Letters arrived every post, which Sir Arthur, as soon as he had looked
at the directions, flung into the fire without taking the trouble to
open them. Miss Wardour could not help suspecting that these epistles,
the contents of which seemed to be known to her father by a sort of
intuition, came from pressing creditors. In the meanwhile, the temporary
aid which he had received from the treasure dwindled fast away. By far
the greater part had been swallowed up by the necessity of paying the
bill of six hundred pounds, which had threatened Sir Arthur with instant
distress. Of the rest, some part was given to the adept, some wasted
upon extravagances which seemed to the poor knight fully authorized by
his full-blown hopes,--and some went to stop for a time the mouths of
such claimants as, being weary of fair promises, had become of opinion
with Harpagon, that it was necessary to touch something substantial. At
length circumstances announced but too plainly, that it was all expended
within two or three days after its discovery; and there appeared
no prospect of a supply. Sir Arthur, naturally impatient, now taxed
Dousterswivel anew with breach of those promises through which he had
hoped to convert all his lead into gold. But that worthy gentleman’s
turn was now served; and as he had grace enough to wish to avoid
witnessing the fall of the house which he had undermined, he was at the
trouble of bestowing a few learned terms of art upon Sir Arthur, that at
least he might not be tormented before his time. He took leave of him,
with assurances that he would return to Knockwinnock the next morning,
with such information as would not fail to relieve Sir Arthur from all
his distresses.
“For, since I have consulted in such matters, I ave never,” said Mr.
Herman Dousterswivel, “approached so near de arcanum, what you call de
great mystery,--de Panchresta--de Polychresta--I do know as much of it as
Pelaso de Taranta, or Basilius--and either I will bring you in two and
tree days de No. III. of Mr. Mishdigoat, or you shall call me one knave
myself, and never look me in de face again no more at all.”
The adept departed with this assurance, in the firm resolution of making
good the latter part of the proposition, and never again appearing
before his injured patron. Sir Arthur remained in a doubtful and anxious
state of mind. The positive assurances of the philosopher, with the hard
words Panchresta, Basilius, and so forth, produced some effect on his
mind. But he had been too often deluded by such jargon, to be absolutely
relieved of his doubt, and he retired for the evening into his library,
in the fearful state of one who, hanging over a precipice, and without
the means of retreat, perceives the stone on which he rests gradually
parting from the rest of the crag, and about to give way with him.
The visions of hope decayed, and there increased in proportion that
feverish agony of anticipation with which a man, educated in a sense
of consequence, and possessed of opulence,--the supporter of an ancient
name, and the father of two promising children,--foresaw the hour
approaching which should deprive him of all the splendour which time had
made familiarly necessary to him, and send him forth into the world to
struggle with poverty, with rapacity, and with scorn. Under these dire
forebodings, his temper, exhausted by the sickness of delayed hope,
became peevish and fretful, and his words and actions sometimes
expressed a reckless desperation, which alarmed Miss Wardour extremely.
We have seen, on a former occasion, that Sir Arthur was a man of
passions lively and quick, in proportion to the weakness of his
character in other respects; he was unused to contradiction, and if
he had been hitherto, in general, good-humoured and cheerful, it was
probably because the course of his life had afforded no such frequent
provocation as to render his irritability habitual.
On the third morning after Dousterswivel’s departure, the servant, as
usual, laid on the breakfast table the newspaper and letters of the day.
Miss Wardour took up the former to avoid the continued ill-humour of
her father, who had wrought himself into a violent passion, because the
toast was over-browned.
“I perceive how it is,” was his concluding speech on this interesting
subject,--“my servants, who have had their share of my fortune, begin
to think there is little to be made of me in future. But while I am the
scoundrel’s master I will be so, and permit no neglect--no, nor endure
a hair’s-breadth diminution of the respect I am entitled to exact from
them.”
“I am ready to leave your honour’s service this instant,” said the
domestic upon whom the fault had been charged, “as soon as you order
payment of my wages.”
Sir Arthur, as if stung by a serpent, thrust his hand into his pocket,
and instantly drew out the money which it contained, but which was short
of the man’s claim. “What money have you got, Miss Wardour?” he said, in
a tone of affected calmness, but which concealed violent agitation.
Miss Wardour gave him her purse; he attempted to count the bank notes
which it contained, but could not reckon them. After twice miscounting
the sum, he threw the whole to his daughter, and saying, in a stern
voice, “Pay the rascal, and let him leave the house instantly!” he
strode out of the room.
The mistress and servant stood alike astonished at the agitation and
vehemence of his manner.
