France," said Geordie. "He asked me to bear him company and carry his
luggage to Leith, and I couldna refuse sic a favour to the braw knight."
"An' what got ye frae him?" said his mother; "for I hae naething i' the
house for supper."
"Twa or three placks," said Geordie, throwing down some coppers on the
table.
"This is the 21st day o' April--your birthday, Geordie," said the
mother; "an' as it has aye been our practice to hae something by common
on that occasion, I'll gang down to Widow Johnston's an' get a pint o'
the best, to drink yer health wi'." And Widow Willison did as she said.
"Is Lady Maitland no awa wi' Sir Marmaduke, Geordie?" resumed his
mother, when they were taking their meagre supper.
"Na! na!" said Geordie; "they dinna like ane anither sae weel; an' I
dinna wonder at Sir Marmaduke no likin' her, for I dinna like her
mysel."
"For what reason, Geordie?" asked his mother.
"Because she doesna like me," answered the casuist.
Now it happened that on the 19th day of February, after the conversation
here detailed, that George Willison was wandering over the grounds of
Warriston, on the north side of Edinburgh. He had been with a letter to
the Laird of Warriston, and, in coming back, as was not uncommon with
him, was musing, in a half dreaming, listless kind of state, as he
sauntered through the planted grounds in the neighbourhood. His
attention was in an instant arrested by the sounds of voices, and he
stood, or rather sat down, behind a hedge and listened. The speakers
were very near to him; for it was so very dark that they could not
observe him.
"I will stand at a little distance, Louise," said a voice, "and thou
canst do the thing thyself. I could despatch thine, but I cannot do that
good work to myself; for the mother rises in me, and unnerves me quite.
Besides, thou didst promise to do me this service for the ten gold
pieces I gave thee, and the many more I will yet give thee."
"_Oui! oui!_ my lady; but de infant is so _fort_, so trong, dat it will
be difficult for me to trottle her. Death, _la mort_, does not come ever
when required; but I vill do my endeavour to trangle de leetle jade, vit
as much activity as I can. Ha! ha! de leetle baggage tinks she is
already _perdir_--she tombles so--be quiet, you _petite_ leetle deevil.
It vill be de best vay, I tink, to do it on de ground. Hark! is dere not
some person near?--my heart goes _en palpitant_."
"It is nobody, thou fool," answered the lady; "it is only a rustling
produced by a breath of wind among the trees."
"Very vell, very vell, my Lady Maitland; dat is right. Now for de vork."
"Stop until I am at a little distance; and, when thou hearest me cry
'Now,' finish the thing cleverly."
The rustling of the lady's gown betokened that she had done as she said.
The rustling ceased; and the word "Now," came from the mouth of the
mother.
All was silent for a minute; a quick breath, indicating the application
of a strong effort, was now heard, mixed with the sound of a convulsed
suspiration, something like that of a child labouring under
hooping-cough, though weaker. The rustling of clothes indicated a
struggle of some violence; and several ejaculations escaped at
intervals:--"_Mon dieu!_ dis is de _triste_ vork; how trong de leetle
she velp is!--now, now--not yet--how trange!--_diable!_ she still
breats!"
"Hast thou finished, Louise?" asked the lady, impatiently.
"Not yet, my lady," said Louise; "give me your hair necklace; de leetle
she velp vont die vitout tronger force dan my veak hands can apply."
"I cannot go to thee," said the lady; "thou must come to me. Lay the
babe on the ground, and come for the necklace."
Louise did as she was desired.
The sounds of a struggle again commenced, mixed with Louise's
ejaculations:--"Now, now--dis vill do for you--_une fois_--vonce, twice,
trice round--dat vill do--quite sufficient to kill de giant, or Sir
Marmaduke himself. Now, my lady, I tink de ting is pretty vell done; I
vill trow her into de hedge--dere--now, let us go."
The two ladies went away, and Geordie rushed forward to the place where
they had thrown the child. It was still convulsed. He loosened the
necklace, which had been left by mistake, and blew strongly into the
child's mouth. He heard it sigh, and in a little time breathe; and,
carrying it with the greatest care, he took it home with him to his
mother's house.
"Whar hae ye been, man, and what is this ye hae in your airms?" said
Widow Willison to Geordie, when he went in.
"It's a wee bit birdie I fand in a nest amang the hedges o' Warriston,"
said Geordie. "Its mither didna seem to care aboot it, and I hae brought
it hame wi' me. Gie't a pickle crowdie, puir thing."
