pretty rough gallant in my day, and hae dune some things that your
warden here would scarce thank me for, I'm thinkin." And, with this
preface, Geordie proceeded to unfold a tale of crime that made his
auditors stand aghast, accustomed as they were, from the nature of their
duties and peculiar situation, to scenes of bloodshed and rapine.
Of these voluntary confessions of Geordie's, as many of them were wholly
unfit to be recorded, we will enter into no details, but content
ourselves with saying that they included almost every species of human
wickedness, and brought on the head of the perpetrator a responsibility
for almost every conceivable description of human guilt.
Nor was the horrible effect of these disclosures lessened by the manner
in which they were made. The marauder chuckled and laughed as he related
the various deeds of violence in which he had been concerned, either as
a principal or accessory; and with look and manner called on his
auditors for approbation of the dexterity with which some of his
robberies had been conducted; and, to say truth, there certainly were
many of them contrived with an ingenuity, and executed with a boldness,
coolness, and dexterity, which would have gained for Geordie immortal
renown, had he had the good fortune to have been born a Spartan. As it
was, however, they only secured him a halter.
"Believe me or no, lads," thus Geordie introduced one of his adventures,
"I ance rode saxty miles in ae nicht, without ever drawin bridle, except
for about the space o' five minutes. I left my ain hoose at the
gloamin--rode thirty miles--did my job--and was back again other thirty
before cock-crawin, without ever being missed by onybody."
"By my troth, an excellent night's work, George," said the spokesman of
the three warden's men. "Pray, what was the cause of your making such an
extraordinary exertion on that particular occasion?"
"Why, the cause, ye see, sirs, was just this," replied Geordie: "At the
last Border meeting at Lockerby, a Cumberland man, o' the name Tinlin,
comes up to me, and he says, says he, 'Geordie, and it warna for breakin
the peace, I wad like to break your head, for I dinna believe ye're the
man ye pretend to be.' Weel, ye see, sirs, I drew--as I had guid cause
to do--and was about to lend the fellow a lick wi' my whinger, when wha
should come up behint me at the moment, and grip my sword-arm, but Sir
Robert Kerr, just as I was gaun to strike? 'Ha, Geordie!' said he, 'at
your auld tricks again! Come, put up your whinger, my man, and dinna be
breakin the peace o' the meetin.' Weel, you see, as Sir Robert was a
good freend o' mine, and had stood my part in many a strait, I did as he
bade me, but wi' a secret oath that I wad tak an opportunity after o'
clearin scores wi' Tinlin. And, by my feth, it wasna lang or I got
amends o' him. The very next nicht, having beforehand learned whar he
lived, I slippit my beast quietly out o' the stable, mounted and set off
at a swingin trot for Tinlin's, where I arrived about twelve o'clock at
nicht--a distance o' thirty miles; but I kent every fit o' the way. On
reachin the house, I rapped at the door. 'Wha's there?' cried Tinlin,
jumpin out o' his bed. 'A friend,' said I; and I gied him ane o' your
ain names, lads--that is, the name o' ane o' your ain men whom I kent he
knew--and said I was frae the warden wi' a message to him to attend a
muster. Weel, you see, on that Tinlin opens the door. I was stannin
ready wi' my drawn whinger in my hand; and the moment he did this, I
gied him at least a foot o' the cauld airn in his wame, before he could
say Tintock, and he fell dead at my feet. Having done this, I entered
the house, turned out his wife and weans to the drift, set fire to the
biggin, and mounted my horse by the licht o't; and, in little mair than
four hours after, was in my ain house, without ony ane being a bit the
wiser."
