inscription changed from Agnes Ainslie to Rachel Grierson. She took it
up and fixed her eyes upon it. At one time she would have given the
world for it; now it attracted her and repelled her. It came from the
only man she loved; but another name had been on it, which ought, for
aught she could be sure of, to have been on it still. It might be the
pledge of affection, but it might also be the evidence of falsehood to
her and unfaithfulness to another. And then, as she traced the lines of
her name, she thought she could discover the signs of a tremulousness in
the hand that traced them. Amidst all these thoughts and conflicting
feelings, she could not help recurring to the circumstance that he had
not presented the locket with his own hands. She was unwilling to
indulge in an unfavourable construction; and perhaps the more so that it
so far pleased her as relieving her from the dilemma of accepting it
with more coldness than her love warranted, or more warmth than her
reason allowed. Nay, though she gloated over his image when she was
alone, she felt an undefined fear of meeting him. Might he not be
precipitated into some further defence or confession, which might
fortify suspicions still battling against her prepossessions, and
diminish her love? Nor was this disinclination towards personal
interviews confined to this day--it continued; and it seemed as if he
also wished his connection with her to stand in the meantime upon the
pledges and confessions already made. This she could also notice; but as
for rendering a true reason for it, she couldn't, even with the great
ability she possessed in construing conduct and character.
But meanwhile time was accumulating antagonistic forces which would
explode in a consummation. Her thoughts were to be occupied by another,
who claimed her affections and care by an appeal as powerful as it was
without guile. Her father was seized with paralysis. He was laid
speechless on the bed where she sat, a watchful and affectionate nurse,
ready to sacrifice sleep and peace and rest to the wants of him who, all
through her life, had been her friend and benefactor, and who had
provided for her future days at the expense of hopes entertained by his
legitimate heirs. For three days he had lain without speaking a word,
and Rachel could only guess his wants by mute signs. During all this
time her thoughts had scarcely glanced at Walter. He seemed anxious
about the condition of his uncle, calling repeatedly at the bedroom
door, and going away without entering. But his manner indicated no
affection, if it did not rather seem that he considered the old man had
done his worst against him, and that sorrow was not due from one he had
disinherited. Her affections were too much engrossed by her patient to
permit her thinking of what was being transacted in the outside world.
Yet, when she looked upon the face of the invalid, so pale and
motionless, where so long the shades of grief and the lights of joy had
chased each other, by the old decree of human destiny, the words of Paul
would occur to her. Was the death that was there impending the result of
a more necessary law than that which had ruled every other condition of
body or mind which had ever been experienced by the patient sufferer?
Then there came the question, Could Walter Grierson so regulate his
heart as to force it to love her in preference to Agnes Ainslie? Could
she, Rachel herself, so rule her feelings as to cease loving the man she
still suspected of falsehood and treachery? It was even while she was
thus ruminating over thoughts that made her tremble, that she observed,
on the third night, a change in her patient. He seemed to start by the
advent of some recollection. His body became restless, and he waved his
hand wildly, as if he wanted her to bend over him, to hear what he might
struggle to say. She immediately obeyed the sign. He fixed his eyes upon
her, made efforts to articulate, which resulted only in a thick, broken
gibberish. She could only catch one or two indistinct words, from which
it seemed that he wished to tell her _where she would find the will_;
but the precise phrase whereby he wished to indicate the deposit was
pronounced in such an imperfect manner that she could not make it out.
Strangely enough, yet still consistently with the generosity of her
character, she did not like to pain him by indicating that she did not
understand him. Nay, she nodded pleasantly, as if she wanted him to be
easy, under the satisfaction that he had succeeded in his efforts to
articulate. Yet so far was she from thinking of the importance of the
communication to herself, that she flattered him into the belief that,
as he could now speak so as to be understood, he was in the way of
improving. Alas for the goodness which is evil to the heart that
produces it!
"There are of plants
That die of too much generosity--
Exhaling their sweet life in essences."
Paul would have said that this too was a cropping out of the old causal
strata. In two hours more, David Grierson was dead, and Rachel was left
to mourn for her parent and benefactor.
