“Weary not with thy vain words her whose faithIs Fingall’s.… Why should these eyes behold it?”
“Weary not with thy vain words her whose faithIs Fingall’s.… Why should these eyes behold it?”
“Weary not with thy vain words her whose faithIs Fingall’s.… Why should these eyes behold it?”
“Weary not with thy vain words her whose faith
Is Fingall’s.
… Why should these eyes behold it?”
Asthe sisters were descending to breakfast, Frances returned up stairs for some violets which Alice had with great difficulty procured for her, and which she had forgotten on her dressing table, while Julia proceeded towards a room their party had occupied the evening before. But on entering and perceiving Henry seated alone reading a newspaper, and no appearance of even preparation for breakfast, shewas about to retire. “You may as well stay where you are, I think,” said Henry. “If it was Edmund that was here you would not be in such a hurry to make off.” Fearful of irritating him after his alarming threats of last night, poor Julia directed her steps to the furthest removed window, and stood looking out. Henry continued reading for some time. Edmund’s voice was heard in the hall calling to a favourite dog. Henry suddenly rose, approached Julia, knelt on one knee before her, and took her hand. She was surprised; for, when alone with her, he was not in the habit of troubling her with any affectation of tenderness; and she was particularly sorry that he had chosen the present moment. Before she could remonstrate, or succeed in disengaging her hand, she heard footsteps; and, looking up, saw Edmund advancing along thegallery towards the door, which she had left open for the purpose of rendering her unwilling interview with Henry as little of a private one as possible. Our hero looked into the room, hesitated for a moment, and retired. Henry, after throwing a glance over his shoulder, rose carelessly, and, without taking the trouble of explaining his late movement, looked out of the window and whistled. Julia, with tears starting to her eyes, at length assuming courage, said: “Henry, I will not endure this persecution! I will complain to grandmamma, and write to my father too; and you shall not be allowed either to trouble me, or to—to—injure any body else.”
“You had better, I think,” he replied, “publish to the world your disgraceful attachment to a beggarly upstart—and who, to do him justice, has not sought it. And, as toeither Lord L⸺, (if he were at home,) or my aunt not allowing me to quarrel with Edmund, (which is, of course, what you mean by—injuring any body else,)” mocking her voice and the hesitation of her manner, “I’d be glad to know how they’d prevent it? I may be called to account afterwards, you think; but I’ve told you before, and I tell you again, that, if I am provoked, no consideration for consequences shall prevent my being revenged at all hazards. As to your ever marrying me or not, you may please yourself; but I shall take devilish good care——”
“You know very well, Henry,” she interrupted, now speaking firmly and scornfully in spite of all her fears, “I never will marry you!”
“I know no such thing!” he rejoined, with a repetition of the laugh and the look whichthe evening before had made her shudder, and which now again caused her blood to run cold. “But I know this,” he continued, “that you shall never marry Edmund; and further, that I will not be openly insulted with impunity; nor will I suffer such a fellow, forsooth, to triumph over me! So hate me in your heart, if you choose; but, at your peril, (or rather at his peril,) show it before him! Recollect that hanging me, (if you could do it,) won’t restore him to life after I have blown his brains out! Your mother little thought,” he continued, insolently opposing the attempt she was now making to escape his presence by standing between her and the doorway, “your mother little thought, I say, when she brought in the beggar brat, and washed him, that she was preparing a husband for her eldest daughter!—the Lady Julia L⸺!—heiress to thirty-threethousand per annum! Worth taking better care of than that, faith! A windfall for his betters, I can tell him!” Julia could listen no longer: she passed him with a determined effort, and literally fled from the apartment, with, however, the loss of a scarf which Henry caught at as she was departing. Thus concluded poor Julia’s last struggle for liberty: henceforward she never dared to disobey or disoblige her insolent cousin.
“I mourn’d the huntress of Cromla, the sunbeamOf beauty; who must no more on our hills appear,But rise on the waves of the north, to lightThe stranger’s hall.”
“I mourn’d the huntress of Cromla, the sunbeamOf beauty; who must no more on our hills appear,But rise on the waves of the north, to lightThe stranger’s hall.”
“I mourn’d the huntress of Cromla, the sunbeamOf beauty; who must no more on our hills appear,But rise on the waves of the north, to lightThe stranger’s hall.”
“I mourn’d the huntress of Cromla, the sunbeam
Of beauty; who must no more on our hills appear,
But rise on the waves of the north, to light
The stranger’s hall.”
“Haveyou any commands to Mrs. Montgomery, my Lord?” inquired Edmund, who was writing at a small table, while most of our party were engaged at a larger one with breakfast.
“Oh yes!” said Lord Arandale. “Pray tell her that I shall send Lauson over to the Craigs: indeed that I shall go there myself, after the races.”
Julia and Frances now entered.
Shortly after, rising and going towards Edmund, he bent over the table and said, in an under tone, “I wish you would just tell my sister (it will save me a letter, and I am much hurried) that the Marquis of H⸺ has declared his intention of making proposals for Julia, (in due time,) and that, I think she had better write to Lord L⸺. I wish he could be at home. Yet, the connexion is so very eligible that all unnecessary delays should be avoided. Julia’s own pretensions, in fact, rank so high, that the peerage affords few that can be termed equal matches for her. Her affections cannot be pre-engaged?” he added, in a sort of consulting whisper. “Henry behaves very foolishly; but, I should hope, there was no attachment on her side. The thing, however, must be put an end to!”
