First Love. Mrs. Loudon
can never degenerate into a fault!” resumed Mrs. Montgomery, “and the child is not in the least selfish; indeed, it is always in the cause of something oppressed or injured, that her little spirit rises: a bird, a fly, or I have seen her, after trying to beat Henry, sit down and cry over a crushed worm, that he had refused to step aside to spare.”
“She may require the stricter guard,” rejoined Mr. Jackson; “for, under the guise, and in the cause of generous feelings, we sometimes permit a warmth of temper to grow upon us, which we should have early subdued, had it appeared with a bare-faced front, and offered to fight our own battles.”
The rising of the ladies to retire, here put an end to the conversation.
In a day or two, Lady L.’s expected confinement took place. What were the rejoicings, bonfires, and illuminations, may be imagined, when we say, that the child was, as the doctor had prophesied, a son.
CHAPTER XVI.
“Thinkest thou, that he but sleeps?
Long shalt thou wait his awaking.”
The sick nurse ought not to have been asleep. Yet it appears that she certainly must have slept; for when the sound of something like a door shutting made her start forward from the deep, high back, of her easy-chair, she found, not only that her eyes had been shut, but that she had dreamed, what she considered a most remarkable dream. She was our old acquaintance from Edinburgh, and was very superstitious. The dream, and the particulars attending it, were as follows. We shall give them in her own words, as she ventured, nearly thirteen years after, to relate them, under a promise of secrecy, to her countrywoman, Mrs. Smyth, while they sat together at their tea in the housekeeper’s room.
“The peur lady,” said the nurse, “had fall’n intle a sweet sleep, wi’ the baby at her breast. The chamber was dark, exceptin’ a dull bit lamp, that was blinking doon on the hearth-stane; for being summer time, there was nae fire. I mysell’ was sitting quietly e the great chair; every thing e the hoose was se still, that I amaste thought ’at I could hear the far-aff voises o’ the folk, ’at was making rejoicing around the bonfires. My ane mind, you see, being quite easy like; for, nor mother, nor child, could be doing better nor they were doing; I must just ha’ dozed a bit; for I begun a-dreaming, tho’ I canna’ say precisely the purport of my dreams, until I thought I saw Mr. Henry, as plain as I see you, slip on tip-toe, and stop half-way e the middle e the floor. And then, I was se parfect certain, that I heard him ask, in a whisper, hoo Lady L. was; that I meant to reply, ‘As weel as can be expected, Sir;’ bit tho’ I begun working my jaw frae side to side, to strive to get the words oot, it was se stiff it wad na move. I can remember naething maer, till I thought I heard a soond like a watchman’s rattle; and then, I thought it was naething bit the crumpling o’ a piece o’ paper, ’at I dreamed the doctor was taking aff o’ a bottle o’ medicine. I was sure ’at I saw him quite plain, standing wi’ the bottle in his hand, near the table. Nor was I that far gane, but that I kent weel enough, through aw my sleep, ’at I ought tle rise and reach him a glass; bit I had na poor tle stir a limb. I could nae ha’ been weell mysell’, for it was mere like tle a trance, woman, nor tle common sleep. And then, I thought, ’at to my great surprise, the doctor had the vara face o’ Mr. Henry, bit oulder like; and while I was wondering at this, and looking at the doctor, and the doctor, I thought, looking hard at me, the doctor, and the bottle, and the table, and the foot o’ the bed-curtain, aw disappeared; and I can remember naething mere, bit a deal o’ confusion about being hame again in Edinburgh; until I was wakened ootright, by what I thought at the time, was the shutting o’ the door frae the dressing-room intle the gareden. Bit it must ha’ been the doctor’s rap, for he cam’ in amaste immediately. What was vara remarkable was, that after I should ha’ dreamed o’ seeing yon bottle in the doctor’s hand, that there should hae been se mickle said and done about yon vara bottle; and that it should ha’ been yon bottle, that I mysell’ blamed for every thing! Weel! the doctor he could na get the bit tie undoone; and he sais to me, ‘Mrs. Mowbray, will you favour me weth a pin?’ I remember it as weel as it was but yesterday. And he said, at the same time, that he never had afore, in aw the hale course o’ his practice, used a double knot wi’ tying down a bottle, but a’y a single ane, wi’ the ends twisted. And then he said, in his curious way, ye ken, as he shook the bottle afoor he poured the medicine intle the glass, that the good lady need na to be afeared to tack it, for that he aye mixed his medicines afoor dinner. And then, he pleased his sell’, honest man, wi’ laughing a bit at his ane joke. And then he geed the lady the glass; bit yeer mistress, wha had come in soon after the doctor did, and wha was standing at the bedside, just eased the lily-white hand o’ the weight, for a moment or twa, while she observed, that as her daughter had had some refreshing sleep, it might no be necessary to gie her a composing draught. Weel, the doctor, he alood his sell’, that there was naething like natural rest; bit tho’ he was amang the best o’ them, he was like them aw, in that particular, he wad hae his ane ill-savoured trash swallowed, right or wrong—and wrong enough it proved. However, the doctor said, that they might depend upon it, it was a maste benign and salubrious mixture; and that having slept se much a’ready, the lady might the mere likely be wakefu’ in the night-time, if she did na tack her sleeping-draught. And se, her peur mither, she was over-ruled, and geed her back the glass. And she swallowed the draught sure enough, and slept sure enough, and lang enough, for she never waked more!”
Mrs. Smyth made no reply, for she was rocking herself from side to side, with the tears rolling down her face.
“The doctor, peur old man, he is dead and gane,” resumed the nurse, “or I wad na say what I am going to say, even to yoursell’, Mrs. Smyth; but I have often thought syne,” and here she lowered her voice, “that yon sleeping-draught was stronger nor the hold o’ life in her that drank it.” Mrs. Smyth only shook her head. “My dream,” added the old nurse, after a short silence, “certainly cam’ oot, about the bottle; and that’s what I blame mysell’ for: I should ha’ spoken up, and talt the vision; for never did I, nor ony belanging to me, dream o’ seeing ony thing, so distinct as I saw yon bottle, that some harm did na come o’ ’t. And the doctor, too, he was na long for this warld, after I dreamed o’ seeing his face changed. It’s never good to dream o’ seeing ony body wi’ another body’s face.”
“Bonfires, indeed!” murmured Mrs. Smyth to herself, as if thinking aloud. “Aye,” she added, in a spiritless tone, when aroused to attention by the ceasing of nurse’s voice, “it was a particular dream, to be sure. And some of the folk was saying, too, that there was ane seen oot by that night, that keeped be his sell’, like the angel o’ death. He went near nowther bonfires nor drink, and was seen ne more, when aw was over wi’ them within.”
CHAPTER XVII.
“He lies beside the dead; at frantic starts,
Kisses the cold lips of Julius.”
“At such a moment, piety becomes
The only passion of the soul!”
Although the conversation related in our last chapter, was not, as we have already hinted, held between the parties till thirteen years after the present era, owing to the nurse’s unwillingness to confess that she had slept when she should have watched; yet, as the subjects of which it treats, belong strictly to this epoch of our history, we do not consider that we anticipate unjustifiably, in giving the conversation itself the place it now fills.
The melancholy events to which it alludes, divested only of the additions made by superstition, did indeed but too truly, too surely, take place at this period. Lady L.’s infant died at her breast, soon after the closing in of evening had rendered the illuminations for its birth conspicuous; and in less than half an hour she herself expired.
When once the termination