Now the issues were accumulating. A very short time only was allowed to
elapse before Mr. Ainslie, accompanied by Walter, came to seal up the
repositories; an operation which was gone through in a manner which
indicated that both of them thought they were locking up and making
secure that which would destroy their hopes. They seemed under the
conviction that the will was in the bureau; and if they had been men
otherwise than merely what, as the world goes, are called honest, they
might have abstracted the document; for the generous Rachel never even
looked at their proceedings, grieved as she was at the death of her
father. They were, at least, above that.
In a few days David Grierson was consigned to the earth, and, after the
funeral, Mr. Ainslie, accompanied by Walter, again attended to open the
repositories and read the testament. Rachel agreed to be present. When
the seals were removed, she was asked by the notary if she knew where
the document was deposited. She now felt the consequence of the easy
manner in which she had let slip the opportunity so dearly offered by
her father, of knowing the _locale_ of a writ in all respects so
important; for it cannot be doubted that, if she had persevered, she
might have succeeded in drawing out of him the word, articulated so as
that she might have comprehended it. She accordingly, yet without any
anticipation of danger, answered in the negative, whereupon the notary
and nephew, who seemed to be on the most friendly terms, set about a
search. Rachel remained. A whole hour was passed in the search; the will
was not yet found. Every drawer of the bureau was examined,--the
presses, the cabinets, the table-drawers, the trunks. And so another
hour passed--no will. Rachel began to get alarmed, and perhaps the more
that she saw upon the faces of the searchers an expression which she
could not comprehend. Their spirits seemed to have become elated as hers
became depressed; yet why should that have been, if Walter Grierson was
to be "true to his troth?"
"We need search no more," said Mr. Ainslie. "The will is not in the
house. I should say it is not in existence, and that Mr. Grierson,
having changed his mind, had destroyed it."
"Not so," replied Rachel, "for a few minutes before his death he tried
to tell me where it was, but the name of the place died away upon his
tongue, and I could not catch it."
"Neither can we catch the deed," said Walter, with a laugh which had a
spice of irony in it.
And so the search was given up. The two searchers left the house,
apparently in close conversation. Rachel sought her room and threw
herself on a sofa, oppressed by doubts and fears which she could not
very well explain. The manner of Walter appeared to her not to be that
of one who was pledged to marry her. Her mind ran rapidly back over
doubtful reminiscences which yielded no comfort to the heart; nay, she
felt that he had never been as a lover to her; and far less that day
when, as it appeared, he was to be master of his uncle's wealth. Yet
again comes the thought, Was he pledged to her? Ay, that was certain
enough; and then she was so little versed in the subtle ways of the
world, that she could not doubt of his being "true to his troth."
As soon as she recovered from her meditation, she sought again the
workroom of the artist, to whom she told the issue of the search for the
will. Paul looked at first greatly struck, but under his strange
philosophy he recovered that calmness which belongs to those of his way
of thinking.
"Have I not often preached to you, Rachel," said he, as he lay back on
his chair, "that all these things were fixed ere Sirius was born? Yea,"
he added, as a smile played amid the seriousness of his face, "ere yet
there was a space for the dog-star to wag his tail. The croppings out
will now come thick, and you will know whether you are to be a lady or a
beggar."
Rachel might have known that the consolation offered by fatalists is
only the recommendation of a resignation which, as fated itself, is
gloomy, if not awful, for it amounts to an annihilation of self, with
all hopes, energies, and resolutions. She heard his words, and forgave
him, if she did not believe him; for she knew that he was true in his
friendship, and benevolent in his feelings--parts these, too, as he
would have said, of the decree. She left him in a condition of sadness
for which she could not yet account, and the hues of her mind seemed to
be projected on all objects around her. She retired to rest; but she
could not banish from her mind that the realities of her condition
required to be read by the blue light of Paul's philosophy. It was far
in the morning before she fell asleep; and when nine came she felt
unrested. The servant came in to her and told her the hour. The
breakfast was ready; but Walter, who had not returned on the prior
night, was not as usual waiting for her. The announcement was ominously
in harmony with the thoughts she had tried to banish. She scarcely
touched the breakfast, and the day passed in expectation of Walter.
