Wilsons Tales of the Borders and Scotland, Vol. XXIII. | Page 2

many angels
without wings, she was probably as fair every whit as Dowsabell. Yet,
after all, we are not here concerned with beauty, which, as a specialty

in one to one, and as a universality in all to all, is beyond the power of
written description. We have here to do simply with some traits which,
being hereditary, not derived from Mrs. Hislop, have a bearing upon
our strange legend: the very slightest cast in the eyes, which in its
piquancy belied a fine genial nature in the said Henney; and a classic
nose, which, partaking of the old Roman type, and indicating pride,
was equally untrue to a generosity of feeling which made friends of all
who saw her--except one. A strange exception this _one_; for who,
even in this bad world, could be an enemy to a creature who conciliated
sympathy as a love, and defied antipathy as an impossibility? Who
could he be? or rather, who could she be? for man seems to be excluded
by the very instincts of his nature. The question may be answered by
the evolution of facts; than which what other have we even amidst the
dark gropings into the mystery of our wonderful being?
Mrs. Hislop's head was over the skeil, wherein lay one of the linen
sheets of Mr. Dallas, the writer to the signet, which, with her broad
hands, she was busy twisting into the form of a serpent; and no doubt
there were indications of her efforts in the drops of perspiration which
stood upon her good-humoured, gaucy face, so suggestive of dewdrops
('bating the poetry) on the leaves of a big blush peony. In this work she
was interrupted by the entrance of Henney, who came rushing in as if
under the influence of some emotion which had taken her young heart
by surprise.
"What think ye, minny?" she cried, as she held up her hands.
"The deil has risen again from the grave where he was buried in
Kirkcaldy," was the reply, with a laugh.
"No, that's no it," continued the girl.
"Then what is it?" was the question.
"He's dead," replied Henney.
"Who is dead?" again asked Mrs. Hislop.
"The strange man," replied the girl.
And a reply, too, which brought the busy worker to a pause in her work,
for she understood who the he was, and the information went direct
through the ear to the heart; but Henney, supposing that she was not
understood, added--
"The man who used to look at me with yon terrible eyes."
"Yes, yes, dear, I understand you," said the woman, as she let the coil

fall, and sat down upon a chair, under the influence of strong emotion.
"But who told you?"
"Jean Graham," replied the girl.
An answer which seemed, for certain reasons known to herself, to
satisfy the woman, for the never another word she said, any more than
if her tongue had been paralyzed by the increased action of her heart;
but as we usually find that when that organ in woman is quiet more
useful powers come into action, so the sensible dame began to exercise
her judgment. A few minutes sufficed for forming a resolution; nor was
it sooner formed than that it was begun to be put into action, yet not
before the excited girl was away, no doubt to tell some of her
companions of her relief from the bugbear of the man with the terrible
eyes. The formation of a purpose might have been observed in her
puckered lips and the speculation in her grey eyes. The spirit of
romance had visited the small house in Toddrick's Wynd, where for
fifteen years the domestic lares had sat quietly surveying the economy
of poverty. She rose composedly from the chair into which the effect of
Henney's exclamation had thrown her, went to the blue chest which
contained her holiday suit, took out, one after another, the chintz gown,
the mankie petticoat, the curch, the red plaid; and, after washing from
her face the perspiration drops, she began to put on her humble
finery--all the operation having been gone through with that quiet
action which belongs to strong minds where resolution has settled the
quivering chords of doubt.
Following the dressed dame up the High Street, we next find her in the
writing-booth of Mr. James Dallas, writer to his Majesty's Signet. The
gentleman was, after the manner of his tribe, minutely scanning some
papers--that is, he was looking into them so sharply that you would
have inferred that he was engaged in hunting for "flaws;" a species of
game that is both a prey and a reward--_et praeda et premium_, as an
old proverb says. Nor shall we say he was altogether pleased when he
found his inquiry, whatever it might be,