And here Geordie gave a chuckle of satisfaction at the recollection of
his atrocious feat, and looked to his auditors for a similar expression
of approbation. In this, however, he was disappointed. They were by far
too much horrified by what they had heard even to assume the appearance
of gratification. Indeed, the feelings of him who seemed to be a sort of
leading personage amongst the three appeared, from the sudden gravity
and sternness of expression which now sat on his countenance, to have
undergone a complete and unfavourable change regarding the prisoner. His
manner towards him was no longer marked by that frankness and
familiarity which had distinguished it on his first entrance; and, in
place of listening with anything like interest, or exhibiting any
appearance of being entertained by Geordie's communications, as he had
been for a time, he now sat with his arms folded across his breast,
seemingly engrossed in thoughts of his own. Geordie perceived the change
alluded to in his auditor, and immediately drew in; but it was too late.
He had already said more than would have hanged a dozen. Abandoning,
however, the confessional, or it might perhaps be more correctly called
the boasting system, Geordie now took up the pathetic, and resumed,
after a short pause--
"But it's a' owre wi' Geordie Bourne now, lads; he'll hae nae mair
hanlin o' such doings as these. No; I'll see the bonny holms o' Netherby
nae mair, nor the saft moonlight fa'in on the Cheviot Fells.
'And it's hame, hame, hame, my bonny brown steed,
And its riderless hame ye maun gang;
The warden has me fast, and this nicht is my last,
For he swears that the morn I maun hang.'"
"I doubt it is even so, Geordie," said the person, gravely, to whom we
have above alluded, on the former's concluding this very appropriate
ditty, at the same time rising from his seat, and immediately after
bidding the prisoner coldly a good-night, when he quitted the apartment,
followed by his associates, the last of whom carefully secured the door
with bolt and padlock.
On leaving the captive, his three visiters proceeded down the private
staircase, that led to the warden's library, which they entered, when he
who had acted as spokesman during the interview with Geordie Bourne
hastily began to divest himself of the livery in which he was attired--a
process which gradually discovered the richer and more imposing dress of
the lord warden underneath; the person spoken of being no other than Sir
Robert Cary himself, who had adopted the disguise which he had just
thrown off, in order at once to gratify his curiosity with a sight of
the celebrated freebooter who was his prisoner, and to ascertain whether
he could not discover anything in the man which might afford him a
pretext for sparing his life, which, as has been already hinted, he felt
some disposition to do. The result, however, of this benevolent attempt
we leave the warden himself to communicate. Having thrown off his
disguise, he flung himself into a chair, and, leaning his head upon his
hand, thought in silence for a few moments; then looking to Watt, who
was one of the three that had visited the prisoner, and who was now
waiting the warden's commands regarding him--
"That fellow Bourne must hang, Watt," he said; "he must, by Saint Eloy.
There never was such a villain on the face of this earth. I cannot spare
him--I must not; it would be a gross dereliction of my duty to spare the
life of such an atrocious ruffian. Hang, therefore, he must, Watt; and
do you see that execution be done upon him betimes to-morrow morning."
On the following morning, when the gates of Witherington Castle were
thrown open, the lifeless body of Geordie Bourne was seen hanging from a
beam in one of the inner courtyards of the building.
THE FORGER.
In a small town in the south of Scotland, there lived, about seventy
years since, a person of the name of Wotherspoon. He was a merchant, and
reputed wealthy. But Mr Wotherspoon's wealth was not by any means the
sole cause of the respect in which he was held by all who knew him;
although, no doubt, it had the usual effect in this way, even in his
case. He was respected for his integrity in his dealings, and for the
excellence of his moral character generally; while he was esteemed, nay,
beloved, for his singularly mild, kind, and inoffensive disposition.
At the period of our story, Mr Wotherspoon was about thirty-two years of
age; and, as he had been remarkably industrious in, and attentive to,
the business in which he was engaged, and not a little fortunate in some
speculations into which he had entered, he had, even at this
comparatively early stage of life, acquired the reputation already
alluded to--namely, that of being a wealthy man. But it was not in
reputation alone that Mr Wotherspoon was rich. He was actually and truly
so; and he was so, too, without ever having done a mean thing to obtain
his money; more, it is suspected, than can be said of nine-tenths of
those who acquire wealth by their own exertions.