“I am sure, ma’am, if I had thought I was particularly wrang, I wadna
hae made ony answer when Sir Arthur challenged me. I hae been lang in
his service, and he has been a kind master, and you a kind mistress, and
I wad like ill ye should think I wad start for a hasty word. I am sure
it was very wrang o’ me to speak about wages to his honour, when maybe
he has something to vex him. I had nae thoughts o’ leaving the family in
this way.”
“Go down stair, Robert,” said his mistress--“something has happened to
fret my father--go down stairs, and let Alick answer the bell.”
When the man left the room, Sir Arthur re-entered, as if he had been
watching his departure. “What’s the meaning of this?” he said hastily,
as he observed the notes lying still on the table--“Is he not gone? Am I
neither to be obeyed as a master or a father?”
“He is gone to give up his charge to the housekeeper, sir,--I thought
there was not such instant haste.”
“There is haste, Miss Wardour,” answered her father, interrupting
her;--“What I do henceforth in the house of my forefathers, must be done
speedily, or never.”
He then sate down, and took up with a trembling hand the basin of tea
prepared for him, protracting the swallowing of it, as if to delay the
necessity of opening the post-letters which lay on the table, and which
he eyed from time to time, as if they had been a nest of adders ready to
start into life and spring upon him.
“You will be happy to hear,” said Miss Wardour, willing to withdraw her
father’s mind from the gloomy reflections in which he appeared to be
plunged, “you will be happy to hear, sir, that Lieutenant Taffril’s
gun-brig has got safe into Leith Roads--I observe there had been
apprehensions for his safety--I am glad we did not hear them till they
were contradicted.”
“And what is Taffril and his gun-brig to me?”
“Sir!” said Miss Wardour in astonishment; for Sir Arthur, in his
ordinary state of mind, took a fidgety sort of interest in all the
gossip of the day and country.
“I say,” he repeated in a higher and still more impatient key, “what do
I care who is saved or lost? It’s nothing to me, I suppose?”
“I did not know you were busy, Sir Arthur; and thought, as Mr. Taffril
is a brave man, and from our own country, you would be happy to hear”--
“Oh, I am happy--as happy as possible--and, to make you happy too, you
shall have some of my good news in return.” And he caught up a letter.
“It does not signify which I open first--they are all to the same tune.”
He broke the seal hastily, ran the letter over, and then threw it to
his daughter. “Ay--I could not have lighted more happily!--this places the
copestone.”
Miss Wardour, in silent terror, took up the letter. “Read it--read it
aloud!” said her father; “it cannot be read too often; it will serve to
break you in for other good news of the same kind.”
She began to read with a faltering voice, “Dear Sir.”
“He dears me too, you see, this impudent drudge of a writer’s office,
who, a twelvemonth since, was not fit company for my second table--I
suppose I shall be dear Knight’ with him by and by.”
“Dear Sir,” resumed Miss Wardour; but, interrupting herself, “I see
the contents are unpleasant, sir--it will only vex you my reading them
aloud.”
“If you will allow me to know my own pleasure, Miss Wardour, I entreat
you to go on--I presume, if it were unnecessary, I should not ask you to
take the trouble.”
“Having been of late taken into copartnery,” continued Miss Wardour,
reading the letter, “by Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn, son of your late
correspondent and man of business, Girnigo Greenhorn, Esq., writer to
the signet, whose business I conducted as parliament-house clerk for
many years, which business will in future be carried on under the firm
of Greenhorn and Grinderson (which I memorandum for the sake of accuracy
in addressing your future letters), and having had of late favours
of yours, directed to my aforesaid partner, Gilbert Greenhorn, in
consequence of his absence at the Lamberton races, have the honour to
reply to your said favours.”
“You see my friend is methodical, and commences by explaining the causes
which have procured me so modest and elegant a correspondent. Go on--I
can bear it.”