Astonished, and partly displeased, Widow Willison took the child out of
her son's arms, and seeing its face swoln and blue, and marks of
strangulation on its neck, her maternal sympathies arose, and she
applied all the articles of a mother's pharmacopoeia with a view to
restore it.
"But whar got ye the bairn, man?" she again inquired. "Gie us nane o'
yer nonsense about birds and hedges. Tell us the story sae as plain folk
can understand it."
"I hae already tauld ye," said Geordie, dryly and slowly; "and it's no
my intention at present to tell ye ony mair aboot it. Ye didna ask whar
_I_ came frae when ye got me first."
"An' wha's to bring up the bairn?" asked the mother, who knew it was in
vain to put the same question twice to Geordie.
"Ye didna ask that question at my faither when _I_ cam hame," replied
the stoic, with one of his peculiar looks; "but, if ye had, maybe ye
wadna hae got sae kind an answer as I'll gie ye: Geordie Willison will
pay for bringing up the bairn; and I'll no answer ony mair o' yer
questions."
Strictly did Geordie keep his word with his mother. He would tell
neither her nor his sister anything about the child. They knew his
temper and disposition, and gradually resigned an importunity which had
the effect of making him more obstinate. At night, when the child's
clothes were taken off, with a view to putting it to bed, Geordie got
hold of them and carried them off, unknown to his mother. He locked them
up in his chest, and, in the morning, when his mother asked him if he
had seen them, he said he knew nothing about them. Annoyed by this
conduct on the part of her son, his mother threatened to throw the child
upon the parish as a foundling; and yet, when she reflected on the
extreme sagacity which was mixed up with her son's peculiarities, and
read in his looks, which she well understood, a more than ordinary
confidence of power to do what he had said, as to bringing up the child,
she hesitated in her purpose, and at last resolved to go in with the
humour and inclinations of her son, and do the duty of a mother to the
babe.
We now change the scene.
"It's a braw day this, my Leddy Maitland," said Geordie, bowing to the
very ground, and holding in his hand a clean sheet of paper, which he
had folded up like a letter, as a passport to her ladyship's presence.
Lady Maitland, who was sitting at her work-table, stared at the person
thus saluting her, and seeing it was Geordie Willison, who had offended
her at the time of his carrying down Sir Marmaduke's luggage, by asking,
jocularly, if "ony o' the bairns were gaun wi' their father," she asked
him sternly what he wanted, and, thinking he had the letter in his hand
to deliver to her, snatched it in a petted manner and opened it. On
finding it a clean sheet of paper, with her address on the back of it,
she got into a great rage, and ran to the bell to call up a lackey to
kick Geordie down stairs.
"Canny, my braw leddy--canny," said Geordie, seizing her hand; "ye are
hasty--maybe no quite recovered yet--the wet dews o' Warriston are no
for the tender health o' the bonny Leddy Maitland; for even Geordie
Willison, wha can ban a' bield i' the cauldest nicht o' winter, felt
them chill and gruesome as he passed through them yestreen."
On hearing this speech, Lady Maitland changed, in an instant, from a
state of violent passion to the rigidity and appearance of a marble
statue.
Eyeing her with one of his peculiar looks, as much as to say, "I know
all," Geordie proceeded.
"I dinna want to put your leddyship to ony trouble by this veesit; but,
being in want o' some siller in thir hard times, I thocht I would tak
the liberty o' ca'in upon yer leddyship, as weel for the sake o' being
better acquainted wi' a leddy o' yer station and presence, as for the
sake o' gettin' the little I require on my first introduction to high
life."
"How much money dost thou require?" asked the lady, with a tremulous
voice.
"Twunty pund, my leddy, twenty pund at the present time," answered
Geordie, with the same simple look; "ye ken the folk haud me for a
natural, and ower fu' a cup is no easy carried, even by the wise. Sae, I
wadna like to trust mysel' wi' mair than twenty pund at a time."
Without saying a word, Lady Maitland went, with trembling steps, and a
hurried and confused manner, to her bureau: she took out her keys--tried
one, then another, and, with some difficulty, at last got it opened. She
counted out twenty pounds, and handed it over to Geordie, who counted it
again with all the precision of a modern banker.
"Thank ye, my leddy," said Geordie; "an' whan I need mair, I'll just tak
the liberty o' makin yer leddyship my banker. Guid day, my leddy." And,
with a low bow, reaching nearly to the ground, he departed.
