The changed brides

Blow, blow, thou wintry wind! Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Altho’ thy breath be rude.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky! Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Tho’ thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not.—SHAKSPEARE.

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 enough, 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 morn 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, and 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 so 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.