charged, and condemned to perish on the scaffold, although it was
only his first offence, and, to do him justice, he had committed the
crime for the purpose of having it in his power, in some measure, to
requite May Darling for the injury which she had received at his
hands. How wonderful are the ways of Providence in punishing the
guilty! Actuated by a motive unquestionably virtuous, Bolton commits
a capital crime, and the woman whom he had wronged becomes,
unconsciously to herself, the ultimate cause of his punishment!
However, by powerful intercession on the part of his friends, the
sentence was commuted to transportation for life. But it was
destined that he should end his days miserably. "Whoso sheddeth
man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." Bolton was virtually a
murderer, as we shall see; and the curse could not be eluded by the
decision of any earthly tribunal. 'Twas vain to attempt to fly from
it. The vengeance of Heaven would have pursued him through all the
regions of space; and, screened by the closest envelope of darkness
and disguise, would have struck its victim down. In a skirmish with
the natives of the place to which he had been transported, he was
taken prisoner, and by them put to a cruel and lingering death.
After the painful interview with her husband in the church of
Grassyvale, Mrs Bolton returned to her father, secluding herself from
the world, and devoting her time to household duties and the
education of her son. Rumours of the death of her husband penetrated
at last to the remote part of the country where she resided, and, on
its being officially authenticated, Dr G--, who had commenced
practice in a neighbouring town, became a frequent visitor at the
farm-house. His former courtship was renewed; and, when the days of
mourning were over, and time had done much to alleviate grief, to
restore the faded charms of Mrs Bolton, and to throw the events of
the past into dimness and distance, they were united; and are still,
according to the last accounts, living happily together, surrounded
by a family of thriving children. Nelly Gray and Janet Baird still
pursue their respective callings in Grassyvale; the latter never
failing, on every possible occasion, to boast of her sagacity in
detecting the real character of Mr Henry Wilkinson, _alias_ Bolton.
But let us return to the suffering May Darling.
She was borne to her cottage home insensible, in which state she
remained all that night, and next day revived only to know that she
was dying. Yes--the arrow that had pierced her was poisoned; but the
venom, though fatal, worked slow. Gold is refined by fire, and the
more intense the heat applied, the purer will the metal become. So
is it with the human soul. It is made perfect through suffering; and
the more it is destined to endure, the fitter will it become for
taking a part with the choirs of saints and angels, when it shall
have thrown aside the garment of mortality and mounted on high, like
the unshadowed moon, through parted clouds. But May was happy,
notwithstanding. In all her looks and movements were disclosed the
peace of mind which passeth understanding. It was diffused, like
light from heaven, over her countenance; it was heard, like a rich
chord of music, in the tones of her voice; her every word and action
betrayed its presence and all-prevailing power. Her Bible, although
always a favourite study, became now her sole one; and by its
all-hallowing influence, her mind looking down with calm complacency
on all terrestrial things, had an early foretaste of immortality, in
many a delightful contemplation of that abode and that felicity which
shall reward the just.
"It was a delightful evening, about the middle of autumn," says the
worthy clergyman to whom we have been indebted for many of the facts
of the foregoing narrative, "that I was hastily summoned, by John
Darling, to visit his daughter, who, he believed, was dying. I lost
no time in proceeding to his cottage, and found that his conjecture
was but too true. In an easy chair, placed at an open window which
faced the west, reclined the victim of a broken heart. On her pale
cheek death had impressed his seal, though there the deceitful rose
tint fluctuated, which was not so in her days of health and hope.
Her words, when she spake, and that was seldom, seemed to come forth
without her breath; and the lightest down that ever was wafted
through summer's air might have slept unfluttered on her lips. I
kneeled down and prayed that the gentle spirit which was about to be
released from its mortal bonds, might receive a welcome to the realms
of life and light. She understood distinctly that she was dying; and
in token that her mind was at perfect ease, she faintly uttered, when
I had finished--"Yes! oh, yes!--Heaven! he--!" The words died
unfinished on her tongue, and her spirit rose to its native sky.
MORTLAKE: A LEGEND OF MERTON.
BY JAMES MAIDMENT.