Lord Arandale returned to the breakfast table, and left our hero, as he supposed, writing. Julia was the only person who observed that he remained in the very same attitude, and without the slightest motion, till the carriages drove up. She contrived in the general move, to pass near the table at which he sat, where, pausing a moment, she said, “Are you writing to grandmamma, Edmund?”
He had been quite pale when she first approached, and evidently had not observed her. He started at the sound of her voice, and looked at her without appearing to comprehend the purport of her enquiry, but made no reply. “Are you writing to grandmamma?” she repeated, “because, I wish——” He examined his paper two or three times from top to bottom, and then replied, “I—was—”
Henry came up at the moment, and, offeringto Julia his arm, which she now dare not refuse, hurried her to the carriage. She perceived, with much vexation, that he wore, drawn across his breast, the scarf he had snatched from her. He continued, in defiance of a whispered remonstrance on her part, to sport it for some hours. He knew that Edmund was well aware to whom the scarf belonged. At length, Lord Arandale perceiving what was going on, insisted on the scarf being resigned. The Earl restored it himself to Julia, with a reproachful glance; to which she replied, that the scarf had been both taken and worn without her permission.
“Men seldom take liberties they do not expect will, at least, be pardoned,” replied his lordship, with some severity of countenance.
Why Henry should be thus anxious to have it supposed that he was acceptable to Julia,while he took so little pains to become really so, is a mystery which time only can solve.
Our hero did not appear on the stand that day; although he was seen riding at a distance on the course. At the ordinary he went in to dinner without taking charge of any lady. At the ball, indeed, he was again to be found near Julia. After a few languid attempts at conversation, however, he seated himself beside her in perfect silence, till the Marquis of H⸺ coming towards them with a gay and delighted air, claimed her hand for the first set. She stood up to dance, and Edmund almost immediately left the room.
When Edmund retired that night to his own apartment he took himself severely to task: he could assuredly acquit himself of deliberate efforts, intentions, or even wishes to gain Julia’s affections beyond the limit of friendship; yethe had in every moment of temptation yielded to intoxicating hopes; and to attempt to distinguish between such hopes and wilful wishes he found was mere sophistry: he determined therefore to fly without again beholding Julia. As yet, her innocent heart believed all its feelings friendship. She would think him unkind, ungrateful, and forget him, without suffering any of those terrible contentions of spirit which he endured. He dare not sleep, lest he should awake under the dominion of a less virtuous impulse.
Without therefore retiring to bed, even for an hour, he commenced instantly and hastily his preparations for departure, confusedly ruminating the while:—What was he about to do? Could he leave Julia thus, to the persecutions of Henry, to the persuasions of the Marquis? and he drew his leg out of the bootinto which it had been half way introduced.—But he was confident, he told himself once more, for the hundredth time, that she had already rejected Henry, and that she would reject the Marquis of H⸺. His foot again entered the boot top, and, now, completed its descent.
… “The troubled night pass’d away,And morning returned. The shaggy mountainsShew’d their grey heads; the blue face of oceanSmil’d, and the white wave was seen tumbling roundThe distant rock. I climbed the narrow path,And stood on the cliff’s high brow.”
… “The troubled night pass’d away,And morning returned. The shaggy mountainsShew’d their grey heads; the blue face of oceanSmil’d, and the white wave was seen tumbling roundThe distant rock. I climbed the narrow path,And stood on the cliff’s high brow.”
… “The troubled night pass’d away,And morning returned. The shaggy mountainsShew’d their grey heads; the blue face of oceanSmil’d, and the white wave was seen tumbling roundThe distant rock. I climbed the narrow path,And stood on the cliff’s high brow.”
… “The troubled night pass’d away,
And morning returned. The shaggy mountains
Shew’d their grey heads; the blue face of ocean
Smil’d, and the white wave was seen tumbling round
The distant rock. I climbed the narrow path,
And stood on the cliff’s high brow.”
Ourhero’s sacrifice was not quite so great as he imagined, the ball of the last night being the concluding one, a circumstance he had not considered.
Having written two notes of farewell, one to Lord Arandale, and one addressed to Julia and Frances jointly, our hero left Ayr, justbefore daybreak, riding, and without a servant. After forming, we suppose, very proper determinations respecting his route, he unfortunately forgot to communicate his plans to his horse; and, suffering the reins to lay very loosely on the animal’s neck, himself fell into a deep reverie.
His Bucephalus, thus left to his own devices, happened to perceive a gap in the boundaries of the high road, which particularly caught his eye, as it not a little resembled the approach to the race-course. He turned in accordingly on a rugged piece of moorland, and looked about him. Nor right, nor left, nor straight before, offered other prospect than a wide extent of close cropped sod, plentifully sprinkled with loose stones, and diversified here and there by pools of water and patches of heath; the horizon every where the only visible boundary;while on the extreme edge of this monotonous waste, the just risen sun stood in lonely majesty.