The result of this interview satisfied Geordie that what he had
suspected was true. Sir Marmaduke had not yet returned, and his lady,
having been unfaithful to him, and given birth to a child, had resolved
upon putting it out of the way, in the manner already detailed. He had
no doubt that the lady thought the child was dead; and he did not wish,
in the meantime, to disturb that notion; for, although he knew that the
circumstance of the child being alive would give him greater power over
her, in the event of her becoming refractory, he was apprehensive that
she would not have allowed the child to remain in his keeping; and
might, in all likelihood, resort to some desperate scheme to destroy it.
On returning home, Geordie drew his seat to the fire, and sat silent.
His mother, who was sitting opposite to him, asked him if he had earned
any money that day, wherewith he could buy some clothes for the child he
had undertaken to bring up. With becoming gravity, and without appearing
to feel that any remarkable change had taken place upon his finances,
Geordie slowly put his hand into his pocket, drew out the twenty pounds,
and gave his mother one for interim expenditure. As he returned the
money into his pocket, he said, with an air of the most supreme
nonchalance, "If ye want ony mair, ye can let me ken."
The mother and daughter looked at each other with surprise and
astonishment, mixed with some pleasure, and, perhaps, some apprehension.
Neither of them put any question as to where the money had been got; for
Geordie's look had already informed them that any such question would
not be answered.
Meanwhile, no great change seemed to have been produced in Geordie
Willison's manner of living, in consequence of his having become
comparatively rich. He lounged about the streets, joking with his
acquaintances--went his messages--sometimes appeared with a crowd of
boys after him--dressed in the same style--and, altogether, was just the
same kind of person he used to be.
Time passed, and precisely on the same day next year he went to Lady
Maitland's. In the passage, he was met by the housekeeper, Louise
Grecourt, who asked him what he wanted. He looked at her intently, and
recognised in this person's voice the same tones which had arrested his
ears so forcibly on the night of the attempted murder of the child. To
make himself more certain of this, Geordie led her into conversation.
"I want my Leddy Maitland," answered Geordie--"are ye her leddyship?"
"No," answered the housekeeper, with a kick of her head, which Geordie
took as a sign that his bait had been swallowed; "I am not Lady
Maitland--I am in de charge of her ladyship's house. Vat you vant vit
her ladyship? Can Louise Grecourt not satisfy a fellow like you?"
"No exactly at present," answered Geordie; "tell her leddyship that
Geordie Willison wants to speak to her."
Louise started when he mentioned his name, certifying Geordie that she
was in the secret of his knowledge. Her manner changed. She became all
condescension; and, leading him up stairs, opened a door, and showed him
into a room where Lady Maitland was sitting.
"I houp yer leddyship," began Geordie, with a low bow, "has been quite
weel sin' I had the honour o' yer acquaintanceship, whilk is now a year,
come twa o'clock o' this day. Ye micht maybe be thinking we were gaun to
fa' out o' acquaintanceship; but I'm no ane o' yer conceited creatures
wha despise auld freends, and rin after new anes, merely because they
may think them brawer--sae ye may keep yer mind easy on that score; and
I wad farther tak the liberty to assure yer leddyship that, if ye hae
ony siller by ye at present, I winna hesitate to gie ye a proof o' the
continuance o' my freendship, by offerin' to tak frae ye as meikle as I
may need."
"How much is that?" asked Lady Maitland.
"Twunty pund, my leddy, twunty pund," answered Geordie.
The money was handed to him by the lady, without saying a word; and,
having again made a low bow, he departed.
Next year, Geordie Willison went and paid a visit to Lady Maitland, got
from her the same sum of money, and nothing passed to indicate what it
was paid for. The lady clearly remained under the impression that the
child was not in existence.
It happened that, some time after the last payment, Geordie was on the
pier of Leith, with a view to fall in with some chance message or
carriage to Edinburgh. A vessel had newly arrived from the Continent,
and one of the passengers was Sir Marmaduke Maitland. Geordie was
employed to assist in getting his luggage removed to Edinburgh. On
arriving at the house, Lady Maitland, with Louise behind her, was
standing on the landing-place to receive her husband. They saw Geordie
walking alongside of him, and talking to him in the familiar manner
which his alleged silliness in many cases entitled him to do; but
whatever they may have felt or expressed, by looks or otherwise, Geordie
seemed not to be any way out of his ordinary manner, and they soon
observed, from the conduct of Sir Marmaduke, that Geordie had said
nothing to him. Geordie bustled about, assisting to take out the
luggage, while Sir Marmaduke was standing in the lobby with his lady
alongside of him.