Having arrived at this prosperity, Mr Wotherspoon thought he might now,
with every propriety, take a step which he had long meditated, but which
he had hitherto refrained from taking, at once from a sense of honour
and from motives of prudence. This step was, to marry. The object of Mr
Wotherspoon's affections, however, was not yet to seek: she had long
been found; and it was his desire and anxiety to be previously
possessed of means sufficient to secure to her that degree of happiness
and comfort to which he conceived her entitled, alone, that had
prevented them uniting their destinies many years before. But the period
had now arrived, he thought, when this could be done without imprudence.
The lady of Mr Wotherspoon's choice was a Miss Edington, the daughter of
a neighbouring country gentleman, of respectable family, but of small
fortune. Lucy Edington was a singularly beautiful girl; and in character
and disposition as estimable, as in person she was lovely. But William
Wotherspoon, though the favoured, was not the only lover of Lucy
Edington. Her patience and good temper were severely tried by the
pertinacious addresses of a young man in her own neighbourhood of the
name of Lorimer. This person was the son of a farmer, and had been
brought up to the profession of the law in Edinburgh, where, however, he
had, by wild and extravagant courses, destroyed his own health, and
nearly ruined his father.
For some years previous to this period, he had been leading an idle life
at home--ill health, brought on by his own reckless conduct, having, in
the first instance, compelled him to abandon his profession, and an
unsettled disposition and dissipated habits preventing him from resuming
it, when he could no longer plead the apology of indisposition.
Lorimer, however, was a decidedly clever young man, and his abilities,
had they been seconded by good moral principles, would undoubtedly have,
in time, raised him high in his profession; but the latter were entirely
awanting in his character, as he never suffered any considerations of
propriety, decency, or even common honesty, to interfere with, or
interrupt the indulgence of, his appetites. He had acquired, moreover, a
complete knowledge of, and great dexterity in, the practice of the
chicaneries of law, or rather, perhaps, in the art of violating or
evading it. The baser departments of legal knowledge had been his chief
study. Indeed, for them he had a natural turn, and always felt more in
his element when helping a man to cheat his neighbour, than when
assisting him to recover his rights. In the former case, he was quite at
home--all sharpness and intellect. In the latter, he was no more than a
very ordinary person, evincing none of that tact or talent which carried
him so swimmingly through the other. But Lorimer, though a clever knave,
had none of the redeeming qualities--if such a character can be conceded
them--which are frequently found in persons of his description; we mean,
liveliness and good humour. He was not a facetious scoundrel. On the
contrary, he was quiet, reserved, and morose. He was, in short, what is
called a deep designing villain, and the saturnine and sinister
expression of his countenance at once proclaimed this.
Such, then, was the rival of William Wotherspoon for the love of Lucy
Edington; but he was a rival only by his own constituting, not by any
encouragement which he received from Lucy, who loathed and detested him.
Lorimer, however, though in part aware of this, persevered in his suit;
hoping, in time, to accomplish, by the exercise of his best and
favourite faculty, cunning, what honest dealing could not achieve for
him.
All his ingenuity, however, could not prevent the marriage of William
Wotherspoon and Lucy Edington from taking place. They were united; and
the "happy occasion" was celebrated with much mirth and festivity; but
the spirit of a demon was hovering over the ceremonies, in the shape of
the evil wishes of Lorimer, whose worst passions, where all were bad,
were excited to their utmost tension by an occurrence which at once
extinguished his own hopes for ever, and consummated those of the man
whom, of all others, he most detested--Wotherspoon.
From the hour in which that occurrence took place, Lorimer vowed the
most deadly vengeance against his successful rival, and determined that,
if ever an opportunity should present itself of doing him an injury, he
would avail himself of it, although it were to the extent of his utter
destruction and ruin.
Of doing Wotherspoon personal violence, Lorimer did not dream; not that
he would not willingly have torn him to pieces, if he could, but,
besides being something of a coward, he had a wholesome terror of those
laws, which his knowledge of them, seconded by his own inclinations,
told him it was safer to evade than to brave.
