with a co-heiress, of the ancient Baron: de Mortuo or Malo Lacu, who
figured during the reign of the Edwards. This Mortlake was heir-male
of the last baron; but his stock had come off before the family were
ennobled. Now, Mrs Vavasour had a very intense desire to become
Baroness de Malo Lacu, or Mortlake; and as she had a legal
claim--being the undoubted representative of a co-heiress--it
required political influence only to accomplish her object. My uncle
could have effected this; but he gave the most decided opposition.
He had no idea that the Vavasour name should be entombed, even in the
sepulchre of the peerage. In his estimation, the Vavasours, who had
fought with Cœur de Lion in the Holy Land, who had perished by
dozens in the wars of the Roses, who had bled with Richmond at
Bosworth, and who had taken up arms against the omnipotent Cromwell,
were worth all the Mortlakes that ever breathed.
"For this opposition my uncle was never forgiven by Mrs Vavasour.
She vowed vengeance, and she kept her vow. She presented a petition
to the king, which was referred to the peers; and, after incurring
enormous expense in proving her pedigree, she succeeded in obtaining
a decision finding the barony in abeyance amongst the co-heirs of the
last Lord Mortlake, and that she was the representative of the eldest
co-heir. Thus far she got, but not one step farther. The desired
writ of summons was withheld. Meanwhile, she got entangled in
pecuniary difficulties. In this situation, she, to my surprise,
applied to Sir Thomas for a loan. The result of this application may
be anticipated; for, while refusing her request, my uncle took the
opportunity of reading her a severe lecture upon her extravagance and
ambition. She was in a towering rage upon receipt of his answer;
but, as I was of age, I thought it my duty, especially as the Peerage
proceedings were to my ultimate advantage, to raise a sum of money
upon my eventual interest, by which means her debts were paid off.
The consequence of this was that, whilst I propitiated my mother on
the one hand, I offended my uncle on the other.
"I was at this time in love with the present Lady Mortlake. She was
well connected, had fortune, and was sufficiently accomplished; but
she did not come within my mother's list of advantageous wives. She
was neither fashionable, nor cared about fashion; and could not
disguise her contempt of idle and silly women of quality. My mother
placed her interdict upon my nuptials. I remonstrated, but to no
purpose; and, although under no obligation to consult my relatives, I
wished at least to have the countenance of Sir Thomas, and I took the
bold step of writing to him. To my gratification and surprise, I
received a gracious answer; and, I presume, my mother's opposition
was itself, in the estimation of my uncle, a sufficient
recommendation. Acting upon his consent and approbation, I married;
but the result was fatal to Mrs Vavasour, who, upon learning what had
taken place, got into one of her tremendous passions, and burst a
bloodvessel. After lingering a few weeks, she died, leaving behind
her a letter, which was fated to be the cause of both our troubles.
A few days after its transmission, I received an epistle from my
uncle, which, from its incoherency, indicated, as I supposed,
positive insanity. I resolved to lose no time in visiting him; but,
as I wished my intended journey to be kept quiet, I gave out that I
was merely going to Liverpool for a few days, where my wife had some
relations. I arrived at Jedburgh; and, as Merton was not far off, I
resolved to walk there; and I calculated that I should arrive about
the time that my uncle was taking his evening _siesta_. Leaving my
portmanteau at the inn, I proceeded on my way; and, as I was familiar
with every inch of ground, took a by-path, which led into the policy,
and which terminated in a door that opened into the garden. This
door was kept open until the gardeners left their work, when it was
locked for the night. I passed through, towards the stairs which
descended from the terrace into the garden; and, in a few minutes,
found myself in the presence of Sir Thomas.
"My uncle was not a little startled at my unexpected appearance. He
had apparently partaken freely of wine--at least was in a state of
excitement.
"'By what right do you come here'? was the first inquiry.
"'Why, my dear uncle, I was surprised at your late letter, and came
personally to ascertain what you meant.'
"'Mean! and do you pretend, sir, to be ignorant of my meaning?'
"'Indeed, uncle, I am.'
"'Uncle--don't uncle me, sir--I am no uncle of yours.'
"I now thought his insanity undoubted.
"'Be composed, my dear sir,' I rejoined; 'do you not know Edward
Vavasour, your attached nephew?'
