomplished as they had expected; and one of the party having exclaimed that a witch would not drown, it was suggested, and unanimously agreed to, to burn her. A fire was instantly lighted by the waterside, and when they thought it was sufficiently kindled, they threw her into the midst of it. For some time her wet clothes protected her, but when the fire began to scorch her, she made a strong exertion, and rolled herself off. She was immediately seized and thrown on again; but having again succeeded in rolling herself off, the mob became furious, and called for more wood for the fire; and by stirring it on all hands, they raised it into a tremendous blaze. Some of the most active now hastened to lay hold of the poor wretch, and to toss her into it; but in their hurry one of them having trod on her broken limb, caused her such excessive pain, that when Geordie Turnbull stooped to assist in lifting her head, she suddenly caught him by the thumb with her teeth, and held him so fast, that he found it impossible to extricate it. She was therefore laid down again, and in many ways tried to force open her mouth, but without other effect than increasing Geordie’s agony; till at length one of them seizing a pointed stick from the fire, and thrusting it into an aperture occasioned by the loss of some of her teeth, the pressure of its sharp point against the roof of her mouth, and the smoke setting her coughing, forced her to relax her hold, when the man’s thumb was got out of her grasp terribly lacerated. Immediately thereafter she was tossed in the midst of the flames, and forcibly held there by means of long prongs; and the fire soon reaching the vital parts, the poor wretch’s screams and imprecations became so horrifying, that one of the bystanders, unable to bear it any longer, threw a large stone at her head, which, hitting her on the temples, deprived her of sense and motion.
Their vengeance satisfied, the people immediately dispersed, having first pledged themselves to the strictest secrecy. Most of them returned home, but a few went back to Elie Anderson’s, whose house, and everything belonging to her, had been set on fire by the furious multitude. They then retired, leaving a few men to watch the remains of the children, till coffins could be procured for them. “Never in a’ my days,” said John Maxwell, when speaking of it afterwards, “did I weary for daylight as I did that night. When the smoke smothered the fire, and it was quite dark, we didna mind sae muckle; but when a rafter or a bit o’ the roof fell in, and a bleeze raise, then the firelight shining on the ghastly faces of the puir wee innocents a’ laid in a row,—it was mair than we could weel stand; and it was mony a day or I was my ainsel again.”
Next morning the parents met, and it being agreed that all their little ones should be interred in one grave, and that the funeral should take place on the following day, the necessary preparations were accordingly made. In the meantime, Matty went over to her brother John Maxwell, to tell him, if possible, to persuade David Williams not to attend the funeral, as she was sure he could not stand it. “He hadna closed his ee,” she said, “since that terrible night, and had neither ate nor drank, but had just wandered up and down between the house and the fields, moaning as if his heart would break.” John Maxwell promised to speak to David, but when he did so, he found him so determined on attending, that it was needless to say any more on the subject.
On the morning of the funeral, David Williams appeared very composed; and John Maxwell was saying to some of the neighbours that he thought he would be quite able to attend, when word was brought that Geordie Turnbull had died that morning of lock-jaw, brought on, it was supposed, as much from the idea of his having been bitten by a witch, or one that was not canny, as from the injury done to him.
This news made an evident impression on David Williams, and he became so restless and uneasy, and felt himself so unwell, that he at one time declared he would not go to the funeral; but getting afterwards somewhat more composed, he joined the melancholy procession, and conducted himself with firmness and propriety from the time of their setting out till all the coffins were lowered into the grave. But the first spadeful of earth was scarcely thrown in, when the people were startled by his breaking into a long and loud laugh;—
“There she’s!—there she’s!” he exclaimed; and, darting through the astonished multitude, he made with all his speed to the gate of the churchyard.
“Oh! stop him,—will naebody stop him?” cried his distracted wife; and immediately a number of his friends and acquaintances set off after him, the remainder of the people crowding to the churchyard wall, whence there was an extensive view over the surrounding country. But quickly as those ran who followed him, David Williams kept far a-head of them, terror lending him wings,—till at length, on slackening his pace, William Russel, who was the only one near, gained on him, and endeavoured, by calling in a kind and soothing manner, to prevail on him to return. This only made him increase his speed, and William would have been thrown behind farther than ever, had he not taken a short cut, which brought him very near him.
“Thank God, he will get him now!” cried the people in the churchyard; when David Williams, turning suddenly to the right, made with the utmost speed towards a rising ground, at the end of which was a freestone quarry of great depth. At this sight a cry of horror arose from the crowd, and most fervently did they pray that he might yet be overtaken; and great was their joy when they saw that, by the most wonderful exertion, William Russel had got up so near as to stretch out his arm to catch him; but at that instant his foot slipped, and ere he could recover himself, the unhappy man, who had now gained the summit, loudly shouting, sprung into the air.