"Pray, sir, will you condescend to inform me by what title you
presume to set your foot on my grounds? Have I not already warned
you; and if I use you now severely, the blame must rest with
yourself."
These words were addressed by Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour, in an
evident state of excitement, to a young lad apparently about
nineteen, but in reality not much above sixteen, whom he met
traversing the grounds of Merton. Tom Vallance did not condescend to
inform his interrogator why he had presumed to intrude where his
presence seemed far from welcome, or explain why, on the present
occasion, he happened to have in his hand a gun, which suspicious
folks might be apt to suppose was intended to create some little
confusion among the game on this well-preserved estate. He returned
no very distinct answer; but some inarticulate sounds issued from his
mouth, which, no doubt, were intended to deprecate the rage of the
hasty and irritable baronet; but which seemed to have the effect only
of heightening his ire, as he turned round to his keeper, who, with
one of the servants, was at his back, and bade them secure the
fowling-piece with which the youth was furnished--a command which was
instantly obeyed; and the lad, not prepared for the sudden attack,
was without difficulty disarmed.
"Now, my lad," quoth Sir Thomas, "you had better be off, unless you
wish me to use violence; for I will not allow my property to be
trespassed upon, and my game destroyed, by you and the like of you."
Tom stood firm, scowling on the baronet. At length he gained nerve
enough to say--
"Give me back my gun. You have no right to rob me, nor shall you."
"But you shall submit, my little cock-sparrow. Don't suppose I want
to keep your twopenny-halfpenny pop gun. Here, John, just take
Master Tom by the shoulders, and turn him off my grounds; and you,
Peter, carry this rubbishy thing to Mrs Vallance, and tell her it
would better become her to keep her son behind the counter of her
shop, to serve her customers with farthing candles and brown soap,
than allow him to vagabondize about the country poaching. If he does
not mend his manners, I've a pretty good guess that some of those
days he'll either take a voyage at the expense of his country, or get
his neck thrust into a noose."
This was certainly impertinent. It was, moreover, unjust and
uncalled for; as whatever might be laid to the charge of Tom
Vallance, on account of his predilection for field sports, no
impeachment lay otherwise to his moral character. But Sir Thomas was
in a passion; and, like all persons in that state, spoke without
reflection. Naturally of a hasty and irritable temper, he had
received a letter that morning which excited his ire excessively, and
as, upon issuing from the mansion, the lad Vallance crossed his path,
the first burst of his wrath fell on his devoted head. Tom felt
deeply the insult. He had been accustomed to a shake of the head,
and sometimes a sharp word; but Sir Thomas, upon the whole, used him
well enough; for, as his mother had been housekeeper in the family
during the lifetime of Sir Marmaduke Vavasour, who had married the
heiress of Merton, the lad was looked upon, or rather he looked upon
himself, as a sort of licensed person on the grounds. To be deprived
of his gun was bad, but to insinuate moral turpitude was worse; and,
forgetful of the rank of his tormentor, he exclaimed--
"I am no thief--I am as honest as yourself, Sir Thomas; and bitterly,
bitterly, shall you rue this day. When I set my foot next time on
your grounds, it will be for no good to you."
Saying this he turned on his heel, and extricating himself suddenly
from the hands of the servants, cleared a ditch which opposed his
retreat, and was speedily out of reach.
The passion of Sir Thomas was not lessened by this unexpected reply,
followed as it was by the speedy evasion of the speaker; and, as Tom
was out of his reach, he transferred his wrath to the attendants, who
were scolded in the most exemplary style, for not knocking the young
rascal down. After indulging some time in this agreeable relaxation,
he returned to the house, looking all the while, as his men said,
"like a bear wi' a sair head."
Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour was the third son of an English baronet of
ancient lineage, who, by intermarriage with Isabella, daughter, and
afterwards sole heiress of Reginald Bruce of Merton, in the county of
Roxburgh, eventually carried that estate into his family. He had
three brothers, two elder and one younger than himself. By the
marriage contract, the English estate, which was considerable, was
destined to the elder son, the Scotch one to the second son. Thomas
got a commission, went abroad, and, after much battling about,
attained the rank of General, when, by the death of his brother
William, he succeeded to Merton; and, a few years afterwards, the
demise of the eldest brother, who broke his neck whilst fox-hunting,
gave him the extensive manor of Vavasour Castle, and the title of a
baronet. The younger brother married an heiress, by whom he had one
son, who, after his demise, he left under the guardianship of Sir
Thomas--excluding Mrs Vavasour from all control. The uncle carefully
superintended the education of his ward, became much attached to him,
and, during the holidays, frequently took him to Merton, to the
infinite displeasure of Mrs Richard Vavasour, who cordially hated her
brother-in-law. When he grew up, those visits were discontinued,
partly as he was studying for the bar, and partly to please his
mother, whom he considered he was in duty bound to propitiate as much
as he could--rather a difficult task, as she was a capricious fine
lady, with violent and vindictive feelings. Edward was about
four-and-twenty, and had formed an attachment to a lady--his equal in
birth and fortune--but who did not meet with the mother's
approbation. She demanded that the match should be broken
off--Edward remonstrated--she persisted; and, after a war of words,
matters remained precisely as they originally were, he avowing a
fixed determination to make himself happy, notwithstanding Mrs
Vavasour's threats of vengeance. This he accordingly did, and his
mother, bursting a bloodvessel, soon afterwards died, leaving a
sealed letter to be sent, after her demise, to Sir Thomas, whom she
hated.
Three weeks had elapsed from the date of this interview, when, one
evening early in the month of September, a party of farmers--for it
was market day--were sitting after dinner in the public inn of the
county town, when the landlord suddenly entered, exclaiming--
"Gracious!--a dreadful murder has just been committed. The laird of
Merton has been killed in his own house!"
This announcement was received with equal astonishment and horror by
those assembled; and the intruder had every possible question to
answer as to the time, place, and person, that the half-muddled
brains of those present could devise; and, such a babel of voices
arose in sweet discord, that a gentleman, who sat in the parlour
alone, and who had arrived by that day's mail, was so much disturbed
as to ring violently to know why his meditations were thus so
unharmoniously interrupted.
"Waiter!" said he, "why this disturbance? Cannot your farmers dine
here without kicking up a riot?"
"O sir!--it's the murder!"
"What murder?"
"The General, sir, who lives at Merton, sir, found stabbed in his own
sitting-room, sir!"
"Stabbed! do you say? It cannot be?"
"Quite true, sir, as I'm a waiter! And they have got the murderer in
custody."
"Murderer!--impossible! What mean you?" exclaimed the traveller,
hastily.
"Why, sir, the fellow that killed Sir Thomas is taken redhand, I
think they call it."
"Who is he?"
"Just Tom Vallance, sir--an idle fellow to be sure, but the last
person that I would have thought would do such a thing."
"What! the son of the old housekeeper?"
"Yes--do you know him, sir?"
"Not I--but I've heard of his mother. What inducement could he have
to commit so dreadful a crime?"
"Revenge, sir!--The General, some two or three weeks since, seized
his gun, and, poor gentleman, abused Tom fearfully, for he was in one
of his terrifics; and Tom told him the next time he was on his
grounds he would do for him--at least so it is said."
"Dreadful!--and what was this Tom Vallance, as I think you call him?"
"Nothing, sir! His mother is an industrious woman; and the lad was
not that bad fellow, neither--but dreadfully idle. He had a good
education; but his father dying two years since, Tom left school; and
his mother, in place of sending him back, kept him at home: she was
so fond of him that she let him do whatever he liked."
"How can she afford to maintain him?"
"She is very industrious, sir; and, as she was daft fond of him,
every penny she could scrape together went into his pockets."
"Where is the accused?"
"Tom, sir, do you mean?--Why, before the Sheriff, making his
declaration."
"Who succeeds the late baronet?"
"His nephew--a very nice chap. He was often at Merton when a lad;
but he has not been here for many years. He'll be better liked than
his uncle, though the old fellow was not so bad neither. But I must
go, sir, for I hear the bell ringing in the travellers' room." So
saying, he whipped his napkin under his arm, and withdrew with
praiseworthy celerity.
The unknown traveller paced slowly up and down the room, apparently
very much perplexed in his mind. He muttered--"Strange!--very
strange!--caught in the room--a previous threat--all concurs."