"He rose--his eyes had a peculiar expression--one I had never
witnessed before: naturally of a dark-grey, they seemed to take the
hue of a fiery red, and they glared fearfully.
"'The house of Vavasour is doomed--its last hour has come;' and,
saying these words, he drew from his pocketbook a letter, which he
threw towards me. I seized it; and judge of my horror when I
perceived this paper."
Lord Mortlake then took from his escritoire the following letter:--
"SIR THOMAS,--You have had your triumph--my triumph comes now. The
despised Mortlake rejoices in the extinction of the proud Vavasour.
Know, haughty man, Edward is not the son of your brother!"
"It is not possible to describe my feelings, Tom, at this instant--my
head turned round. That the statement was false, I doubted not; for
I knew better than Sir Thomas the deep feeling of hatred my mother
could entertain, and did entertain, against us both.
"'Uncle, this letter is the legacy of an enemy--allow me to retain
it, and I will bring positive evidence to disprove the assertion it
contains.'
"My uncle was too much excited to listen to me. In a hoarse and
angry voice, he muttered--
"'Give me the letter, you villain!'
"I endeavoured to pacify him, but without success; when, suddenly
rising, he seized a knife, and, rushing forward, made a thrust at me
with it. I avoided the blow, and retreated. He, incautiously
advancing, lost his footing, and fell with the knife underneath. I
hastily stepped forward to raise him, but had not strength to do so;
for, by one of those strange and unaccountable accidents, which not
unfrequently give the air of romance to real life, the point of the
knife had been turned towards his body, and, passing between his
ribs, had pierced his heart. He died in an instant. I endeavoured
again to raise the body, but in vain. I drew out the knife, and
blood then came with it. To describe my situation at this terrible
moment is impossible: my uncle dead at my feet--no one to witness how
the accident happened--I might be dragged as a felon to trial for his
supposed murder. My grief for his unhappy end was soon absorbed in
fears for my own safety--for, here was I, the apparent heir,
discovered with the man to whom I was to succeed, a bleeding corpse
beside me; then the quarrel between us--the stigma thrown upon me by
my vindictive parent, which, for aught I knew, Sir Thomas might have
bruited abroad--all this made me tremble. Even if acquitted, still
the suspicious circumstances of the case would be greedily seized
upon by the public, which never judges favourably, and a stain would
have been cast upon the family name never to be effaced. My uncle
was past all human assistance, and my remaining could not aid him. I
therefore fled, unobserved by any one; and barely three hours had
elapsed from my leaving the inn, until I was again its inmate. At a
late hour I heard a noise of voices, which accorded ill with my
morbid state of feeling. I rang to know the cause; and the answer to
my inquiry was the announcement that a dreadful murder had been
committed upon Sir Thomas Vavasour, and that you, Tom, had been taken
into custody, under such circumstances as warranted the strongest
presumption of your guilt.
"My astonishment could only be equalled by the horror I felt at
having caused an innocent fellow-creature to be placed in hazard of
his life. However, I was sufficiently collected; and, having learned
that you could not be brought to trial for some time, I left the
place with the firm resolution that, be the consequences what they
might, not one hair of your head should be injured.
"I had no secrets from my wife, and to her I disclosed everything.
After some deliberation, we agreed that it was best, if possible, to
procure your escape from prison; as, if that could be accomplished,
there would be no necessity for any disclosures to gratify the
inquisitive and malicious. I resolved to act by myself, without the
assistance of any one. My first object was to prevent any
interference with yourself by any of the country writers; and this I
accomplished easily enough, by creating an impression, that they
would give offence to the new Baron of Merton if they ventured to
assist you. Thus I deprived you of the advice of these worthies,
which, after all, was no great loss. I should have regretted your
imprisonment, had I not been informed that you were a _mauvais
sujet_, and that the restraint would do you no harm, as it might
induce you to reflect.
"With my wife's assistance, I procured a female dress, bonnet, and
cloak. I also bought a file, a rope-ladder, and some aquafortis, as
I thought it would be no very difficult matter to help you out of an
old Scotch county jail. Lady Mortlake had an uncle resident a mile
or two from Liverpool. This fact presented an ostensible object for
a trip, and we set off together. I left her with her relative; and,
crossing the country, I got to Jedburgh in good time. I was quite
unknown, as, prior to my last eventful visit, many years had passed
by since I had been in the county of Roxburgh. I gave myself out to
be an Edinburgh writer, which was believed.