Uninteresting as all this may appear, it seemed to please Bucephalus mightily: he made wide his nostrils, snuffed the morning air, twice swung his neck, to try the length of his rein, and then set out at full speed. The road, or rather path he took, pursued a gradual ascent for some time, when suddenly the spirited animal stopped short and snorted, on which, Edmund perceived that he had reached the brow of a hill, or rather edge of a precipice; whence, looking down an abrupt and wooded descent, a valley presented itself, far below, possessing a species of beauty in some respects peculiar to the spot. A small river or rivulet, ran close beneath the overhanging cliffs which formed the opposite side of the valley. Itsstream varied in breadth; its banks were rugged and irregular, while its course frequently divided and reunited, forming many of the most picturesque spots, into little islets. On most of these, as well as on many projecting points of the bank, stood, what, from this distance at least, had the appearance of ruined towers: some round, some square, all moss grown; some bearing small trees on their summits, and in the crevices of their sides, and almost all having their own large old tree or trees, standing close to them. The grassy carpet of the vale was of a green peculiarly vivid. The opposite cliffs were thickly wooded in every aperture; while, here and there, smooth brows of good pasture land, dotted with grazing cattle, appeared on their summits. The valley at one end opened on an extent of flat country, terminated by a distant chain of mountains;at the other it admitted a view of the sea, discernible between two bold headlands, the furthest and highest of which was crowned by a single tower, that appeared destined to reign over all those more humbly situated in the vale beneath. Tempted by the beauty of the prospect, though not sufficiently acquainted with the country to know where he now was, Edmund directed his horse to take a rather dangerous looking, very narrow road, which by running along the side of the precipice, lessened the steepness of the footing, while it promised to lead him into the midst of the region he had thus been for some moments contemplating.
As he gradually drew nearer and nearer the curious scene that lay beneath him, and, at length, accomplishing his perilous descent, entered the valley itself, and approached thoseobjects which he had at first thought were numerous ruins, they in general began to assume somewhat of a different appearance, and, finally, on coming up to each, to his great surprise as well as disappointment, they one by one, proved to be but deep sided, perpendicular rocks; looking, however, as ancient as though they had in the time of Noah, resisted the retiring waters of the flood, when all more yielding substances had been borne along the narrow channel of the glen, into the sea.
He now crossed the river by means of a single arched bridge, much overhung by the trees of the opposite bank, under the thick cover of which it immediately led. Through this copse he rode for a time and then emerged just at the foot of the headland, the lofty summit of which bore on high that which he could now ascertain to be the only real tower of all he had inimagination so designated. Rock over rock, with wood between, shelved and projected, till how the building itself was to be reached seemed an impenetrable mystery; there did not appear to be nearly space enough to conquer so perpendicular an ascent by any windings of the road he still pursued. He next passed a lodge-gate, which was opened by a little bare-footed girl, who stretched first the one side on its hinges, then the other, though our hero had meanwhile passed through. At a second gate he demanded if he might pursue his course through what thus seemed to be an approach to some nobleman’s or gentleman’s place, though, as yet, he could discern no residence. He was answered in the affirmative, and proceeded till, having got round to the further side of the headland, a part of the height of which he had meantime, by a gradual ascent, achieved,he came suddenly in view of a magnificent castellated mansion, apparently surrounded by an extensive richly wooded and beautifully diversified demesne, some of the grounds of which, on one side, descended by an inclined plane to the sea, and the whole of which had been screened from view during the former part of his ride by the much greater height of the side nearest the valley, on the rocky pinnacle of which, at an elevation far above that of the castle, and surrounded up to its very base by wood, still appeared conspicuous the same single tower which from the first had attracted so much of his notice. Seeing a lad on the lawn, who was employed rolling the newly mown grass, Edmund gave him his horse, demanding to whom the place belonged, and if the family were at home? The lad first stared awkwardly, and when about to reply was prevented doingso, coherently, by the unruly movements of the animal committed to his charge. Our hero, however, on ascertaining that the family was not at home, without waiting to repeat the former part of his question, turned into a footpath among the trees, which promised to lead in the direction of the said solitary tower.
He soon found himself in a maze of gravel walks and abrupt turnings, the ascent so steep as to be often indispensably assisted by flights of irregular stone steps. On each shelf of the rock, lately so much above his head, his feet now found a path; though one secured from the precipice only by a superabundant growth of shrubs. On the side of the cliff immediately over the sea it was sometimes quite terrific to peep through the slender defences of a honeysuckle or jessamine at the foaming billows dashing in far below on a wild and rocky beach. Atlength arrived at the goal of all his labours, he entered the long seen, and, at a distance, formidable-looking tower, and found it fitted up within as a conservatory and well supplied with exotics in full bloom. Of these he plucked, mechanically, a few of the finest blossoms, then sighed and desisted, as the remembrance smote on his heart that he could not now, as he had been wont, present them to Julia. He thrust, however, those he had collected into his own bosom; he could not throw away what had once been, even in thought, associated with her. Near this building the last of the shelving paths tapered off gradually, till there was no longer footing. The rock rose behind it more than perpendicularly—it overhung; while, in front, there was now no defence whatever, not a shrub, not so much as a tuft of grass, or even moss, to break the treacherous surface of the polished flint.