Shortly afterwards he again rang the bell, ordered in and paid his
bill; and, taking a post-chaise to the next town, waited there only
until the mail from Edinburgh to London stopped to change horses,
and, having procured a seat, arrived in due time in the metropolis.
The investigation of facts connected with the death of Sir Thomas
proceeded, and a strong case was made out against the accused. The
two servants swore to the threat; and, although not giving exactly
the waiter's version of it, made it pretty nearly as bad; for, not
having heard the precise words, they supplied the defect in hearing
by generalizing. "He threatened," they said, "to be revenged, and
that he would come to the grounds for that purpose;" or used some
such words, shewing a determined resolution of getting "_amends_" of
their master. That the General met his death by a stab in the heart
was plain enough; and that the servants found Tom beside him,
grasping a bloody knife, was equally so. Presumptions were,
therefore, strongly against him; nor did his declaration nor judicial
statement help him much; for he admitted, after some little
hesitation, that he had slipped into the grounds to redeem his threat
of revenge by carrying off some very fine peaches, of which the
General was very proud, and which he intended as a present to a
neighbouring nobleman. Knowing that Sir Thomas was accustomed to
take his siesta immediately after dinner, which was usually at
five--for he followed a fashion of his own in this respect, which
has, since his time, become popular--and that the gardener left at
six, he lurked about the grounds till after that period, and then,
easily getting into the garden, thought it prudent to see how the
land lay before he proceeded to his labour of love.
The house of Merton was an old-fashioned building, or rather series
of buildings, erected at different times; and the present possessor,
who had a fancy for horticulture, had added an apartment, which
opened by a glass door upon a terrace from which, by descending a few
steps, he entered the garden. This room was, necessarily, remote
from the rest of the mansion, and here Sir Thomas uniformly dined,
summer and winter. After dinner was removed, and the dessert and
wine placed on the table, the servants withdrew, and were forbidden
to enter till seven o'clock, when coffee was served. Of all this Tom
was perfectly cognizant.
Now Tom asserted that, as a precautionary measure, he resolved to
peep into the room in question, to ascertain whether Sir Thomas was
asleep before he took his boyish revenge; and seeing the glass door
which led into the garden open, he proceeded, cautiously and slowly,
till he got there, when, looking in, he observed his old enemy lying
on the floor on his face. Astonished at this, and forgetting all
sense of personal risk, he advanced to raise the baronet, when he
discovered that he was dead, and a knife lying beside the body, which
he picked up. Fear tied up his tongue for some few seconds, and he
had barely time to give utterance to an exclamation of horror, when,
the door opening, the servant gave the alarm, and before he had time
to collect his scattered senses he was a prisoner. All this might
have been true, and perhaps the story would have been treated with
more consideration than it obtained, had it not been for the
_previous threat_, which naturally induced a strong suspicion against
Tom. The result was that, after the ordinary form had been gone
through, the unhappy youth was fully committed to take his trial for
the murder of Sir Thomas Vavasour Bruce Vavasour of Vavasour and
Merton, Baronet.
The heir, at this eventful period, was in England, whither the body
was transmitted, and deposited in the Vavasour mausoleum.
Meanwhile, Tom remained for some weeks in the county jail in a
condition far from enviable. All attempts to induce a confession of
guilt were abortive; he persisted in his declaration of innocence;
but, as parties accused are not usually in the habit of confessing
their crimes, these protestations were not considered worth much.
Indeed, the only person he could convince was his poor mother, who
gave implicit confidence to his assertions.
A change, and one for the better, had come over the accused in
prison. How bitterly did he regret his former idle moments--how
deeply did he lament the burden he had been on his mother. Many a
vow did he make, that if he could get quit of this charge, he would
eschew his former course of life, and be all a fond parent could ask.
About the tenth day before the approaching sittings, Tom was visited
by a gentleman, who proffered his assistance as his adviser. He had
heard, he said, of the case; and was anxious, on his mother's
account, to afford his aid: but he required a full and ample
statement, without any concealment. Tom answered he had nothing to
conceal; and he recapitulated everything he had formerly stated.