Night came, but it did not bring him. The next day passed in the same
way. People called to condole without knowing how much she stood in need
of condolence; but still no Walter came to redeem the pledge of his
love. Yet still she hoped; nor till an entire month had gone over her
head did she renounce her confidence that he would be "true to his
troth."
At the end of this period Paul advised her to take counsel. He told her
that the law had remedies for losses of deeds; and she accordingly
consulted a legal gentleman of the name of Cleghorn. The result was not
favourable. It appeared that Mr. Ainslie denied that there was any copy
or scroll of the will, through the means of which it might have been
"set up," by what is called a proving of the tenor. There was no hope
here, and by-and-by she saw advertised in the _Caledonian Mercury_ that
the furniture of the house was to be sold within a week. She was there
on mere tolerance; and now she had got a clear intimation to flit. As
for money or effects, she had none, except her wardrobe, for she never
thought of providing for an exigency which she was satisfied never would
occur. Again she applied to Paul, who, with her consent, went and took
for her a solitary room in the close we have already mentioned. It was
her intention to acquire a livelihood by means of her needle, at that
time almost the only resource for genteel poverty. Some articles of
furniture were got, principally by Paul; and there, two days before the
sale, she took up her residence. Nor did the kindness of Paul stop here.
He attended the sale, and, considerately judging that some articles
belonging to her father would be acceptable to her, he purchased, for a
small sum, the old bureau of which we have already spoken. The article
was removed to Rachel's room.
For a period of fifteen years did Rachel Grierson live in that room
plying her needle to obtain for her a subsistence. Her story, which came
to be known, procured her plenty of work; and the ten fingers, which
were sufficiently employed, sufficed for the wants of the
stomach,--small these wants, probably, in her who had heard of the
marriage of Walter with Agnes Ainslie; yea, she who could bear to hear
that intelligence might claim a right to be a pupil of Paul's school of
philosophy. Paul she indeed loved as a friend, but she never could bring
herself to the resolution of marrying the little artist. There was a
train of evils: the "croppings out" of her fate, as Paul called it, were
thick enough and to spare; for she fell into bad health, which was the
precursor of a fit of palsy, depriving her for ever of the power of
working for herself. Then it was that Paul's affection was shown more
clearly than ever. Day by day he brought her all the food she required;
but at length he himself was taken ill, and his absence was fatal. Pride
prevented her from making her necessity known to the neighbours, with
whom she had but little intercourse. We have told how she was found
dead; and when we say that Paul recovered to be present at her funeral,
we have only one fact more to state. It is this: Paul took the old
bureau home to his own little room, to keep as a memorial of the only
woman he ever loved. One day, when repairing the internal drawers, he
found in a hollow perpendicular slip, which looked like a broad beading,
a document which was thus entitled on the back:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
BY
DAVID GRIERSON,
IN FAVOUR OF
RACHEL GRIERSON,
1776
LADY RAE.
During the time that Oliver Cromwell was in Edinburgh, a lady called one
day at his lodgings and solicited an interview. She was closely wrapped
up in a large and loose mantle, and deeply veiled. The former, however,
did not conceal a shape of singular elegance, nor mar the light and
graceful carriage of the wearer. Both were exceedingly striking; and if
the veil performed its duty more effectually than the mantle, by
completely hiding the countenance of the future Protector's fair
visitor, it was only to incite the imagination to invest that
countenance with the utmost beauty of which the "human face divine" is
susceptible. Nor would such creation of the fancy have surpassed the
truth, for the veiled one was indeed "fair to look upon."
On its being announced to Cromwell that a lady desired an interview with
him, he, in some surprise, demanded who and what she was. The servant
could not tell. She had declined to give her name, or to say what was
the purpose of her visit.
The Protector thought for a moment, and as he did so, kept gazing, with
a look of abstraction, in the face of his valet. At length--
"Admit her, Porson, admit her," he said. "The Lord sends his own
messengers in his own way; and if we deny them, He will deny us."
Porson, who was one of Cromwell's most pious soldiers--for he served in
the double capacity of warrior and valet--stroked his sleek hair down
over his solemn brow, and uttered a sonorous "amen" to the unconnected
and unintelligible observation of his master, who, it is well known,
dealt much in this extraordinary sort of jargon.