On the furthest portion which it was possible to occupy of this perilous spot, was placed a rustic seat; on this Edmund flung himself, and rested his eyes with a peculiarly desolate feeling on his old friends and companions, the waves of the sea. They seemed pressing after each other, and all, as it were, crowding towards the foot of the steep cliff from the summit of which he thus viewed them. He smiled bitterly: to his distempered fancy they appeared hastening forward to welcome his return amongst them, with a fierce and boisterous species of delight, very uncongenial to the softer emotions in which he had of late so much too frequently indulged.
“Yes,” he ejaculated, “the bosom of the deep is indeed my only home! the wide waste of waters my comfortless domain! To spread desolation around me with fire and with sword! tobring death and misery in my train! to send destruction and despair in the whirlwind before me! these are my daily duties! these my domestic joys!” He paused, then proceeded: “If once there were—friends of the friendless—those who—could—could pity—fate has torn them from me! Nay worse—I must tear myself from them! I must seem ungrateful, unkind—I must teach those who might have loved—to forget me—or—be a villain!” He hastened to add, for certain words in the last sentence were shaking his best resolutions. “Yes, a villain!” he repeated. “Is he less who, wrapped in mystery, without a name, without a home, without a country, would ensnare the innocent affections of one unknowing of the world, unable as yet to judge what may one day be her own appreciation of its honours or even of its prejudices?” After a moment’s pause hepronounced firmly, “I must never see her more!”
He now sunk back in perfect supineness. All the purposes of existence seemed at an end for him. By his own free will act, he had quitted love and happiness for ever. He felt every power of resistance weakened by the supernatural effort. The image of Julia, hallowed, endeared, like that of a departed friend, presented itself in a new, and, if possible, tenderer light. Were he now, he thought, to behold that smile again, where would be the restraints of duty? Forgotten! Utterly forgotten in the tumultuous joy of such a moment! And had such felicity been his but yesterday?—Good heavens! yesterday!—And now!——
Fatigued by contending thoughts, he now strove not to think at all; at length, as he lay in the reclining position, induced by the languor ofdespondency, the dashing of the waves began to sound more distant than before, and a slender creeping plant, which hung from the rock immediately above his head, was, during momentary and flitting visions, mistaken for some part of the rigging of a ship, and then seen no more. In fact, not having been in bed the night before, and having, ever since, suffered great agony of mind, he was now so completely exhausted, that a sort of torpor was gradually taking possession of his senses.
This, after some time, deepened into a sound and refreshing sleep, which lasted for several hours. Towards the end of his protracted slumber, our hero began to dream that he was in heaven. Yet, sublimely as he had sometimes conceived of the glories of that abode of the blessed, he could see nothing but clear sky every where; not even the angels, though heheard them singing, (one of Julia’s songs too,) and, precisely with her voice. The voice ceased; and then the general music of the spheres seemed to arise all round him! By degrees he became sensible that the music was real; and that his eyes, which had been for some seconds partly open, were gazing upwards at the bright blue sky, which from the circumstance of his lying on his back, was necessarily unvaried by any other object. He started to his feet a little too suddenly, considering the dangerous position he occupied, and of the particular nature of which he had, at the moment, no precise recollection. Fortunately, however, being uncommonly active, by a powerful effort, and a snatch at the creeping plant before mentioned, he was enabled to recover his balance. He observed where he was, called to mind the wanderings which had brought him there, andacknowledged to himself, that he must have slept. So far mysteries were cleared up. But the music he still heard, and now he assuredly was awake! He walked a little way, in various directions, in the hope of discovering the musicians; but from the effect produced by the circular form of the rock, the occasional waftings of the breeze, and the mazy labyrinth of the paths, it was impossible for him to decide whether he approached, or retreated from the sounds.
After descending, however, till he was two or three shelves lower, it became evident that the swell of wind instruments was fuller, though still he could not tell in what direction it came. While listening to discover this, his ear caught the hum of voices. He moved on, it became more distinct; and through it he could even distinguish the very uncelestial sound of knivesand forks clanking on plates. Edmund, notwithstanding, felt something like a responding inward emotion; for he had not yet breakfasted, and it was now two o’clock.
He still moved on, and now the noise of the voices, &c. seemed to arise, actually from below the spot on which he stood. He performed a species of pirouette, looking the very personification of bewilderment. Then stood some seconds motionless. Then, as though smitten by a sudden inspiration, pushed his head and one shoulder through the tangled clusters of an interposing honeysuckle; and, holding firmly with the contrary arm, around the slender and yielding trunk of a young mountain ash, about which the flowery screen had entwined itself, he leaned forward, and beheld, on a broad part of the shelf or terrace of rock next below the one on which he himselfstood, a long luncheon table, with a large company seated at it. Crowns of hats, cauls of bonnets, and figures, foreshortened to excess, afforded no very sure criterion by which to ascertain whether or not any of the party were known to him. The voices too, were so blended with each other, and with the music, and with the aforesaid clanking, that they brought no certainty of any thing; yet, as he looked and listened, he could not divest himself of the idea, that all was familiar to his eye, and to his ear. While impelled by increasing curiosity, he strained forward in rather an imprudent manner, one of the blossoms which he had collected in the conservatory, and placed loosely within the breast of his coat, now, assisted by his bending attitude, found its way out, and descending lightly as a thistle-down, rested on the bosom of a lady, who immediately lifted up her faceto see whence it came. What was Edmund’s astonishment, when he saw the features of Julia; and what was hers, when she, so unexpectedly, beheld Edmund in his most strange and perilous situation, hanging over her very head. She pronounced his name, and continued looking up, with as much terror as surprise, till the whole company following the direction of her eyes, with one accord, gazed upwards.
