poured down his cheeks--"my long-lost Philip! Merciful Heaven! I thank
thee! How blind I was, not to trace before the resemblance to your
sainted mother! The very eyes and forehead of my beloved Mary! My son,
my son! This hour repays me for years saddened by the misery of
uncertainty!"
Philip, with tears of grateful joy, warmly returned the embraces of his
newly-found parent, and, even in that moment of agitation, his thoughts
gladly reverted to the removal of that which had been the principal
obstacle to Catherine, the mystery of his birth. Edward Douglas, much
affected by the unexpected recognition, had retired to some little
distance, to leave the father and son to the free expression of their
mutual feelings; but he was soon recalled to his former station by the
general, who, shaking him heartily by the hand, said--
"Son of my dearest friend, I owe it to myself and to my boy to narrate
to you the history of my past life, and to account to you both for what
must appear my culpable and unpardonable neglect of him whose uncertain
fate has caused me so many bitter moments."
The tale which followed we give in our own words, as our space will not
allow us to be so diffuse as was the excited narrator.
The father of General Fortescue was a man of high family and extensive
landed property in Ireland; proud of his only son, but prouder still of
the ancient name and large possessions which he fondly hoped that son
was destined to inherit. His mother had died in his early childhood, and
his education was prosecuted under the superintendence of a worthy and
excellent tutor, a Scotchman of the name of Campbell. The elder
Fortescue, who had himself been brought up at Eton, and who had a
strong prejudice in favour of public education, sent his boy, when he
was sufficiently old, to finish his education at that college. There it
was his good fortune to be associated with Gavin Douglas, who was two
years his senior, and immeasurably his superior in talent and character.
Mild and gentle in demeanour, but firm and uncompromising in principle,
Gavin was generally respected and beloved; his society was courted by
all his fellow-students--but he distinguished young Fortescue with his
particular friendship; and to the influence of that friendship the
latter was indebted for all the better traits that adorned his
character. Philip, in his letters, had often written, in the most
glowing terms of youthful enthusiasm, of his talented and estimable
friend; and his father, ever anxious to administer to his gratification,
invited Gavin, whose parents were at the time on the Continent, to spend
his vacation at Mount Fortescue, where he spent some weeks, delighted
with his hospitable reception, but surprised at the luxury and profusion
that surrounded him. But the scene was soon to change. Fortescue had
been for years living in a style of splendid and careless hospitality,
which had from time to time called forth ineffectual remonstrances from
his faithful steward, and at last affairs were brought to a crisis by
the villany of one for whom he had become security to a very
considerable amount. To meet the demands of his creditors, his estates
were sold; and, with about ten thousand pounds saved from their wreck,
he retired to a small town on the shores of the Frith of Clyde, and,
having procured a cadetship for his boy, sent him out to Bengal. This
was a severe trial to old Fortescue. The loss of his estates he could
have borne with comparative firmness, as far as his own comforts were
concerned; but his pride as well as his affection was wounded, when he
thought that his son would be obliged to seek in a _foreign_ land that
fortune which, but for his careless negligence and profusion, he would
have inherited in his _own_. Philip, full of the energy of youthful
hope, was but little affected by the change in his father's
circumstances, for the future was to him bright of promise; but he was
greatly grieved at parting with his father, whose many excellent
qualities had endeared him to his son's affection, and whose chief
weakness was his high aristocratic pride. After ten years' residence in
India, young Fortescue returned home on furlough, with the rank of
captain, and found his father much altered in person, but equally
unchanged in affection towards him, and in that pride of birth which had
ever been his besetting sin--one of the fruits of which was, frequent
invectives against ill-assorted marriages between those whose rank in
life was unequal. After staying with his father for a short time,
Captain Fortescue hastened to pay a long-promised visit to his friend
Gavin Douglas, whose wife had lately died, and who was now living with
his family at Eskhall. On his return, Gavin accompanied him, and
remained for several weeks at Mr Fortescue's. During one of their
rambles in the neighbourhood, they discovered, accidentally, that a
daughter of Mr Campbell, Fortescue's former tutor, was living near them,
under the protection of a maternal aunt. The young men soon sought and
obtained an introduction to these ladies, by whom they were most
cordially received, as friends of the departed Campbell. Mary Campbell
was a beautiful, highly-accomplished girl of eighteen, perfectly natural
and unaffected, and unconscious of the power of her charms. Not so young
Fortescue. In vain did his more quick-sighted and prudent friend,
Douglas, warn him of his danger; in vain did he remind him of the
obstacle which his father's pride would offer to the prosperous
indulgence of his growing passion: he renewed his visits day after day;
and, though he had not spoken of love, his heart was no longer his own.