Having uttered his lugubrious amen, Porson withdrew, and in a few
minutes returned, conducting the lady, of whom we have spoken, into the
presence of Cromwell.
On entering the apartment, the former threw aside her veil, and
discovered a countenance of such cunning charms as moved the future
Protector to throw into his manner an air of unwonted gallantry.
At the lady's first entrance he was busy writing, and had merely thrown
down his pen when she appeared, without intending to carry his courtesy
any further; but he had no sooner caught a sight of the fair face of his
visitor, than, excited by an involuntary impulse, he rose from his chair
and advanced towards her, smiling and bowing most graciously; the
latter, however, being by no means remarkable either for its ease or its
elegance.
"Pray, madam," now said Cromwell, still looking the agreeable--so far as
his saturnine features would admit of such expression--"to what happy
circumstance am I indebted for the honour of this visit?"
"The circumstance, sir, that brings me here is by no means a happy one,"
replied the lady, in tones that thrilled even the iron nerves of Oliver
Cromwell. "I am Lady Rae, General; the wife of John Lord Rae, at present
a prisoner in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh for his adherence to the cause
of the late king."
"Ah, my Lady Rae, I am sorry for you--sorry for you indeed; but
doubtless you have found consolation in the same source whence your
afflictions have sprung. Truly may I reckon--indeed may I,
doubtless--that the Lord, who has seen fit to chastise you, has also
comforted you under this dispensation."
"None, Sir General, who seek the aid of the Almighty in a true spirit
ever seek that aid in vain," replied Lady Rae; "and I have been a
seeker, and have found; nor have I, I trust, been wanting on this
occasion in a due submission to his will."
"Truly, I hope not; indeed do I," replied Cromwell. "Then, what would ye
with me, fair lady? What would ye with one so feeble and humble as I am,
who am but as a tool, a mean instrument in the hand of the artificer?"
And the speaker assumed a look of the deepest humility.
"I dare not utter it! I dare not utter it, General!" exclaimed Lady Rae,
now giving way, for the first time, to that emotion which was agitating
her whole frame, although she had hitherto endeavoured, and not
unsuccessfully, to conceal it. "I dare not utter it," she said, "lest it
should bring death to my hopes; yet came I hither for no other purpose."
"Speak, lady, speak," said Cromwell. "What would'st thou with me?"
Lady Kae flung herself on her knees, and exclaimed, with upraised
countenance and streaming eyes--
"Save my husband, General! Restore him to liberty and to me; and thus,
on my knees, shall I daily offer up prayers to heaven for thy safety and
prosperity. Oh refuse me not!--refuse me not, General, as thou thyself
hopest for mercy from thy God in the hour of retribution!" And she
wildly grasped the knees of the republican commander.
Without saying a word, Cromwell gently disengaged himself from the fair
suppliant, and, turning his back upon her, stalked to the further end of
the apartment, seemingly much agitated.
On gaining the extremity of the room, Cromwell stood for two or three
minutes, still keeping his back to Lady Rae, with arms folded, and
drooping his head, as if musing deeply. At the expiry of this period, he
suddenly turned round, and advancing towards his fair visitor with quick
and hurried step, said--
"My Lady Rae, may the Lord direct me in this matter and in all others. I
have been communing with myself anent your petition; truly have I, but
see not that I can serve thee; I cannot indeed. If we would all walk in
the straight path, we had need to walk warily; for in this matter I
cannot help thee, seeing my Lord Rae is a State prisoner, and I have no
power over him; none, truly, none whatever. The law is strong, and may
not be trifled with. But I will consider, fair lady, indeed will I; I
will seek direction and counsel in the matter from on high. I will do so
this night; I will have this night to think of the matter, and thou wilt
call upon me at this hour to-morrow, and I will then see if the Lord
will vouchsafe me any light as to how I may assist thee and thy poor
husband; for on thy account I would do so if I could."
Confused, and all but wholly unintelligible, as was this address of
Cromwell's, Lady Rae perceived that it contained a gleam of comfort,
that a ray of hope-inspiring light, however feeble, played through its
obscurity; and, satisfied with this, she urged her suit no further, but,
with a thankful acceptance of the Parliamentary general's invitation to
her to wait upon him on the following day, she withdrew.