A general roar of laughter proceeded from the men; and several pretty little screams from the ladies.
“Leap it, Edmund!” cried Henry. “Oh, don’t! don’t!” involuntarily exclaimed Julia. “I wonder if he could!” said Frances, looking half amused, and half alarmed.
“How funny it would be!” cried the Misses Morven.
“Take the path to the right, Montgomery, and come down to us,” said Lord Arandale. Edmund disappeared from above, and, in a few minutes, joined the party below. He made his way immediately to Julia and Frances, who each extended a hand to him at the same time, making room for him between them. “This is unexpected happiness, indeed!” he said, as he sprang into the offered seat. He looked delighted, he even laughed, though hysterically, as he trembled from head to foot, with uncontrollable emotion.
“You know where you are, I suppose, Montgomery?” said the Earl. “Not I,” answered Edmund, “further than that my present situation is a very enviable one!” This he said with an air of light gallantry, which concealed tolerably well both the reality and the extravagance of his feelings.
“You do not know then that this place is the Craigs?” rejoined the Earl. “We are all here to day, for the express purpose of displaying its beauties to Julia and Frances, who have never had an opportunity of visiting it before. We are to attempt the top of the rock, as soon as we have fortified ourselves by luncheon.”
“I have seen many of its beauties,” he replied, “but without knowing where I was. My horse, in fact, brought me here this morning, while I was thinking of something else.” Then, too much confounded to talk any thing but nonsense, and too much exhilarated to be silent, he addressed Julia, enquiring if she were aware that the building on the top of the rock was a conservatory. She replied in the negative.
“Allow me then,” he rejoined, with seemingplayfulness, but breathless from agitation, “allow me to be the first to present you with an offering of its sweets!” As he spoke, he took the remainder of the flowers from his bosom, and gave them to Julia; experiencing, at the moment, an indescribable delight in reversing, as it were, the feeling with which he had placed them there. This was mere trifling; but such was the effect on Edmund’s spirits of all this happiness restored, and without any fault of his too, just at the very moment when he had resigned it all, that, under the intoxicating sense of the present pleasure, he scarcely knew what he said or did; or how sufficiently to enjoy so much felicity while it lasted; for through it all there was a vaguely recognised idea, that it must pass away. Julia took the flowers with a smile, not at all calculated to sober Edmund’s transports, andplaced them (of course without thinking what she was doing,) in so enviable a situation, that they were followed by the eyes of our hero, and gazed upon, as their delicate blossoms visibly vibrated to each pulsation of Julia’s heart, till he wished himself, not “a glove upon that hand,” but a fair blossom, &c.
“We are very much obliged to your horse, Captain Montgomery,” said Lady Arandale, “as it is to him, it seems, we owe the pleasure of your company; and now we shall certainly not allow you to escape again till after our ball.” Edmund bowed assent. Several of the party asked him if, in his wanderings, he had discovered the bower of the concealed musicians. He described how much they had puzzled his researches. Julia told him (and her voice, which so lately he had scarcely hoped to hear again, thrilled through his heartas she spoke the unimportant words) that this had all been contrived by Lord Arandale, as an agreeable surprise; that his lordship had privately sent on musicians, directions to the housekeeper, &c.; and then, when they were all on the way between * * * * and Arandale, he had, very innocently, proposed that they should look at the Craigs, as it lay but a couple of miles from the direct road.
“I dare say,” said Frances, “that Edmund was in the secret, and that he just came on before to be a part of the surprise.”
Julia looked at him to see if this were true, but the question her eyes had intended to ask was forgotten, something in the expression of his producing a sad confusion of ideas just at the moment.
“I am sure he surprised me in a most especial manner,” drawled out Lady Morven.“And quite astounded me,” said Graham, in exactly the same tone. “Forgetting, I was not the fortunate tenant of a repose chair, I had a narrow escape of falling through this jessamine, and going over the immeasurable cliff!”
“Fye, don’t talk so, you creature,” said Lady Morven.
“I was more surprised than any one else, I am sure,” said Miss Morven; “if I had not caught hold of this rose bush, and pricked all my fingers, I should certainly have gone over!”
“And I, if it had not been for this sweet-briar, that has scratched all the back of my neck!”
“And I, only for this honeysuckle, though one branch broke off, and frightened me so!”
“And I, I’m sure, if Mr. Gordon had not just put out his arm and saved me!” Thus had all the Misses Morven escaped. “Theladies mean, that Captain Montgomery is the most agreeable part of the surprise,” said the Earl, good humouredly. The Misses Morven tittered assent. Frances questioned him as to how his joining them had really happened.