She who was ever present to his thoughts became naturally the frequent
theme of his conversation, until his father remarked it, and scornfully
and bitterly taunted him with his love for one so much his inferior in
rank.
"Think no more of her, Philip," said he; "for, with my consent, you
shall never degrade yourself by marrying one so much beneath you."
It was easier, however, for the father to command than for the son to
obey; love prevailed over duty, and the young people were privately
married; the only persons in the secret being the minister who
officiated, and Mrs Morgan, Mary's maternal aunt. When the time of
Mary's confinement approached, she removed with her aunt to an obscure
village in a distant part of the country, where she died in giving birth
to the hero of our tale. Her husband was inconsolable, and it was some
time before he could bear to look upon the innocent cause of his
bereavement. After performing the last duties to his wife, and
witnessing the baptism of the infant Philip, whom he left under the care
of his grand-aunt, Captain Fortescue went over to the Continent, hoping
by travel to dissipate his grief. For a few months he heard regularly of
his boy's welfare from Mrs Morgan; but soon her correspondence ceased;
and, alarmed by her long-continued silence, he hastened home to
ascertain the cause. On his arrival in Scotland, he heard of the sudden
and dangerous illness of his father. He just reached home in time to
attend his death-bed; and by his unexpected return and filial
affections, cheered his last moments, and received his dying blessing.
But another trial awaited him. He set off as soon as possible to the
village where Mrs Morgan resided, little dreaming of the sad
intelligence that awaited him. She had died about six weeks before,
bequeathing all her small property to little Philip, who had always been
considered as her adopted son, and the orphan child of a distant
relation. The morning after her decease, it was discovered that the
nurse and child were missing, and that an escritoire, which was known to
have contained a large sum of money, had been broken open and ransacked.
Active search had been immediately made after them at first; but was
discontinued, when a woman's bonnet, known to have belonged to the
nurse, and part of a child's dress, were found on the banks of a
neighbouring swollen stream. Poor Fortescue was in despair; but at
length a gleam of hope broke upon him. The _bodies_ had not been found;
and his child might still be in existence. Advertisements were inserted
in all the papers, offering a large reward for the discovery of the
infant; but in vain. The heart-broken father lost all hope; and,
settling his affairs, hastened again to the East. As is too often the
case, fortune smiled upon one who had ceased to value her favours; and
he rose steadily and gradually to the highest grades of his profession.
The object of envy to others, he was miserable in himself. His thoughts
brooded over the past; and at last, after nearly a thirty years'
residence abroad, his heart yearned to revisit before his death the
scene of his past joys and sorrows; and he was thus far on his voyage
when Providence threw in his way his long-lost son.
When the general had finished his narrative, the day was too far
advanced, and the feelings of the party were too much interested
otherwise, to allow them to prosecute their intended visit to
Constantia; they therefore returned to Cape Town, where Catherine was
anxiously expecting their return.
"Catherine, my love," said her father, "I expect a friend to visit me
almost immediately. He is a young man of wealth and rank; and I beg you
will give him a cordial welcome, as you must look upon him as your
future husband, and think no more of Philip Douglas."
"Sir!" said she with the colour fading in her cheek; "forget Philip!
Never!"
At this moment the door opened, and a servant announced, "Mr Fortescue."
Great was Catherine's surprise, when she raised her eyes, and beheld
Philip.
"Philip!" exclaimed she; then, looking timidly and inquiringly around,
she added, "But where is Mr Fortescue?"
"Here he stands, my dear Catherine; no longer the foundling Philip
Douglas, but Philip Fortescue, the son of one whom he is proud to call
father. Next to the joy of discovering _him_, is that of finding that
you have bestowed your love on one whose birth will cast no discredit
upon yours."
"The heart acknowledges no distinctions of rank or fortune," replied
she, blushing; "whether Douglas or Fortescue, you would still be my own
dear Philip--the friend of my childhood--the preserver of my life."
"Nobly spoken, my fair young friend," said General Fortescue, who had
entered unperceived. "Although I am not yet your father, allow me to
claim a father's privilege." And he fondly kissed the blushing
Catherine.
