“Bless me callants! what are ye doing here?” said Marget, looking in at
the door of the mid-chamber, where Huntley and Patrick Livingstone were
together.
It was a small apartment, originally intended for a dressing-room, and
communicating by a door locked and barricaded on both sides with the
east room, which was the guest-chamber of the house. Almost its sole
piece of furniture was a large old-fashioned mahogany desk, standing
upon a heavy frame of four tall legs, and filling half the space; it was
not like the bureau of romance, with that secret drawer where some
important document is always being discovered. The heavy lid was held
open by Huntley’s head, as he carried on his investigations. There were
drawers enough, but they were all made by the hand of the joiner of
Kirkbride, who knew nothing of secret contrivances--and these, as well
as all the remaining space of the desk, were filled with the gatherings
of Norlaw’s life, trifles which some circumstance or other made
important to him at the moment they were placed there, but which were
now pathetic in their perfect insignificance and uselessness, closely
connected as they were with the dead man’s memory. Old letters, old
receipts, old curiosities, a few coins and seals, and trifling
memorials, and a heap of papers quite unintelligible and worthless,
made up the store. In one drawer, however, Huntley had found what he
wanted--the will--and along with it, carefully wrapped in at least a
dozen different folds of paper, a little round curl of golden hair.
They were looking at this when Marget, whose question had not been
answered, entered and closed the door. The lads were not aware of her
presence till this sound startled them; when they heard it, Huntley
hurriedly refolded the covers of this relic, which they had been looking
at with a certain awe. Eye of stranger, even though it was this faithful
old friend and servant, ought not to pry into their father’s secret
treasure. The Mistress’s hair was of the darkest brown. It was not for
love of their mother that Norlaw had kept so carefully this childish
curl of gold.
“Laddies,” said Marget, holding the door close behind her, and speaking
low as she watched with a jealous eye the covering up of this secret,
“some of ye’s been minding the Mistress of auld troubles. I said to
myself I would come and give you a good hearing--the haill three--what’s
Mary o’ Melmar to you?”
“Did my mother tell you?” asked Huntley, with amazement.
“Her, laddies! na, it’s little ye ken! _her_ name the like o’ that to
the like o’ me! But Cosmo behoved to ask about the story--he would part
with his little finger to hear a story, that bairn--and ’deed I ken fine
about it. What for could ye no’ speak to me?”
“There was more than a story in Huntley’s thoughts and in mine,” said
Patrick, shutting up the desk with some decision and authoritativeness.
“Hear him! my certy! that’s setting up!” cried Marget; “I ken every
thing about it for a’ you’re so grand. And I ken the paper in Huntley’s
hand is the will, and I ken I would run the risk o’ firing the haill
house, but I would have burnt it, afore he got sight o’t, if it had been
me.”
“Why?” said Huntley, with a little impatience. It was not possible that
the youth could read this bequest conferring Melmar, failing the natural
heiress, on his father and himself, without a thrill of many emotions.
He was ambitious, like every young man; he could not think of this
fortune, which seemed almost to lie within his reach, without a stirring
of the heart.
“It did nothing but harm to your father, and it can do nothing but
mischief to you,” said Marget, solemnly; “you’re young and strong, and
fit to make a fortune. But I tell you, Huntley Livingstone, if you
attempt to seek this lass over the world, as your father did, you’re a
ruined man.”
“Neither Huntley nor me believe in ruined men,” said Patie; “we’ll take
care for that--go to your kye, and never mind.”
“Don’t be angry, Marget,” said Huntley, who was more tender of the
faithful retainer of the house; “trust us, as Patie says--besides, if
she should never be found, Melmar’s mine.”
“Eh, whisht, lad! she’ll come hame with half a dozen bairns before e’er
your feet’s across the door,” cried Marget; “tell me to trust you, that
are only callants, and dinna ken! Trust me, the twa of you! Gang and
spend a’ the best years of your life, if you like, seeking her, or
witness that she’s dead. If ye find her, ye’re nane the better, if ye
dinna find her, ye’re aye deluded with the thought of a fortune ye canna
claim--and if ye get word she’s dead, there’s still Melmar himself, that
was bred a writer and kens a’ the cheats of them, to fight the battle!
They might say it was a false will--they might say, Guid forgive them!
that Norlaw had beguiled the auld man. There’s evil in’t but nae guid;
Huntley, you’re your father’s son, you’re to make his amends to her.