He gave as circumstantial an account of his morning adventure as the flutter of his spirits would permit. When he described the situation of his latecouche, and how he had started to his feet, without remembering where he was, Lady Arandale seriously reprimanded him for his thoughtlessness. All the Misses Morven were clamorous; Lady Morven said he might really have fallen on the centre of the luncheon table, and frightened them all to death! Frances scolded him with tears in her eyes. Julia alone did not speak, but she looked round, became pale, and the next moment red. The blood rushed from and to the heart of Edmundwith a corresponding ebb and flow. After a pause, as though to change the too engrossing subject, thus implied by the silence of both, he asked her abruptly, if she had sung since she had been at the Craigs? One song had been attempted, at Lady Arandale’s particular request, to try the effect of an echo.
Luncheon ended, the whole party proceeded towards the handsome castellated mansion already mentioned, to view the fine collection of pictures it contained.
“I look’d around, and all was gone.”
“I look’d around, and all was gone.”
“I look’d around, and all was gone.”
“I look’d around, and all was gone.”
Weleft our party crossing the now well rolled lawn towards the house.
On their arrival at the great door, which was open, a strange scene presented itself in the entrance-hall, in the centre of which stood a short fat gentleman looking with much astonishment at a little thin old woman, who, from her long, tapering, stomachered waist occupying one half of her height, her full petticoats spreading like a hoop; her short sleeves and mittens; her hair,white as though it were powdered, drawn up over a high sugar-loaf shaped cushion, and her small cap on the top of all—resembled much one of the figures in the frontispiece of an old play book. Her diminutive features had nothing remarkable about them, but the little reddish knob or button at the end of her nose, which seemed placed there expressly to support her spectacles. These, in visible hurry and trepidation, she was adjusting with one hand, while, with the other, she was grasping the fat gentleman’s arm, and, at the same time, exclaiming as with looks of terrified amazement she scanned his appearance, “Ye dinna pretend to tell me, sir, that ye are Maister Lauson!” The fat gentleman affirmed that he certainly was Mr. Lauson. The little woman seemed of opinion that she knew better, and maintained that he was not.
The advance of the entering party, and the Earl, addressing the fat gentleman by the name of Lauson, seemed to complete the dismay of poor Mrs. M’Kinley, the housekeeper, for such was the name, and such the quality of the little woman. “Lauson! Lauson! Lauson!” she reiterated, clasping her hands, “wha iver heerd o’ sick a thing!—Jean!” she cried next, “Jean! Jean! Jean! Some on ye caw Jean!” A hard-working looking woman entered. “Hear ye to that, Jean!” said Mrs. M’Kinley, “hear ye to that! yon Maister Lauson! Heard ye iver the like o’ that?”
“Yon short gentleman?” enquired Jean, as soon as her awkward courtesies to our party were over. “Nay, yon’s nane o’ Maister Lauson. Maister Lauson’s a taw weel lookt gentleman, no’ the least like yon gentleman.”
“Tall or short I am Mr. Lauson,” said Lauson very sulkily, for the Messrs Morven had laughed out, and the Misses Morven were tittering evidently at his expense.
Lord Arandale desired there might be no more noise, assuring Mrs. M’Kinley that the gentleman, whose identity she seemed so unwilling to admit, not only was, beyond a doubt, Mr. Lauson, but that he was at the Craigs that day by his, the Earl’s, particular desire, to give him the meeting for the arrangement of some business respecting serious repairs, which he understood the park walls required.
“Now, madam,” said Lauson, “you’ll not dispute my Lord’s word, I hope.”
“Yeer no going to tell me,” exclaimed Mrs. M’Kinley, looking wilder than ever, “that yon was the deevil at cam here and cawd himsel Maister Lauson, and brought my ainkeys we him, and my ain lables on them, and took aw the things awa we him!”
“As to its being the devil,” replied Lauson, “I shall not dispute that; but it certainly was not Mr. Lauson.”
“What can she mean?” said the Earl.
“And did ye send naybody then?” eagerly demanded the poor woman. On being fully assured that no person whatever had been sent to the Craigs, or authorized in any way to demand of her any thing of which she had the charge, “Then,” she cried, first clasping her hands for a moment, then flinging her arms to their utmost extent asunder, “aw is gane—gane—rifled—robbed—lost—ther’s naything left in aw the hoose!”
An explanation was called for. Mrs. M’Kinley flung herself on her knees in the midst of the hall, and, calling on heaven and Jean towitness the truth of all she should say, after much that was too incoherent to relate, gave the following account, though more frequently interrupted by her hearers than it is necessary to notice.
