From the time that Sir Arthur Wardour had become possessor of the

treasure found in Misticot's grave, he had been in a state of mind more

resembling ecstasy than sober sense. Indeed, at one time his daughter

had become seriously apprehensive for his intellect; for, as he had

no doubt that he had the secret of possessing himself of wealth to an

unbounded extent, his language and carriage were those of a man who

had acquired the philosopher's stone. He talked of buying contiguous

estates, that would have led him from one side of the island to the

other, as if he were determined to brook no neighbour save the sea. He

corresponded with an architect of eminence, upon a plan of renovating

the castle of his forefathers on a style of extended magnificence that

might have rivalled that of Windsor, and laying out the grounds on

a suitable scale. Troops of liveried menials were already, in fancy,

marshalled in his halls, and—for what may not unbounded wealth authorize

its possessor to aspire to?—the coronet of a marquis, perhaps of a duke,

was glittering before his imagination. His daughter—to what matches

might she not look forward? Even an alliance with the blood-royal was

not beyond the sphere of his hopes. His son was already a general—and he

himself whatever ambition could dream of in its wildest visions.

In this mood, if any one endeavoured to bring Sir Arthur down to the

regions of common life, his replies were in the vein of Ancient Pistol—

A fico for the world, and worldlings base

I speak of Africa and golden joys!

The reader may conceive the amazement of Miss Wardour, when, instead of

undergoing an investigation concerning the addresses of Lovel, as she

had expected from the long conference of her father with Mr. Oldbuck,

upon the morning of the fated day when the treasure was discovered,

the conversation of Sir Arthur announced an imagination heated with the

hopes of possessing the most unbounded wealth. But she was seriously

alarmed when Dousterswivel was sent for to the Castle, and was closeted

with her father—his mishap condoled with—his part taken, and his

loss compensated. All the suspicions which she had long entertained

respecting this man became strengthened, by observing his pains to keep

up the golden dreams of her father, and to secure for himself, under

various pretexts, as much as possible out of the windfall which had so

strangely fallen to Sir Arthur's share.

Other evil symptoms began to appear, following close on each other.

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.