The stranger listened attentively and, after his client had
concluded, shook his head. "Tom! you may be innocent--there is the
impress of truth in what you state, and I can hardly doubt you; but
still the evidence against you is so strong, that if you go to trial,
I am fearful--very fearful of the result."
Tom's face, which had brightened as the stranger commenced, became
clouded ere the remarks were finished; and, when they terminated, he
burst into tears. "O sir!" he sobbed, "have pity on a poor misguided
lad, who never meant evil to any one--who is as innocent of the crime
of which he is accused as you are. Save me, sir! O save me! if not
on my own account, at least on that of my poor mother, who will break
her heart if I am condemned."
"I would willingly save you if I could," was the rejoinder; "but I
cannot influence juries--I cannot sway the Court."
"And must I die, then? Must I, before my time, go down to my grave
dishonoured and disgraced? O sir! if it had pleased Heaven to visit
me with a deadly sickness, I would have left the world without one
sigh except for my mother. But to be degraded as a felon--to be
branded as a murderer--it is too--too much." He became so agitated
that grief choked his utterance.
The stranger, obviously affected, look his hand. "Tom, have you
firmness? There is a way, perhaps."
"How!" exclaimed the lad, eagerly.
"This room is only one storey from the ground, and escape is
possible."
"Escape! No! no! The windows are barred with iron; besides, if I
escape, it looks like guilt, and I cannot bear that."
"But, will staying behind prove your innocence? Will your suffering
the last penalty of the law convince the world that you did not
commit the murder?"
"True--very true! If I live, my innocence may yet be proved--but how
to get through the window."
"That can be easily managed, if you will act like a man. It is now
early. I will be with you again before the prison shuts. Remember!
not one word to your mother. You may console her by saying that your
agent--for such I am--has given you hopes. Nothing more. Remember!"
So saying, he departed.
* * * * * *
It was rather late when the stranger, who called himself Mortlake,
returned. Tom had kept his promise; and, by affording his mother
hopes of an acquittal, contrived to infuse a happiness to which her
bosom had been for many a week a stranger.
"Now, Tom!" said Mr Mortlake, in a low tone, "attend to me. I have
brought you a file, some aquafortis, and a silken ladder. Apply the
liquid to the bars, and it will gradually eat into the iron--then use
your file, and the first impediment to your flight will be removed.
Next fix the silken ladder firmly, and your descent is easy. Do not
begin your operations until the inmates of the jail are asleep. You
may get everything ready by the evening of the day after the morrow.
As the clock strikes twelve, assistance will be at hand, and descend
with the first stroke, if all is right. Some one will be waiting for
you. He will whisper into your ear 'follow,' and you must follow as
speedily as possible. But, again, I caution you to keep this a
secret from your mother. Buoy her up with hopes; talk confidently of
your acquittal; that you are to have a learned barrister from
Edinburgh. This will get wind, and prevent any suspicion of your
intended escape. Once safe, your mother will receive due notice; and
be assured she shall not be allowed to suffer one moment more of
suspense than is absolutely necessary. You will not see me again in
prison, I hope."
Tom's feelings were overcome. He seized Mortlake's hand, and pressed
it to his lips, while tears flowed in torrents from his eyes. He
could not speak.
Mortlake was affected. "And yet, poor kind-hearted boy," he said,
"people could deem you guilty of a murder--how little did they know
you. But away with tears. Be a man. You have a difficult part
before you. See you flinch not!" Then changing his tone, and
speaking loudly, "Well! I'm off to Edinburgh, where I shall see
Andrew Crosbie. I have great faith in him; and, as he is not a
greedy man, I dare say, Tom, I may get him to come here."
At this moment the jailer entered, saying it was time to leave; and
Mortlake, pressing Tom's hand, bade him farewell, until his return
from Edin burgh.
Tom treasured every word in his heart--not one syllable escaped his
lips, that might induce the most suspicious person to imagine he
contemplated flight. He spoke sensibly of his case; inducing his
mother, and one or two persons, whom curiosity had prompted to visit
him, to suppose that he was very sanguine of acquittal; and, as the
fame of Andrew Crosbie extended over Scotland as a shrewd man and an
able lawyer, this result was not thought by any means chimerical.