"Is there any news stirring in these parts, Geordie, worth telling to
one who has been from his own country so long as I have been."
"Naething worth mentioning, Sir Marmaduke," answered Geordie; "a'thing
quiet, decent, and orderly i' the toun and i' the country--no excepting
your ain house here, whar I hae missed mony a gude luck-penny sin' your
honour departed."
"Has Lady Maitland not been in the habit of employing you, then,
Geordie?" asked Sir Marmaduke.
"No exactly, Sir Marmaduke," answered Geordie; "the last time I ca'ed
on her leddyship, she asked me what I wanted. I didna think it quite
ceevil, and I haena gane back; but I canna deny that she paid me
handsomely for the last thing I carried for her. She's a fine leddy, Sir
Marmaduke, and meikle credit to ye."
At any subsequent period, when Geordie's yearly pension was due, he
generally contrived to call for Lady Maitland when Sir Marmaduke was out
of the way. He took always the same amount of money. The only departure
he made from this custom was in the year of his sister's marriage, when
he asked and got a sum of forty pounds, twenty of which he gave to her.
Her husband, George Dempster, had at one time been a butler in Lady
Maitland's family; but her ladyship did not know either that he was
acquainted with George Willison, or that he was now married to his
sister. We may explain that George Dempster was in the family at
the time when Geordie brought home the child; and, in some of his
conversations with his wife, he did not hesitate to say that he
suspected that Lady Maitland bore a child to a French lackey, who was
then about the house; but the child never made its appearance, and
strong grounds existed for believing that it was made away with. Geordie
himself sometimes heard these stories; but he affected to be altogether
indifferent to them, putting a silly question to Dempster, as if he had
just awakened from sleep, and had forgot the thread of the discourse,
and, when he got his answer, pretending to fall asleep again.
In the meantime the young foundling, who had been christened Jessie
Warriston, by Geordie's desire, grew up to womanhood. She became,
in every respect, the picture of her mother--tall and noble in her
appearance. Her hair was jet black, and her eye partook of the same
colour, with a lustre that dazzled the beholder. Her manners were
cheerful and kind; and she was grateful for the most ordinary attentions
paid to her by Widow Willison, or her daughter--the latter of whom often
took her out with her to the house of Ludovic Brodie, commonly called
Birkiehaugh, a nephew of Sir Marmaduke Maitland, with whom George
Dempster was serving as butler, in his temporary house, about a mile
south from Edinburgh.
This young laird had seen Jessie Warriston, and been struck with her
noble appearance. He asked Dempster who she was, and was told that she
was a young person who lived with one of his wife's friends. Brodie,
whose character was that of a most unprincipled rake, often endeavoured
to make up to Jessie, as she went backwards and forwards between his
house and Widow Willison's. In all endeavours he had been unsuccessful;
for Jessie--independently of being aware, from the admonitions of the
pious Widow Willison, that an acquaintanceship with a person above her
degree was improper and dangerous--had a lover of her own, a young man
of the name of William Forbes, a clerk to Mr. Carstairs, an advocate,
at that time in great practice at the Scotch bar. Forbes generally
accompanied Jessie when she went out at night, after she told him that
Brodie had insulted her; and she discontinued her visits to George
Dempster.
Foiled by the precautions which Jessie took to avoid him, Brodie only
became more determined to get his object gratified. He meditated various
schemes for this purpose. He turned off Dempster, who might have been a
spy upon his conduct; and it was remarked, by the people living near
to Widow Willison's, that a woman, rolled up in a cloak, had been seen
watching about the door. Geordie, though apparently not listening to any
of these transactions, was all alive to the interests of his foundling.
He kept a constant eye upon the neighbourhood, and did not fail to
observe, that a woman, of the description stated, came always, at a
certain hour, near his mother's door, about the time that Jessie
generally went out.
Now, Geordie was determined to know, by some means, who this woman was;
and, as the day was drawing in, he thought he might disguise himself in
such a way as to get into conversation with her.
Having equipped himself in the garb of a cadie, of more respectable
appearance than he himself exhibited, and put a black patch over his
eye, and a broad slouched hat over his head, Geordie took his station to
watch the woman in the cloak.