“It was a fine moonlight night aboot a month syne, and I was sitting at the window o’ the hooskeeper’s room, (it looks front, ye ken,) and I catched a glympse o’ some-ot like tle a carriage coming roond the hill. I could na credit my ain een, so I looked again, and it turned in among the trees. Weel, said I to Jean, wha can be coming tle this lone place at this time o’ night? It’s a while yet till the young mistress be at age; and I’m no expecting that ony o’ the femely will com’ doon afoor then, if they com’ then it sel. Ye mind that, Jean?” “Weel enough,” said Jean. “The carriage,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley,“for it was a carriage sure enough, com’ oot o’ the wood again, and sweeped along the lawn, and up it com’ to the door, and ain o’ the sarving men, (for there were twa,) jumped doon and made sick a thundering rap as gar’d the hale hoose resound; the t’other man jumped doon, and opened the carriage door——”
“But what has all this to do, my good woman,” interrupted the Earl, “with the house being, as you say, rifled and robbed? The robbers did not drive up to the hall door in their carriage, I suppose!” “Aye, bit they did, tho’!” cried Mrs. M’Kinley, wildly. “Bit hear me oot,” she continued, “hear me oot, I say! and then dee what ye will wee me! Weel, I hasted roond, and was standing i’ the haw, by the time the hoose door was opened. A taw, weel-looked, vara weel-dressed, elderly gentleman gits oot o’ the carriage, and comsintle the haw in a great bustle, cawing oot wid a lood voice, ‘I hope you have got fires there!’ Then he hurries up tle ain o’ the parlour doors, and, finding it locked, he turns roond angrily, saying, ‘How is this! Where is Mrs. M’Kinley?’ What was I to think o’ sick impudence, if he was no Mr. Lauson himsel?” Here the young men had another laugh at Lauson. “I stood forward,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “and courtesied tle him. ‘What is the reason you have not things in some order, madam?’ said he. I was no expeckin ony body, sir, said I. ‘Did you not receive my letter from Keswick, ordering you to have things in readiness?’ No sir, I answered, I had no accounts since my last remettance from Mr. Lauson. ‘Very odd,’ said he, ‘however, here! open these doors! and get fires immediately in one of the rooms—whichever ismost comfortable. And, d’i hear, send in coffee—I hope you have got something in the house for supper?’ There is a lettle cold meat, sir, said I. ‘That won’t do,’ sais he, ‘you must get something hot.’ You can have a foul, sir, said I. You mind picking the foul, Jean? ‘Aye, to be sure,’ said Jean. And so he’d have the foul,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “‘And take care,’ he sais, ‘you have a well-aired bed, and have a good fire made in my room immediately—and, here! come back!’ for I was going, ‘when I have had coffee, do you attend me here for further orders!’ For, before this,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “I had opened one of the parlours for him, and followed him in. ‘You know, I suppose, that I am Mr. Lauson?’ he said. No, sir, said I, I did not know it before, sir. ‘Well you know it now, ma’am,’ he said.” The young menlaughed. “And wha could misgee the words o’ a gentleman wha took se mickle upon him!” said Mrs. M’Kinley, with an appealing, but still wild look at the fairer part of her audience, “and sae I did as I was bidden, and when his sarving men had brought oot the coffee things, I went in for my orders. He was standing wide on the hearth-stane, we his back tle the fire, and his twa hands in the pockets o’ his breeks, haudding aside his parted coat, for a’ the warld like lord and maister e the hoose.”
“He then talt me,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “that he had com doon tle see safely removed the plate, coins, books, pictures, &c. &c.”
“The devil he did!” cried Lauson.
“But of course, you did not let him touch any thing?” said the Earl.
“Hear me oot! Hear me oot!” exclaimed Mrs. M’Kinley, deriving courage from despair. “They were to be aw removed, he said, tlethe hoose in toon, that was preparing and furnishing, again Lady Julia should be at age—”
“What an audacious villain!” exclaimed the Earl. “But you did not, I say, allow him to remove any thing?”
“Every thing! Every thing!” cried Mrs. M’Kinley, with vehemence: “didna I tell yee, awe was gane thegether? And I helped to pack them mysel’!”
“Why, woman, you must have been mad!” said his lordship. “Mad or not mad,” she replied, “I’ve geen him every thing! Sae hear me oot, and then, as I said afoor, di what ye will we me! I desarve hanging, and I can git ne war!”
“Well, well! say on, say on,” said the Earl.
“If I geid up the things in good order,” she continued, “he wad gee me, he said, receipts for every thing; mentioning that they were so, that I might no be accountable for onydamage the things might sustain i’ the carriage. And he said further, that to avoid the chafing o’ land carriage, aw was tle gang by long sea, in a vessel whilk was now aff the coast. Bit what maist of aw convinced me, at he could be nebody else bit Maister Lauson, was, at he took oot on his port mantle, aw the keys o’ the hoose.”—“The keys?” interrupted the Earl. “False ones, of course,” said Lauson.
“Na sick a thing,” she rejoined, “bit the vara keys themsel and labeled, as I mysel had labeled them, when I geed them tle yeer lordship and Maistriss Montgomery: sae, what was I te think? Nor did the steward, nor the gairdinir, nor the gamkeeper, at sleeped i’ the hoose for security, iver think o’ misdooting at the gintleman was Maister Lauson.”
“A pretty business indeed,” ejaculated Lauson. “A very serious one, I begin to fear!”said the Earl. “A very unlikely one” said Lauson, rattling something in his pocket as he spoke. “But come, madam, finish what you have got to say, and then I shall beg leave to put in a word. It’s only necessary to give some people rope enough, and they will hang themselves—that I see!”
“He geed me the keys o’ the buke-cases,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “and bad me tle hay the books aw dusted, and that there wad be people here i’ the morn’s morn, at wad undertake the packing o’ the pictures. And sae he desired particular at they should be carefully tane down, and weel wiped ready soon i’ the morn.”
Many were here the ejaculations of astonishment at such audacity.