Dinna vex the Mistress’s life with Mary of Melmar ony mair!”
“The short and the long of it all, Marget,” said Patrick, who was at
once more talkative and more peremptory than usual--“is, that you must
mind your own business and we’ll mind ours. Huntley’s not a knight in a
story-book, seeking a distressed lady. Huntley’s not in love with Mary
of Melmar; but if she’s to be found she shall be found; and if she’s
dead my brother’s the heir.”
“No’ till you’re done wi’ a’ her bairns,” cried Marget; “say there’s nae
mair than three of them, like yoursels--and the present Me’mar’s been
firm in his seat this thirteen years. Weel, weel, I daur to say Patie’s
right--it’s nae business o’ mine; but I’d sooner see you a’ working for
your bread, if it was just like laboring men, and I warn ye baith, the
day’s coming when ye’ll think upon what I say!”
Marget disappeared, solemnly shaking her head as she said these last
words. For the moment, the two youths said nothing to each other. The
desk was locked softly, the will placed in an old pocket-book, to be
deposited elsewhere, and then, for the first time, the young men’s eyes
met.
“She’s right,” said Patie, with sudden emphasis; “if you seek her
yourself, Huntley, you’ll neither get Me’mar nor fortune--it’s true.”
Huntley paid little attention to his brother. He stood looking out from
the window, where, in the distance, to the north, the banks of Tyne rose
high among the woods of Melmar--opposite to him, fertile fields, rich in
the glow of coming harvest, lay the wealthy lands of his father’s
enemy--those lands which perhaps now, if he but knew it, were
indisputably his own. He stood fascinated, looking out, tracing with an
unconscious eagerness the line of the horizon, the low hills, and trees,
and ripening corn, which, as far as he could see before him, were still
part of the same inheritance. He was not a dreamy boy like Cosmo--he
thought little of his father’s old love, or of the triumph of restoring
her to her inheritance. The Mary of Norlaw’s fancy was but a shadow upon
the future of his own. He thought, with a glow of personal ambition, of
the fair stretch of country lying before him. Generous, high-spirited,
and incapable of meanness, Huntley still had the impulse of conquest
strong within him. He could not but think, with a rising heart, of this
visible fortune which lay at his feet and seemed to be almost within his
grasp. He could not but think, with indignant satisfaction, of unseating
the false heir whose enmity had pursued Norlaw to the very grave. All
the excitement which had gathered into these few past weeks still
throbbed in Huntley’s heart and stirred his brain. He could not moderate
the pace of his thoughts or subdue his mind at anybody’s bidding. If it
should be hard to get justice and a hearing for his claims, this very
difficulty increased the attraction--for it was his claims he thought of
while the others were thinking of Mary of Melmar. He was not selfish,
but he was young, and had an ardent mind and a strong individual
character. Mary of Melmar--a white ghost, unreal and invisible--faded
from his mind entirely. He thought, instead, of the man who had
arrested Norlaw’s funeral, and of the inheritance of which he was the
rightful heir.
With all these fumes in his brain it was quite impossible that Huntley
could listen soberly to the sober counsels of Patie, or to the warnings
of the old servant. _They_ begged him not to think of a search for Mary.
_He_ thought of nothing of the kind. Mary had taken no position of
romance in the young man’s fancy. The romance which blossomed in his
eyes was a much less disinterested one than that which Cosmo mused upon
in the old window of the castle. He thought of himself, of his own
family, of all the possibilities and powers of an extensive land-owner,
and with the flush of youthful self-belief, of a great life. He had
stood thus at the window a long time gazing out, and paying no attention
to the occasional words of his sensible brother, when the sound of some
one coming roused them both. It was the Mistress’s firm footsteps
ascending the stair--they both left the room immediately, agreed, at
least, in one thing, to trouble their mother no more with recollections
disagreeable to her. Then Patie went about his business, somewhat
disturbed by the thought that Huntley meant to throw away a portion of
his life in the same fruitless folly which had injured their father;
while Huntley himself, remembering something that had to be done at
Kirkbride, set off along the banks of Tyne at a great pace, which did
not, however, overtake the swing of his thoughts. Marget, coming out to
her kitchen door to look after him, held up her hands and exclaimed to
herself, “The laddie’s carried!” as she watched his rapid
progress--which meaning, as it did, that Huntley was fairly lifted off
his feet and possessed by a rapid and impetuous fancy, was perfectly
correct--though the fancy itself was not such as Marget thought.