"Wha may ye be waitin' for?" said Geordie, in a feigned voice, to the
woman, whom he at last found.
"Are you von of de cadies?" asked the woman.
"Yes," answered Geordie.
"Do you live in de neighbourhood?" asked again the woman.
"I wadna live in ony ither place war ye to pay me for't," answered
Geordie.
"Very good--dat is a very good answer," said the woman; "dere is a
little money for you."
"I dinna tak siller for tellin' folk whar I live," said Geordie; "but,
if there's onything else I can, in my capacity o' cadie, do for ye,
maybe I may then condescend to tak yer siller."
"_Mon Dieu!_ vat a trange fellow!" ejaculated the woman. "Vell, can you
tell me if a young woman, carrying the name of Jessie Varriston, lives
up dat stair?" pointing with her hand.
"I ken the lassie as weel as I ken mysel," answered Geordie; "she lives
just whar ye hae said."
"Very goot--very goot--dat is just vat I vant--_un sage homme_
dis--excellent goot chap. Now, tell me if de girl lives vit an imbecile
that is von idiot, called George Villison, and how long she has lived
vit him, vere she comes from, and vat is her history."
"Ye hae asked four questions a' in ae breath," said Geordie, who wanted
a prologue, to give him time to consider how much he could say, so as to
serve the two purposes of safety and drawing out the woman at the same
time. "It's no quite fair, to an ignorant man like me, to put sae mony
questions at a time; but it's my wish to serve ye, an' I'll do my best
to answer them. Jessie Warriston lives wi' the idiot cratur Geordie
Willison's mither, and she has lived wi' her for seventeen years, that
is, since she was a bit bairn. I'm thinking she'll be a granddochter o'
Widow Willison's--dinna ye think sae yersel'?"
"De brute!" muttered the woman to herself--"de brute is begun, like all
de rest of his countrymen, to put de interrogation ven he should give de
respond. You do not know den de girl's history, do you not?"
"No, but maybe I may be able to get it for ye," answered Geordie,
unwilling to be dismissed _simpliciter_.
"Very vell, anoter time--I vish you, in de meantime, to carry dis letter
to Ludovic Brodie, Esq. of Birkiehaugh. Do you know vere he lives?"
"I will carry it wi' the greatest o' pleasure, madam," answered Geordie.
The woman handed him the letter, with some more money, and departed.
Geordie got the letter speedily read to him by a person in his
confidence. It was in these terms:--
"Mon cher Ludovic,--Jessie Varriston lives vit de idiot, Geordie
Villison, in Leit Vynd. De bearer of dis knows her very vell, and vill
assist you in de abduction. My Lady Maitland and I both tink we know her
too; bot we do not vish at present to let any von know dis, for certain
reasons, vich we cannot explain to you. Ven you arrange vit de bearer to
carry her off, let me know, and I vill do every ting in my power to
assist you, as my lady has a grand vish for de abduction of de vench
vithout procrastination. My lady does not know of my having given you
intelligence of her being up to de affair.--Yours till death.
"LOUISE GRECOURT."
From this letter, Geordie saw plainly that Lady Maitland and Louise had,
at last, got some information regarding Jessie, which had led them to
suspect that she was the child they had supposed to be dead. It was
clear, however, that Brodie knew nothing of their suspicions, and the
two parties were, undoubtedly, after the same game, with different
objects and for different reasons. Having folded the letter and sealed
it, so as to avoid suspicion, Geordie went out and delivered it into the
hands of Birkiehaugh.
Brodie, having read the letter, examined Geordie from head to
heel--"Canst thou be trusted, man, in an affair requiring secrecy and
ability to execute it?" asked he.
"Do you see ony thing aboot me to produce ony doubt o' my ability or my
secrecy?" answered Geordie. "Nae man will coup wi' Peter Finlayson in
ony expedition whar death, danger, or exposure are to be avoided, or
whar ability to plan, an' quickness to execute, and cunnin' to conceal,
are things o' consideration or importance."
"Well, Peter, I believe thou art the man. I wish to carry off the girl,
Jessie Warriston, to-morrow night--canst thou assist me in that
enterprise?"
"It's just in the like o' thae bits o' ploys that the genius o' Peter
Finlayson lies," answered Geordie. "I ken the lassie maist intimately,
and can bring her to ony appointed spot at ony hour ye please to name."
"To-morrow night, then," said Brodie, "at eight o'clock, at the
resting-stone at the top of the Leith Lone; knowest thou the place?"