But we must hasten to the conclusion of our voyage, and of our tale. The
following announcement appeared two months afterwards in the
papers--"Married, at Eskhall, in Dumfries-shire, on the 13th inst.,
Philip, eldest son of General Fortescue of the Bengal army, to
Catherine, daughter of Edward Douglas, Esq., of Calcutta."
THE SKEAN DHU.
"Bless me, Angus! do you wear a weapon of that kind about you? I never
knew it before," said John Sommerville to his friend Angus M'Intyre, as
he sat looking at him one morning performing his toilet; an operation
which discovered the latter thrusting a _skean dhu_--which all our
readers know is a short knife, with a black horn handle, once a
favourite weapon of the Highlanders--beneath the breast of his coat,
into a sheath which seemed to have been placed there for the especial
purpose.
"Did you not know that before, John?" said Angus, with a faint smile,
but at the same time evidently desiring that there should be no more
remarks made on the subject; for he hastily buttoned up his coat, after
having placed the weapon in its sheath, as if to cut the conversation
short by putting its subject out of sight.
"No, indeed, I did not," replied Sommerville. "I never saw it before,
and never heard you carried such a thing about you. It's a dangerous
weapon, Angus; and you are a more dangerous man than I thought you," he
added, smiling.
"Tuts! nonsense, man!" said M'Intyre, impatiently. "It'll never harm
you, at any rate, John."
"No, no; I daresay not," replied his friend, good-humouredly; "but it
may hurt others, though. Let me see it, Mac."
Angus reluctantly complied with his request, and put the tiny but
formidable weapon into his hands.
"It has my initials, I declare, on the handle!" exclaimed Sommerville,
as he looked at the letters J. S. which were engraved on the butt-end of
the knife.
"Yes," replied his friend; "it belonged to my maternal grandfather, John
Stewart of Ardnahulish."
Sommerville returned the weapon without further remark, and here the
conversation dropped. We will avail ourselves of the opportunity to say
who the parties were whom we have thus somewhat abruptly introduced to
the reader.
Angus M'Intyre was a native of the Island of Skye, in the West Highlands
of Scotland, and was, at the period of our story (now a pretty old one,
as it happened in the year 17--), an officer of excise in Glasgow. At
this period, the Highland character had not lost all its original
ferocity, and, consequently, the circumstance of an officer of excise,
who was a Highlander, wearing a dirk, even in the discharge of the
peaceable duties--though they were not always so either--that fell to
his lot in a large town, was not by any means considered so very
extraordinary a thing as it would be now. M'Intyre, as we have said, was
a native of the West Highlands of Scotland, and an admirable specimen of
the hardy and intrepid race from which he sprang. He was a very handsome
man, and of the most daring courage, as had been often proved in the
perilous adventures in which his profession occasionally engaged him. He
was, however, of a remarkably quiet disposition, though fiery and
irascible when provoked; but so much did the former prevail in his
nature, that no one who did not know him intimately would have guessed
how fiery a spirit lay couched underneath this thin covering of
placidity, nor deemed, unless they saw that spirit roused, how
formidable a man in his anger its possessor was. Yet, withal, was he a
man of a kind and generous heart. The habit of carrying the deadly
weapon to which we have alluded, Angus had acquired when a youth in the
Highlands, where it was then common to be so armed; and this habit had
adhered to him, notwithstanding the entire change of life to which his
new occupation as an excise officer had introduced him. Angus, in short,
although they had made him a clergyman, would, it was believed by those
who knew him, have carried his skean dhu with him to the pulpit. He made
no boast, however, of being possessed of this weapon. On the contrary,
as we have already in part shown, he very much disliked any allusion to
it; for it was known by a few of his most intimate friends that he did
carry such a thing about with him, and by these such allusions were
sometimes made; but the former, although they had often seen his
naturally fiery temper put to very severe test, never knew an instance
of his having taken advantage of his concealed arms, even to the extent
of a threat, excepting in the single instance of which we are about to
speak; but that alone is sufficient to show--in a very striking light,
we think--the miserable effects of introducing or maintaining barbarous
habits--more especially that of wearing secret weapons--into civilised
and social life.