On Lady Rae issuing from Cromwell's lodgings, she stood in the street,
gazing around her for an instant, as if looking for some one whom she
had expected to find waiting her, but who was not at the moment in
sight. This was the case; but it was only for a moment that she was so
detained. She had glanced but two or three times around her, when she
was joined by a personage of very striking appearance. This was a huge
Highlander, considerably above six feet in stature, proportionably stout
and well made, and apparently of enormous strength. He was dressed in
the full costume of his country, and armed to the teeth. By his side
depended a tremendous claymore; in his belt were stuck a dagger and a
brace of pistols; and on his shoulder rested that formidable weapon
called a Lochaber axe.
The countenance of this tremendous personage was in keeping with his
other charms: it was manly, and decidedly handsome, but withal was
marked with an expression of fierceness that was appalling to look upon;
and was thus calculated, when associated with his gigantic figure, to
inspire at once admiration and fear.
As this formidable personage approached Lady Rae, he touched his bonnet
with an air of the most profound respect, and assumed a look and
attitude of devoted attention to her commands.
"I have seen him, John," said Lady Rae, addressing her Goliath of an
attendant, who was neither more nor less than a retainer of Lord Rae's,
but one who stood high in the estimation of both the former and the
latter for his fidelity, and, fierce as he looked, for the gentleness of
his nature. John M'Kay--for such was his name--was, in short, an
especial favourite of both Lord and Lady Rae, and was admitted to a
degree of confidence and familiarity that elevated him much above his
real condition. They were proud, too, of his superb figure, and
delighted to exhibit him in the full dress of his country, as a specimen
of the men which it produced. "I have seen him, John," said Lady Rae,
whose protector and attendant John always was when she went forth on
occasions of business of importance like the present.
"And what he'll say, my letty?" inquired John in a low and gentle tone,
and stopping to catch Lady Rae's communication.
"Not much that is quite satisfactory, John. He speaks in a strange
style, but I think there is ground of hope. He did not altogether refuse
the prayer of my petition, but bade me call upon him again to-morrow."
John looked grave, but made no reply. His lady walked on, and he
followed at a respectful distance.
The former now directed her steps to a locality in the city with which
she was but too familiar, and which she had had occasion of late but too
often to frequent. This was the Tolbooth--the place of her husband's
confinement.
On reaching the outer entrance to the jail, the low half-door, thickly
studded with huge-headed nails, by which it was temporarily secured
during the day, was immediately thrown open for her admission by the
turnkey--a little crusty-looking personage in a fur cap--who had been
leaning over it, listlessly looking around him, on her ladyship's
approach. As the latter entered the prison door, the former stood to one
side, doffed his little fur cap, and respectfully wished her ladyship a
good morning.
"How are you to-day, James?" said Lady Rae in kindly tones; "and how is
my lord?"
"Quite well, my lady, quite well," replied the little turnkey, extremely
proud, seemingly, of the condescension of her ladyship. The latter
passed on, and commenced threading her way through the tortuous but
well-known passages which led to her husband's prison-room. John M'Kay
followed his mistress into the jail, previously leaving his arms at the
door--a condition to which he had always to submit before gaining
admission. Having denuded himself of his weapons, John also passed on,
but not before he had shaken his fist ominously in the face of the
little jailer. This was John's constant practice every time he entered
the prison; and, simple as the act was, it had a good deal of meaning.
It meant, in the first place, that John associated the misfortune of his
master's confinement with the little turnkey's employment; that he
considered him as aiding and abetting in the same. It further meant,
that if it were not for one thing more than another, or, as John himself
would have expressed it, "for todder things more nor ones," he would
have brought his Lochaber axe and the turnkey's head into more intimate
contact.
In the meantime, Lady Rae having ascended several flights of dark and
narrow stairs, and traversed several passages of a similar description,
had arrived at a particular door, on either side of which stood a
grenadier, with shouldered musket and bayonet fixed. They were the
guards placed upon her husband, who occupied the apartment which they
sentinelled.