"I thus got free access to you, and the result I need not repeat.
The gig I bought for the purpose, as well as the horse. I had them
in readiness at a village at some distance, having given the landlord
of the inn to believe that it was merely an ordinary case of
elopement. In order to mystify the folks of Jedburgh, your letter
was enclosed under cover to my wife, who herself drove to the
post-office, and put it in the box, in this way destroying every
possibility of detection. I caused the body of Sir Thomas to be
interred at Vavasour, where his two brothers had previously been
buried. This prevented the necessity of my personal presence at
Merton, where perchance I might have been recognised as the person
who left the counting-house so hurriedly on the day of the supposed
murder. I have never lived at Merton since; it is occupied by the
factor, and, in virtue of the deed of entail, the Scottish estates
belong now to my second son. I induced your mother to reside on the
English estate, where my wife could personally attend to her comfort.
The rest you know. Our travels made me intimately acquainted with
you, and I found you had talent, tolerable acquirements, and an
affectionate heart; and I was determined to aid you, if you would be
but true to yourself. Your vices were the result of idleness, and
the foolish indulgence of a fond mother. Do not think me harsh when
I say so; but, Tom, had you not been removed from her, you would have
been lost. Oh, what have parents to answer for, by allowing their
children to take their own way! From my connection with Antigua, I
had no difficulty in providing for you. My cousin, Mr Edward
Mortlake, managed my East India estates--a source of revenue to the
company of which he was senior partner. I had merely to signify my
wishes to place a young friend in his counting-house, and it was
granted. Neither he nor Tresham knew your real history--they both
thought you some off-shoot of the Mortlakes. The latter was
expressly desired to conceal my name, and to avoid notice of the
Vavasour family as much as possible. And he kept the secret well.
My accession to the Vavasour estates brought without any trouble that
which my misguided mother so much coveted; for, as my political
support was not to be despised, ministers induced the king to
terminate the abeyance, and I received my summons as Baron Mortlake.
The story imposed upon my poor uncle by Mrs Vavasour was, as I was
from the first assured, a malicious fiction of her own; for, luckily,
I was able to trace out the whole circumstances connected with my
birth; and the testimony of the nurse and medical man, which I
obtained in a quiet way, were perfectly conclusive. Indeed, legally,
my mother's declaration availed nothing; but I was anxious, morally,
to satisfy myself, as far as I could, that I was the son of her
marriage with Mr Richard Vavasour. I have now told you all. As I
was the accidental cause of your perilous situation and loss of
character, it was but common justice to assist you as far as lay in
my power. You have raised yourself to respectability and affluence,
partly by my recommendation, but principally by your own exertions.
You owe me, therefore, nothing; and, on the contrary, I am still
considerably your debtor. If, after reflection, you think a
disclosure necessary to clear the reputation of Tom Vallance, you
have my full permission to make it."
"Never, my dear lord--or, if you will allow me to term you, my dear
friend--shall I make the slightest use of your confidence. You have,
from a worthless and idle vagabond, metamorphosed me into a reputable
and honest man. Tom Vallance has ceased to exist; but the heart of
Tom Mortlake is too deeply attached to his benefactor ever to do
anything that would cause him the slightest pain."
"You are a noble fellow, Tom, and well deserve your fortune."
Several months after this conversation, the public journals announced
that "Thomas Mortlake, Esq., of the firm of Tresham, Mortlake, &
Tresham, was married, by special licence, at Vavasour, to Emily,
eldest daughter of the Right Honourable Edward Lord Mortlake." If an
accomplished and sweet-tempered wife, a fine family, an attached
friend, good health, and a competent fortune, could make any one
happy, then was Tom Mortlake the happiest of men.
MAJOR WEIR'S COACH: A LEGEND OF EDINBURGH.*
BY GEORGE HOWELL.
* A legend similar to that here given was current in Glasgow a number
of years ago, and for ages before. The hero's name was Bob Dragon,
whose income, when alive, was said to have been one guinea a minute.