And he laughed that bitter laugh which is perhaps the most fearful
expression of mental misery. Trembling to proceed, and yet afraid to
disobey, Miss Wardour continued to read--“I am for myself and partner,
sorry we cannot oblige you by looking out for the sums you mention, or
applying for a suspension in the case of Goldiebirds’ bond, which
would be more inconsistent, as we have been employed to act as the said
Goldiebirds’ procurators and attorneys, in which capacity we have
taken out a charge of horning against you, as you must be aware by
the schedule left by the messenger, for the sum of four thousand seven
hundred and fifty-six pounds five shillings and sixpence one-fourth of
a penny sterling, which, with annual-rent and expenses effeiring, we
presume will be settled during the currency of the charge, to prevent
further trouble. Same time, I am under the necessity to observe our own
account, amounting to seven hundred and sixty-nine pounds ten shillings
and sixpence, is also due, and settlement would be agreeable; but as we
hold your rights, title-deeds, and documents in hypothec, shall have no
objection to give reasonable time--say till the next money term. I am,
for myself and partner, concerned to add, that Messrs. Goldiebirds’
instructions to us are to proceed peremptorie and sine mora, of which I
have the pleasure to advise you, to prevent future mistakes, reserving
to ourselves otherwise to age’ as accords. I am, for self and partner,
dear sir, your obliged humble servant, Gabriel Grinderson, for Greenhorn
and Grinderson.”
“Ungrateful villain!” said Miss Wardour.
“Why, no--it’s in the usual rule, I suppose; the blow could not have
been perfect if dealt by another hand--it’s all just as it should be,”
answered the poor Baronet, his affected composure sorely belied by
his quivering lip and rolling eye--“But here’s a postscript I did not
notice--come, finish the epistle.”
“I have to add (not for self but partner) that Mr. Greenhorn will
accommodate you by taking your service of plate, or the bay horses, if
sound in wind and limb, at a fair appreciation, in part payment of your
accompt.”
“G--d confound him!” said Sir Arthur, losing all command of himself at
this condescending proposal: “his grandfather shod my father’s horses,
and this descendant of a scoundrelly blacksmith proposes to swindle me
out of mine! But I will write him a proper answer.”
And he sate down and began to write with great vehemence, then stopped
and read aloud:--“Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn,--in answer to two letters of a
late date, I received a letter from a person calling himself Grinderson,
and designing himself as your partner. When I address any one, I do not
usually expect to be answered by deputy--I think I have been useful to
your father, and friendly and civil to yourself, and therefore am now
surprised--And yet,” said he, stopping short, “why should I be surprised
at that or anything else? or why should I take up my time in writing to
such a scoundrel?--I shan’t be always kept in prison, I suppose; and to
break that puppy’s bones when I get out, shall be my first employment.”
“In prison, sir?” said Miss Wardour, faintly.
“Ay, in prison to be sure. Do you make any question about that? Why, Mr.
what’s his name’s fine letter for self and partner seems to be thrown
away on you, or else you have got four thousand so many hundred pounds,
with the due proportion of shillings, pence, and half-pence, to pay that
aforesaid demand, as he calls it.”
“I, sir? O if I had the means!--But where’s my brother?--why does he not
come, and so long in Scotland? He might do something to assist us.”
“Who, Reginald?--I suppose he’s gone with Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn, or some
such respectable person, to the Lamberton races--I have expected him this
week past; but I cannot wonder that my children should neglect me as
well as every other person. But I should beg your pardon, my love, who
never either neglected or offended me in your life.”
And kissing her cheek as she threw her arms round his neck, he
experienced that consolation which a parent feels, even in the most
distressed state, in the assurance that he possesses the affection of a
child.
Miss Wardour took the advantage of this revulsion of feeling, to
endeavour to soothe her father’s mind to composure. She reminded him
that he had many friends.
“I had many once,” said Sir Arthur; “but of some I have exhausted their
kindness with my frantic projects; others are unable to assist me--others
are unwilling. It is all over with me. I only hope Reginald will take
example by my folly.”
“Should I not send to Monkbarns, sir?” said his daughter.
“To what purpose? He cannot lend me such a sum, and would not if he
could, for he knows I am otherwise drowned in debt; and he would only
give me scraps of misanthropy and quaint ends of Latin.”
“But he is shrewd and sensible, and was bred to business, and, I am
sure, always loved this family.”
“Yes, I believe he did. It is a fine pass we are come to, when the
affection of an Oldbuck is of consequence to a Wardour! But when matters
come to extremity, as I suppose they presently will--it may be as well
to send for him. And now go take your walk, my dear--my mind is more
composed than when I had this cursed disclosure to make. You know the
worst, and may daily or hourly expect it. Go take your walk--I would
willingly be alone for a little while.”
When Miss Wardour left the apartment, her first occupation was to avail
herself of the half permission granted by her father, by despatching to
Monkbarns the messenger, who, as we have already seen, met the Antiquary
and his nephew on the sea-beach.