Of Sommerville, we have not much to say in the way of description. He
was in the same service with M'Intyre--that is, the excise; and was
about the same age--thirty-two or thirty-three. They were intimate
friends, and as frequently together as the nature of their duties would
permit; and were both unmarried. On the same day on which the
conversation with which we opened our story took place, it happened that
Angus and Sommerville were invited together to a tavern-dinner in the
Saltmarket, with some mutual friends. About an hour previous to that
appointed for the festive meeting, Sommerville called on M'Intyre at his
lodgings, with the view of waiting for him, that they might go together
to the house where they were to dine. A few minutes before they left
M'Intyre's lodgings for this purpose, Sommerville said, playfully,
"By the by, Mac, I hope you do not intend taking that infernal weapon
with you to-night?"
"Tuts, man," replied M'Intyre, somewhat testily, "never mind it. What
need ye always harp on that string? Did you never know of a gentleman
wearing a dirk before? It's no such extraordinary or terrible thing,
surely."
"Terrible enough in reckless hands," said Sommerville.
M'Intyre looked more and more displeased, as his friend continued to
cling to the subject; but his only reply was,
"Nonsense, John! Come, let us be going--it's near the hour."
"Well, I tell you what it is, Angus," remarked his friend, banteringly,
and still pertinaciously dwelling on the skean dhu, "I won't sit beside
you to-night--I'll take care of that; no, nor within arm's-length of you
either."
"Sit where you please," replied M'Intyre, angrily, and he flung out of
the apartment, followed by Sommerville.
On their reaching the tavern, the company were already assembled, and
were waiting their presence before sitting down to table. As soon as
they entered, however, places were taken; and it happened by chance that
the only vacant chair left for Sommerville was one next his friend
M'Intyre. On observing this, the former jokingly declined it, saying,
"No, no, Mac--I won't sit near you, as I said before. Ye're no canny--I
have discovered that." And he winked significantly; and, following up
the jesting resolution which he had just expressed, he eventually took
his place at a different part of the table. M'Intyre said nothing in
reply to his friend's remarks; but there was a frown upon his brow that
showed pretty plainly, though none present observed it, that he was very
far from being pleased with them. In truth, he was highly irritated at
what appeared to him the it; and that this, instead of being considered
by him as a reason for refraining, was deemed directly the reverse--an
excellent source of small annoyance. What followed on this fatal night
will, we think, be most graphically related in the words of a person,
another intimate friend of M'Intyre's, who was present:--
At the close of the entertainment (said the person alluded to), which
was protracted to a pretty late hour, some high words suddenly arose
between M'Intyre and Sommerville; the former being evidently
predisposed, from some cause or other, to quarrel with the latter; but
so few were they, that I paid but little attention to them, and had no
difficulty in reconciling the parties, as I imagined; but in this, at
least in so far as regarded M'Intyre, I was mistaken. No more words,
however, of an angry nature passed between them. At length the party
broke up--M'Intyre, Sommerville, and myself remaining a short time
behind, when we also left. Sommerville went first, M'Intyre followed,
and I went last. In this order we were passing through the entrance,
which was quite dark, to gain the street, when I was suddenly
horror-struck by hearing Sommerville utter a loud shriek, and, in a
moment after, saying, in a hoarse, unearthly tone, as he staggered
against the wall, "I am a murdered man!--M'Intyre has stabbed me!"
Guessing precisely what had taken place, I rushed to the mouth of the
entrance, and saw M'Intyre crossing the street with as calm and
deliberate a step as if nothing had happened; and, immediately after, he
turned a corner and disappeared. I now returned to Sommerville, whom I
found still leaning against the wall, with his hand upon his wound. In
an instant after, he fell, groaned heavily, and, when I stooped down to
assist him, I found he was gone. Several persons had, by this time,
assembled round us; and, by the assistance of two or three of these, we
had the body of the unfortunate man conveyed to his lodgings. Next
morning, having occasion to be abroad very early, and to pass the
residence of the procurator-fiscal, I saw three men, whom I knew to be
criminal officers, just entering the house. In an instant it crossed my
mind that this untimous visit of these gentlemen to the functionary
above named was, in some way or other, connected with the melancholy
event of the preceding night, and that my unfortunate friend M'Intyre
was about to be apprehended. Fully impressed with this idea, I instantly
hastened to his lodgings, taking such short cuts and by-ways as I knew
would give me several minutes' start of his pursuers--if the men I saw
really were to become such--and the sequel will show they did. On
entering M'Intyre's room, which I did in considerable agitation, I found
him, to my great amazement, sound asleep.