The day of Lord Glenallan's visit to the cottage where dwelt old Elspeth
of the Craigburnfoot seemed at first ill timed. That very day Steenie
Mucklebackit, the young, the gallant, the handsome eldest son of the
house had been carried to his grave. He had been drowned while at the
fishing, though his father had risked his life in vain to save him. The
family had now returned home, and were sitting alone in the first
benumbing shock of their grief.
It was some time before the Earl could make good his entrance into the
cottage. It was still longer before he could convince the old woman
Elspeth that he was really Lord Glenallan, and so obtain an opportunity
of speaking with her. But at last they were left alone in the cottage,
and the thick veil which had fallen upon Elspeth's spirit seemed for a
while to be drawn aside. She spoke like one of an education far superior
to her position, clearly and calmly, even when recounting the most
terrible events.
Her very first words recalled to the Earl the fair young wife, whom he
had married long ago, against his mother's will and without her
knowledge.
"Name not her name," he cried, in agony, "all that is dead to me--dead
long ago!"
"I MUST!" said the old woman; "it is of her I have to speak."
And in the fewest and simplest words she told him how, when his mother
the Countess had found means to separate husband and wife, while he
himself was fleeing half mad, none knew whither, the young wife had
thrown herself in a fit of frenzy over the cliffs into the sea. It was
to Elspeth's cottage that she and her babe had been brought.
"And here," said the terrible old woman, suddenly thrusting a golden
bodkin into his hand, "is the very dagger which your mother the Countess
gave me in order that with it I might slay your infant son."
The Earl looked at the gold bodkin or dagger, as if in fancy he saw the
blood of his child still red upon it.
"Wretch!" he cried; "and had you the heart?"
"I kenna whether I would or not," said Elspeth. "My mistress commanded
and I obeyed. So did I ever. But my obedience was not to be tried that
time. For when I returned, the babe had gone. Your younger brother had
been called up to the castle. The child had been left in the care of the
Countess's Spanish maid, and when I returned to my cottage, both she and
the babe were gone. The dead body of your young wife alone remained. And
now," concluded Elspeth, abruptly, "can you forgive me?"
Lord Glenallan was going out of the hut, overwhelmed by the disclosure
to which he had been listening. He saw his young wife hounded to death
by his fierce and revengeful mother. He thought of the living child so
wonderfully left to him as a legacy from the dead. Yet he turned at
Elspeth's last words.
"May God forgive thee, miserable woman," he said. "Turn for mercy to
Him. He will forgive you as sincerely as I do."
As Lord Glenallan went out into the sunlight, he met face to face with
the Antiquary himself, who was on his way to the cottage to offer what
consolation or help might be in his power. The Earl and he recognised
one another, but the Antiquary's greeting was hard and cold. As a
magistrate he had made, on his own responsibility and against all the
power of the Glenallan family, the legal inquiries into the death of the
Earl's young wife. Indeed, during a residence which she had made at
Knockwinnock Castle with the Wardour family twenty years ago, and while
she was still only known as Miss Eveline Neville, the Antiquary had
loved her and had asked her to be his wife. It was, indeed, chiefly on
her account that he had never married. Mr. Oldbuck had never ceased to
mourn her, and now, believing as he had good reason to do, that the Earl
was the cause of her untimely death, and of the stigma which rested upon
her name, it was little wonder that he should wish to have no dealings
with him.
But the Earl had a great need in his heart to speak to some one. In a
moment the whole world seemed to have changed for him. For the first
time he knew the truth about a dark deed of cruelty. For the first time,
also, he knew that he had a son. He desired above all else the wise
counsel of a true friend. In his heart he had admired the fearlessness
of the Antiquary in the bold inquiry he had made at the time of Eveline
Neville's death, and now, refusing to be rebuffed, he followed Mr.
Oldbuck as he was turning away, and demanded that he should not deny him
his counsel and assistance at a most terrible and critical moment.
It was not in the good Antiquary's nature to refuse such a request from
Earl or beggar, and their interview ended in the Earl's accepting the
hospitality of Monkbarns for the night, in order that they might have
plenty of time to discuss the whole subject of Elspeth's communication.
On his own part Mr. Oldbuck had some comfort to give Lord Glenallan. He
had kept the papers which concerned the inquiry carefully, and he was
able to assure his lordship that his brother had carried off the babe
with him, probably for the purpose of having it brought up and educated
upon the English estates he had inherited from his father, and on which
he had ever afterward lived.
"My brother," said Lord Glenallan, "is recently dead, which makes our
search the more difficult. Furthermore, I am not his heir. He has left
his property to a stranger, as indeed he had every right to do. But as
the heir is like himself a Protestant, he may be unwilling to aid the
inquiry--"
"I trust," interrupted Mr. Oldbuck, with some feeling, "that you will
find a Protestant can be as honest and honourable as a Catholic."
The Earl protested that he had no idea of supposing otherwise.
"Only," he continued, "there was an old steward on the estate who in all
probability is the only man now living who knows the truth. But it is
not expected that any man will willingly disinherit himself. For if I
have a living son, my father's estates are entailed on him, and the
steward may very likely stand by his master."
"I have a friend in Yorkshire," said Mr. Oldbuck, "to whom I can apply
for information as to the character of your brother's heir, and also as
to the disposition of his steward. That is all we can do at present. But
take courage, my lord. I believe that your son is alive."
In the morning Lord Glenallan returned to the castle in his carriage,
while Mr. Oldbuck, hearing from Hector that he was going down to
Fairport, in order to see that old Edie Ochiltree had fair play before
the magistrates, offered to bear him company.
Edie Ochiltree--in prison for thwacking the ribs of Dousterswivel, which
he had done (or at least poor Steenie Mucklebackit for him), and for
stealing the German's fifty pounds, which he had not done--willingly
revealed to Monkbarns what he had refused to breathe to Bailie
Littlejohn of the Fairport magistracy. After some delay Edie was
accordingly liberated on the Antiquary's bail, and immediately
accompanied his good friend to the cottage of old Elspeth Mucklebackit,
where, by the Earl's request, Oldbuck was to take down a statement from
her lips, such as might be produced in a court of law. But no single
syllable would the old beldame now utter against her ancient mistress.
"Ha," she said, at the first question put to her by the Antiquary; "I
thought it would come to this. It's only sitting silent when they
question me. There's nae torture in our days, and if there was, let them
rend me! It ill becomes a vassal's mouth to betray the bread which it
has eaten."
Then they told her that her mistress, the Countess Jocelin, was dead,
hoping this might bring her to confession. But the news had quite an
opposite effect.
"Dead!" cried Elspeth, aroused as ever by the sound of her mistress's
name, "then, if she be gone before, the servant must follow. All must
ride when she is in the saddle. Bring my scarf and hood! Ye wadna hae me
gang in the carriage with my lady, and my hair all abroad in this
fashion!"
She raised her withered arms, and her hands seemed busied like those of
a woman who puts on a cloak to go a journey.
"Call Miss Neville," she continued; "what do you mean by Lady Geraldin?
I said Eveline Neville. There's no Lady Geraldin. But tell her to change
her wet gown and not to look so pale. Bairn--what should she do wi' a
bairn? She has nane, I trow! Teresa--Teresa--my lady calls us! Bring a
candle! The grand staircase is as black before me as a Yule midnight!
Coming, my lady, we are coming!"
With these words, and as if following in the train of her mistress, old
Elspeth, once of the Craigburnfoot, sunk back on the settle, and from
thence sidelong to the floor.