Little recking, and indeed scarce knowing, where she was wandering,
chance directed her into the walk beneath the Briery Bank, as it was
called. A brook, which in former days had supplied the castle-moat with
water, here descended through a narrow dell, up which Miss Wardour’s
taste had directed a natural path, which was rendered neat and easy of
ascent, without the air of being formally made and preserved. It suited
well the character of the little glen, which was overhung with thickets
and underwood, chiefly of larch and hazel, intermixed with the usual
varieties of the thorn and brier. In this walk had passed that scene of
explanation between Miss Wardour and Lovel which was overheard by old
Edie Ochiltree. With a heart softened by the distress which approached
her family, Miss Wardour now recalled every word and argument which
Lovel had urged in support of his suit, and could not help confessing to
herself, it was no small subject of pride to have inspired a young
man of his talents with a passion so strong and disinterested. That he
should have left the pursuit of a profession in which he was said to be
rapidly rising, to bury himself in a disagreeable place like Fairport,
and brood over an unrequited passion, might be ridiculed by others as
romantic, but was naturally forgiven as an excess of affection by
the person who was the object of his attachment. Had he possessed an
independence, however moderate, or ascertained a clear and undisputed
claim to the rank in society he was well qualified to adorn, she
might now have had it in her power to offer her father, during his
misfortunes, an asylum in an establishment of her own. These thoughts,
so favourable to the absent lover, crowded in, one after the other,
with such a minute recapitulation of his words, looks, and actions, as
plainly intimated that his former repulse had been dictated rather
by duty than inclination. Isabella was musing alternately upon this
subject, and upon that of her father’s misfortunes, when, as the path
winded round a little hillock covered with brushwood, the old Blue-Gown
suddenly met her.
With an air as if he had something important and mysterious to
communicate, he doffed his bonnet, and assumed the cautious step and
voice of one who would not willingly be overheard. “I hae been wishing
muckle to meet wi’ your leddyship--for ye ken I darena come to the house
for Dousterswivel.”
“I heard indeed,” said Miss Wardour, dropping an alms into the bonnet--“I
heard that you had done a very foolish, if not a very bad thing, Edie--
and I was sorry to hear it.”
“Hout, my bonny leddy--fulish? A’ the world’s fules--and how should auld
Edie Ochiltree be aye wise?--And for the evil--let them wha deal wi’
Dousterswivel tell whether he gat a grain mair than his deserts.”
“That may be true, Edie, and yet,” said Miss Wardour, “you may have been
very wrong.”
“Weel, weel, we’se no dispute that e’ennow--it’s about yoursell I’m gaun
to speak. Div ye ken what’s hanging ower the house of Knockwinnock?”
“Great distress, I fear, Edie,” answered Miss Wardour; “but I am
surprised it is already so public.”
“Public!--Sweepclean, the messenger, will be there the day wi’ a’ his
tackle. I ken it frae ane o’ his concurrents, as they ca’ them, that’s
warned to meet him; and they’ll be about their wark belyve; whare they
clip, there needs nae kame--they shear close eneugh.”
“Are you sure this bad hour, Edie, is so very near?--come, I know, it
will.”
“It’s e’en as I tell you, leddy. But dinna be cast down--there’s a
heaven ower your head here, as weel as in that fearful night atween
the Ballyburghness and the Halket-head. D’ye think He, wha rebuked the
waters, canna protect you against the wrath of men, though they be armed
with human authority?”
“It is indeed all we have to trust to.”
“Ye dinna ken--ye dinna ken: when the night’s darkest, the dawn’s
nearest. If I had a gude horse, or could ride him when I had him, I
reckon there wad be help yet. I trusted to hae gotten a cast wi’ the
Royal Charlotte, but she’s coupit yonder, it’s like, at Kittlebrig.
There was a young gentleman on the box, and he behuved to drive; and
Tam Sang, that suld hae mair sense, he behuved to let him, and the daft
callant couldna tak the turn at the corner o’ the brig; and od! he took
the curbstane, and he’s whomled her as I wad whomle a toom bicker--it was
a luck I hadna gotten on the tap o’ her. Sae I came down atween hope and
despair, to see if ye wad send me on.”
“And, Edie--where would ye go?” said the young lady.
“To Tannonburgh, my leddy” (which was the first stage from Fairport, but
a good deal nearer to Knockwinnock), “and that without delay--it’s a’ on
your ain business.”
“Our business, Edie? Alas! I give you all credit for your good meaning;
but”--
“There’s nae buts about it, my leddy, for gang I maun,” said the
persevering Blue-Gown.
“But what is it that you would do at Tannonburgh?--or how can your going
there benefit my father’s affairs?”