“And sae,” continued poor Mrs. M’Kinley, “I was up we the daw; and aw the next day was spent we packing, and I helped every thing we my ain hands; and signs by, I hev hed sicka pain i’ my back iver sine, at I’m no fit tle stand straight!”
No one scarcely could avoid laughing at poor Mrs. M’Kinley’s thus claiming merit to herself for the active assistance she had given the plunderer.
“It’s no a laughing matter,” said she bitterly. “Bit hear me oot, and I care na what coms o’ me after! Weel, towerds the glooming then, sure enough, a boat cam fray the ship at we had seen nigh to the shore aw day; and it pot in amang the rocks, just below the woody cliff yonder. And up the sailor-men com, bowling through aw the shrubbery walks, and doon they carried aw the kists and boxes.”
The Earl and Lauson looked at each other: there was no ejaculation strong enough for this climax.
“And when they were tacking oot thelast o’ them,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “I followed mysel through the trees, as far as the view seat, and sat mysel doon; and by cam Maister Lauson.”
“I’ll prosecute you if you use my name,” said Lauson.
“As he cawd himsel at least,” she added.
“So, Mrs. M’Kinley,” he said, “I am going with the ship mysel, to see all safe,” and he passed on. “Weel, I looked after him, and after the kists, and doon on the water, for the moon was up, and all was clear as day; and the ship was lying, and I seed the boat put fray the land and gey toward it; and I seed the kists quite plain, lifted oot on the boat, and drawd up the side o’ the ship, ain by ain, till I coonted the last on them; and then they drawd up the boat also. A weel, a weel, thought I, and noo it’s aw ower, it’s been a queer sudden business, amaistlike tle a dream. And I gade back ti the hoose; and found Jean sweeping up the strey; and sae I helped her to shut the doors and the windows; and we sat doon by the fire, and thought the hoose mayne lanely like, (the men folk was no com in tle their suppers) than we had thought it, aw the years at we had had the care on’t.”
“You should certainly have shut your doors and windows a little sooner, my good woman!” said the Earl.
“Here’s locking the stable when the steed is stolen, with the vengeance,” said Lauson.
“Hear ye te that, noo!” cried Mrs. M’Kinley, “hoo he threeps me doon; just as if I was na wratched enu awready. It’s easy prophesying when the prophesy is oot! I may be feul, and mad, and aw the rest on’t; bit I’m no sick a feul at I need to be talt noo, at the things wad aw be better i’their places, nor i’the hands o’a thief and a robber! Bit hoo was I to ken at he was a thief? Did’na he caw himself Maister Lauson, and I kent at his lordship did’na think ye a thief, or he wad’na ha’ geen ye his business.”
“Don’t be noisy, my good woman,” said the Earl, but mildly; for he made charitable allowance for the excited state of her feelings. “And pray when did all this happen?” he continued. “Aboot a month syne,” she replied. “Bit the receipts will show.” “What receipts?” asked Lauson.
“Did’na I tell ye, at he geed me receipts for ivery thing?” she replied, with much asperity; at the same time beginning to rummage her pockets. “To be sure I hey them!” she murmured; and the longer she was in finding them among the varied treasures she successively drew forth, and in her agitation alternatelytook from one pocket, and put into the other, the more frequently she repeated, “to be sure I hey them!”
At length, with trembling hands, after frequent wiping of her spectacles, which her fast falling tears as often dimmed, she selected from the chaos a tied up parcel, containing receipts for every thing, all signed with the name of Lauson, and in a hand which was a very tolerable imitation of his.
Lauson exclaimed against the daring act of forging his name; swearing that whoever had done so, should swing for it! “And as for your long story, madam,” he continued, turning to Mrs. M’Kinley, “I shall quickly prove it all a pack of lies! Here are the keys, labels and all, in my own coat-pocket,” and thence he accordingly produced them. “Now, it’s a likely story,” he continued, “if a highwayman-rascal had been able to get possession of themout of Mrs. Montgomery’s japan cabinet, at Lodore House, that he would have run the risk of putting them there again, after they had served his turn; and from thence I took them with my own hands, only three days since.”
Exclamations of wonder here followed. The Earl cast a very angry glance at poor Mrs. M’Kinley. She was thunderstruck: she could not deny that those were indeed the keys, yet protested that her former statement was notwithstanding gospel truth!
Affected by her tears and protestations, Julia declared her belief of poor Mrs. M’Kinley’s innocence, however inexplicable the circumstances might be.—“Well,” said the Earl, at length, “as you, who are most interested, wish it, we shall at least consider her innocent till she is proved guilty.”
Mrs. M’Kinley wept like a child, fell atJulia’s feet, and begged she would miss-caw and abuse her, aw at iver she could, and no break her heart by sick goodness. When the surprise had at length a little subsided, many spacious apartments were visited; and the picture gallery in particular; which, bearing on its now naked walls the numerous traces of departed frames of various shapes and sizes, gave thus a silent and melancholy testimony of how great a loss had been sustained. Edmund reminded Lord Arandale, that a clue might be found to some useful discoveries, in what Gotterimo had said of the London swindler having sold to a friend of his, plate, pictures, coins, &c.
His lordship requested the gentlemen to be present while he examined the rest of the servants. The ladies walked on towards the view-seat.