His coachman and horses were said, as those of the Major, to want the
heads. The most curious trait of the Glasgow goblin horses, was that
they went to the river to drink, although they had no heads. The
superstitions of most European countries have a similar origin; the
Germans have their spectre huntsman; the coaches and horses of Major
Weir and Bob Dragon are of the same character. The antiquary will
find the trial of Major Weir in Pitcairn's "Criminal Trials;" and the
lover of such stories may consult "Satan's Invisible World
Discovered."
It was towards the end of September, early in the seventies of the
last century, or it might be the end of the sixties--it matters not
much as to the year--but it was in the month of September, when
parties and politics had set the freemen and burgesses of the Royal
Burghs by the ears--when feasting and caballing formed almost their
whole employment. The exaltation of themselves or party friends to
the civic honours engrossed their whole attention, and neither money
nor time was grudgingly bestowed to obtain their objects. The
embellishment and improvement of the city of Edinburgh were keenly
urged and carried on by one party, at the head of which was Provost
Drummond. He was keenly opposed by another, which, though fewer in
number, and not so well organized, was not to be despised; for it
only wanted a leader of nerve to stop or utterly undo all that had
been done, and keep the city, as it had been for more than a century,
in a position of stately decay. The wild project of building a
bridge over the North Loch was keenly contested; and ruin and
bankruptcy were foretold to the good town, if the Provost and his
party were not put out of the Council before it was begun to be
carried into execution.
The heavens were illuminated by a glorious harvest moon, far in her
southings; the High Street was deep in shade, like a long dark
avenue; the dim oil lamps, perched high upon their wooden posts, few
and far between, gleamed in the darkness like glow-worms--as two
portly figures were seen in earnest discourse, walking, not with
steady step, up the High Street.
"By my troth, Deacon!" said one of them, "I fear Luckie Bell has had
too much of our company this night. I had no idea it was so late.
There is the eighth chime of St Giles: what hour will strike?"
"Deil may care for me, Treasurer Kerr!" hiccuped the Deacon.
"Preserve me, Deacon!" replied the Treasurer, "it has struck twelve!
What shall I say to the wife? It's to-morrow, Deacon! it's
to-morrow!"
"Whisht, man, whisht! and no speak with such a melancholy voice,"
said the other. "Are you afraid of Kate? What have we to do with
to-morrow? It is a day we shall never see, were we to live as long
as Methusalem; for, auld as he was, he never saw 'to-morrow.' It's
always to come with its cares or joys." And the Deacon stood and
laughed aloud at his conceit. "Let to-morrow care for itself, Tom,
say I. What can Kate say to you? What the deil need you care? Have
we not had a happy evening? Have we not been well employed?" And
they again moved on towards the Castlehill, where the Deacon resided.
Thomas Kerr was treasurer of the incorporation, and hoped at this
election to succeed his present companion, whose influence in the
incorporation was great, and to secure which he was, for the time,
his humble servant, and assiduous in his attentions to him--so much
so, that, although his own domicile was in St Mary's Wynd, at the
other extremity of the High Street, his ambition had overcome his
fears of his better half, and, still ascending the long street, he
resolved to accompany the Deacon home; not, however, without some
strong misgivings as to what he might encounter on his return. Both
were in that happy state of excitement when cares and fears press
lightly on the human mind; but the Deacon, who had presided at the
meeting, and spoken a good deal, was much more overcome than his
Treasurer; and the liquor had made him loquacious.
"Tom, man," again said the Deacon, "you walk by my side as douce as
if you were afraid to meet Major Weir in his coach, on your way down
the wynd to Kate. Be cheerful, man, as I am. Tell her she will be
Deaconess in a fortnight, and that will quiet her clatter, or I know
not what will please her; they are all fond of honours. We have done
good work this night--secured two votes against Drummond; other three
would graze him. Pluck up your spirit, Tom, and be active; if we
fail, the whole town will be turned upside down--confound him, and
his wild projects, of what he calls improvements! The deil be in me
if I can help thinking--and it sticks in my gizzard yet--that he was
at the bottom of the pulling down of my outside stair, by these
drunken fellows of masons; the more by token that, when, after much
trouble, I discovered them, and had them all safe in the guardhouse,
he took a small bail, and only fined them two shillings a-piece, when
it caused me an expense of ten good pounds to repair the mischief
they had done; and, more than that, I was forced to erect it inside
the walls; for they would not allow me to put it as it was, or grant
me a Dean of Guild warrant on any other terms. They said it cumbered
the foot-pavement, although, as you know, it had stood for fifty
years. From that day to this, I have been his firm opponent, in and
out of the Council. Tom, are you asleep? Where are your eyes? What
high new wall is this? See, see, man!"