“Indeed, my sweet leddy,” said the gaberlunzie, “ye maun just trust
that bit secret to auld Edie’s grey pow, and ask nae questions about it.
Certainly if I wad hae wared my life for you yon night, I can hae nae
reason to play an ill pliskie t’ye in the day o’ your distress.”
“Well, Edie, follow me then,” said Miss Wardour, “and I will try to get
you sent to Tannonburgh.”
“Mak haste then, my bonny leddy--mak haste, for the love o’ goodness!”--
and he continued to exhort her to expedition until they reached the
Castle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.
Let those go see who will--I like it not--
For, say he was a slave to rank and pomp,
And all the nothings he is now divorced from
By the hard doom of stern necessity:
Yet it is sad to mark his altered brow,
Where Vanity adjusts her flimsy veil
O’er the deep wrinkles of repentant anguish.
Old Play.
When Miss Wardour arrived in the court of the Castle, she was apprized
by the first glance that the visit of the officers of the law had
already taken place. There was confusion, and gloom and sorrow, and
curiosity among the domestics, while the retainers of the law went from
place to place, making an inventory of the goods and chattels falling
under their warrant of distress, or poinding, as it is called in the
law of Scotland. Captain M’Intyre flew to her, as, struck dumb with
the melancholy conviction of her father’s ruin, she paused upon the
threshold of the gateway.
“Dear Miss Wardour,” he said, “do not make yourself uneasy; my uncle
is coming immediately, and I am sure he will find some way to clear the
house of these rascals.”
“Alas! Captain M’Intyre, I fear it will be too late.”
“No,” answered Edie, impatiently--“could I but get to Tannonburgh. In the
name of Heaven, Captain, contrive some way to get me on, and ye’ll do
this poor ruined family the best day’s doing that has been done
them since Redhand’s days--for as sure as e’er an auld saw came true,
Knockwinnock house and land will be lost and won this day.”
“Why, what good can you do, old man?” said Hector.
But Robert, the domestic with whom Sir Arthur had been so much
displeased in the morning, as if he had been watching for an opportunity
to display his zeal, stepped hastily forward and said to his mistress,
“If you please, ma’am, this auld man, Ochiltree, is very skeely and
auld-farrant about mony things, as the diseases of cows and horse, and
sic like, and I am sure be disna want to be at Tannonburgh the day
for naething, since he insists on’t this gate; and, if your leddyship
pleases, I’ll drive him there in the taxed-cart in an hour’s time. I wad
fain be of some use--I could bite my very tongue out when I think on this
morning.”
“I am obliged to you, Robert,” said Miss Wardour; “and if you really
think it has the least chance of being useful”--
“In the name of God,” said the old man, “yoke the cart, Robie, and if
I am no o’ some use, less or mair, I’ll gie ye leave to fling me ower
Kittlebrig as ye come back again. But, O man, haste ye, for time’s
precious this day.”
Robert looked at his mistress as she retired into the house, and seeing
he was not prohibited, flew to the stable-yard, which was adjacent to
the court, in order to yoke the carriage; for, though an old beggar was
the personage least likely to render effectual assistance in a case
of pecuniary distress, yet there was among the common people of Edie’s
circle, a general idea of his prudence and sagacity, which authorized
Robert’s conclusion that he would not so earnestly have urged the
necessity of this expedition had he not been convinced of its utility.
But so soon as the servant took hold of a horse to harness him for the
taxed-cart, an officer touched him on the shoulder--“My friend, you must
let that beast alone--he’s down in the schedule.”
“What!” said Robert, “am I not to take my master’s horse to go my young
leddy’s errand?”
“You must remove nothing here,” said the man of office, “or you will be
liable for all consequences.”
“What the devil, sir,” said Hector, who having followed to examine
Ochiltree more closely on the nature of his hopes and expectations,
already began to bristle like one of the terriers of his own native
mountains, and sought but a decent pretext for venting his displeasure,
“have you the impudence to prevent the young lady’s servant from obeying
her orders?”
There was something in the air and tone of the young soldier, which
seemed to argue that his interference was not likely to be confined to
mere expostulation; and which, if it promised finally the advantages of
a process of battery and deforcement, would certainly commence with the
unpleasant circumstances necessary for founding such a complaint. The
legal officer, confronted with him of the military, grasped with one
doubtful hand the greasy bludgeon which was to enforce his authority,
and with the other produced his short official baton, tipped with
silver, and having a movable ring upon it--“Captain M’Intyre,--Sir, I have
no quarrel with you,--but if you interrupt me in my duty, I will break
the wand of peace, and declare myself deforced.”