“God preserve us!” cried the people, covering their eyes that they might not see a fellow-creature dashed in pieces; “it is all over!”
“Then help me to lift his poor wife,” said Isabel Lawson. “And now stan’ back, and gie her a’ the air, that she may draw her breath.”
“She’s drawn her last breath already, I’m doubting,” said Janet Ogilvie, an old skilful woman; and her fears were found to be too true.
“An’ what will become o’ the poor orphans?” said Isabel.
She had scarcely spoken, when Sir George Beaumont advanced, and, taking one of the children in each hand, he motioned the people to return towards the grave.
“The puir bairns are provided for now,” whispered one to another, as they followed to witness the completion of the mournful ceremony. It was hastily finished in silence, and Sir George having said a few words to his steward, and committed the orphans to his care, set out on his way to the Hermitage, the assembled multitude all standing uncovered as he passed, to mark their respect for his goodness and humanity.
As might have been expected, the late unhappy occurrences greatly affected Lady Beaumont’s health, and Sir George determined to quit the Hermitage for a time; and directions were accordingly given to prepare for their immediate removal. While this was doing, the friend who had been with Elie Anderson in the prison happened to call at the Hermitage, and the servants crowded about her, eager to learn what had induced Elie to commit such crimes. When she had repeated what Elie had said, a young woman, one of the servants, exclaimed, “I know who’s been the cause of this; for if Bet,”——and she suddenly checked herself.
“That must mean Betsy Pringle,” said Robert, who was her sweetheart, and indeed engaged to her; “so you will please let us hear what you have to say against her, or own that you’re a slanderer.”
“I have no wish to make mischief,” said the servant; “and as what I said came out without much thought, I would rather say no more; but I’ll not be called a slanderer neither.”
“Then say what you have to say,” cried Robert; “it’s the only way to settle the matter.”
“Well, then,” said she, “since I must do it, I shall. Soon after I came here, I was one day walking with the bairns and Betsy Pringle, when we met a woman rather oddly dressed, and who had something queer in her manner, and, when she had left us, I asked Betsy who it was. ‘Why,’ said Betsy, ‘I don’t know a great deal about her, as she comes from another part of the country; but if what a friend of mine told me lately is true, this Elie Anderson, as they call her, should have been hanged.’
“‘Hanged!’ cried Miss Charlotte; ‘and why should she be hanged, Betsy?’
“‘Never you mind, Miss Charlotte,’ said Betsy, ‘I’m speaking to Fanny here.’
“‘You can tell me some other time,’ said I.
“‘Nonsense,’ cried Betsy, ‘what can a bairn know about it? Weel,’ continued she, ‘it was believed that she had made away with John Anderson, her gudeman.’
“‘What’s a gudeman, Betsy?’ asked Miss Charlotte.
“‘A husband,’ answered she.
“‘And what’s making away with him, Betsy?’
“‘What need you care?’ said Betsy.
“‘You may just as well tell me,’ said Miss Charlotte; ‘or I’ll ask Elie Anderson herself all about it, the first time I meet her.’
“‘That would be a good joke,’ said Betsy, laughing; ‘how Elie Anderson would look to hear a bairn like you speaking about a gudeman, and making away with him; however,’ she continued, ‘that means killing him.’
“‘Killing him!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotte. ‘Oh, the wretch; and how did she kill him, Betsy?’
“‘You must ask no more questions, miss,’ said Betsy, and the subject dropped.
“‘Betsy,’ said I to her afterwards, you should not have mentioned these things before the children; do you forget how noticing they are?’
“‘Oh, so they are,’ said Betsy, ‘but only for the moment; and I’ll wager Miss Charlotte has forgotten it all already.’
“But, poor thing,” Fanny added, “she remembered it but too well.”
“I’ll not believe this,” cried Robert.
“Let Betsy be called, then,” said the housekeeper, “and we’ll soon get at the truth.” Betsy came, was questioned by the housekeeper, and acknowledged the fact.
“Then,” said Robert, “you have murdered my master’s daughter, and you and I can never be more to one another than we are at this moment;” and he hastily left the room.
Betsy gazed after him for an instant, and then fell on the floor. She was immediately raised up and conveyed to bed, but recovering soon after, and expressing a wish to sleep, her attendant left her. The unhappy woman, feeling herself unable to face her mistress after what had happened, immediately got up, and, jumping from the window, fled from the Hermitage. The first accounts they had of her were contained in a letter from herself to Lady Beaumont, written on her death-bed, wherein she described the miserable life she had led since quitting the Hermitage, and entreating her ladyship’s forgiveness for the unhappiness which she had occasioned.
“Let what has happened,” said Lady Beaumont, “be a warning to those who have the charge of them, tobeware of what they say before children;—a sentiment which Sir George considered as so just and important, that he had it engraven on the stone which covered the little innocents, that their fate and its cause might be had in everlasting remembrance.”—“The Odd Volume.”