"This beats all he has done yet!" said the Treasurer; "a high white
wall across the High Street, and neither slap nor style that I can
see! Wonderful, wonderful! A strange man that Provost!"
"He has done it to vex me, since I came down to Luckie Bell's,"
replied the Deacon. "It was not there in the early part of the
evening. He must have had a hundred masons at it. But I'll make him
repent this frolic to-morrow in the Council, or my name is not Deacon
Dickson!"
"What can he mean by it, Deacon?" rejoined the other. "I see no
purpose it can serve, for my part."
"But it does serve a purpose," hiccuped the Deacon; "it will prevent
me from getting home. It was done through malice against me, for the
efforts I am making to get him and his party out of the Council."
During the latter part of this discourse, they had walked, or rather
struggled, from side to side of the street. Between the pillars
that, before the great fires in Edinburgh, formed the base of the
high tenement standing there, and St Giles' Church, being the
entrance into the Parliament Square, and between St Giles' and the
Exchange buildings, the full moon threw a stream of light, filling
both the openings, and leaving all above and below involved in deep
shade. It was the moon's rays thus thrown upon the ground, and
reaching up to the second windows of the houses, that formed the wall
which the two officials observed.
"Deil tak' me," ejaculated the Deacon, "but this is a fine trick to
play upon the Deacon of an incorporation in his own town! Were it
not for exposing myself at this untimeous hour, I would raise the
town, and pull it down at the head of the people. Faith, Tom, I will
do it!" And he was on the point of shouting aloud at the pitch of
his voice, when the more prudent Treasurer put his hand upon the
mouth of the enraged Deacon.
"For mercy's sake, be quiet!" said he. "What are you going to be
about? Is this a time of night for a member of Council to make a
riot, and expose himself in the High Street? To-morrow will be time
enough to pull it down by force, if you cannot get a vote of the
Council to authorize it. No doubt that is a round about way and a
sair climb; but just, like a wise and prudent man, as you always are,
put up with it for one night, and come along down the Fishmarket
Close, up the Cowgate, and climb the West Bow, to the Deaconess, who,
I have no doubt, is weary waiting on you."
"Faith, Tom, I am in part persuaded you advise well for once,"
replied the Deacon; "so I will act upon it, although I am your
Deacon, and all advice ought to come from me."
And away they trudged. Both were corpulent men; but the Deacon
having been several times in the Council, was by much the heavier of
the two. Down they went by the Fishmarket Close, and up the Cowgate,
the Deacon, sulky and silent, meditating all the way vengeance
against the Provost; but, in ascending the steep and winding Bow, his
patience entirely left him; he stopped, more than once, to wipe the
perspiration from his brow, recover his breath, and mutter curses on
the head of the official. At length they reached the Deacon's home,
where his patient spouse waited his arrival. Without uttering a
word, he threw himself upon a chair, placing his hat and wig upon a
table. It was some minutes before he recovered his breath
sufficiently to answer the questions of his anxious wife, or give
vent to the anger that was consuming him. At length, to the fifty
times put questions of--
"Deacon, what has vexed you so sorely? what has happened to keep you
so late?" he broke forth--
"What vexes me? what has kept me so late? You may with good reason
inquire that, woman. Our pretty Provost is the sole cause. You may
be thankful that you have seen my face this night." And he commenced
and gave an exaggerated account of the immense wall that the Provost
had caused to be built, from the Crames to the Royal Exchange,
reaching as high as the third storey of the houses; and the great
length of time he had been detained in examining it, to discover a
way to get over or through it--all which the simple Deaconess
believed, and heartily joined her husband in abusing the Provost.
"Had a wall been built across the Castlehill," she said, "when the
Highlandmen were in the town, and the cannon balls flying down the
street, I could have known the use of it; but to build a wall between
the Crames and the Royal Exchange, to keep the Lawnmarket and
Castlehill people from kirk and market--surely the man's mad!"