His schemes of vengeance, therefore, took a professional complexion, if,
indeed, vague as they at this time were, they could be said to have
assumed any complexion at all. He hoped, in short, by some means or
other, to get Wotherspoon involved in the meshes of the law. In the
meantime, indeed, there was no prospect whatever of this, or of any
other mode of injuring him, being likely to present itself. But the time
might come, he thought; and in this hope he cherished his wrath, which,
as the sequel will show, was none the worse for keeping.
In the meantime, years passed on, and Wotherspoon continued to prosper
in his business; while his domestic happiness--which had been, since the
day of his marriage, all, nay, more than he had ever, even in his most
sanguine moments, expected--was yearly increasing, with successive
additions to his little family circle. In the lover of his youth, Mr
Wotherspoon found a kind and affectionate companion of his more advanced
years; for Lucy Edington underwent none of those unamiable changes which
so frequently attend a change of condition with those of her sex, and
which so often mar the happiness of the married life, by occasioning
disappointment and regret. If somewhat less volatile than when a maiden,
such deficiency was more than compensated for by the matronly grace
with which some years of the married state had invested her. But, in
manner and disposition, Lucy Edington remained unchanged.
The time which flew thus happily and prosperously over the married pair,
and saw them conduct themselves in all circumstances, and on all
occasions, with a propriety that merited this good fortune, witnessed
very different conduct and very different results on the part of
Lorimer. That worthless person still remained an idler about his
father's house, breaking the old man's heart with his wild and dissolute
practices; for in these he continued to indulge whenever he could
command the means; and, as to the mode of obtaining these means, he was
not at all scrupulous, as his father rather frequently found to his
cost. Young Lorimer would now, in short, do almost anything for money,
for which he was often greatly at a loss, to enable him to pursue his
desperate and reckless courses; and, acting on this principle, he had
opened a source of occasional emolument, by practising, in a small and
irregular way, the profession to which he had been bred. He became a low
pettifogger, and quickly grew notorious throughout the country as legal
adviser in all cases of roguery.
Leaving Lorimer thus creditably employed, we return to follow, for a
time, the fortunes of Mr Wotherspoon. It has been said that, during
several years succeeding his marriage, Mr Wotherspoon continued to
prosper, and to deserve his prosperity--and it was so. But what measure
of prudence or foresight can secure a continuance of any worldly
blessing, or prevent those changes and vicissitudes, whether for better
or for worse, which it is the lot of man to experience? In an evil hour
Mr Wotherspoon became a partner, to the extent of nearly his whole
means, in that ruinous bubble known by the name of the Ayr Bank, which
involved many families in misery and poverty. The speculation was an
exceedingly plausible one; and the destruction occasioned by its
failure was proportioned to the confidence it had inspired. We need
scarcely, we presume, employ plainer terms to intimate to the reader
that the Ayr Bank broke down, and that Mr Wotherspoon was one of the
many hundreds that were ruined by its insolvency.
Although thus suddenly and cruelly bereft of the fruits of many an
anxious and toilsome year, and thus hurled at once from independence to
comparative poverty, Mr Wotherspoon did not lose heart, but determined
on making another effort to repair the ruined fabric of his fortunes.
Having readily procured a settlement with his creditors--one and all of
whom entertained the highest opinion of his integrity, and pitied his
misfortunes--he again commenced business, but in this he experienced all
the difficulties incident to his equivocal position. Credit was
reluctantly given, and demands were peremptorily enforced. Still Mr
Wotherspoon persevered; and, though greatly straitened occasionally for
means, continued not only to keep his feet, but began gradually to
improve his circumstances. He was yet, however, in difficulties; and
this was pretty generally known amongst those who knew anything at all
about him.
It happened, about this period, that Mr Wotherspoon was one day invited
to dine at the head inn of the town in which he resided, with a
commercial traveller, with whom he was in the habit of dealing, and to
whom he had at this time a considerable sum of money to pay. After
dinner, when settling accounts with the traveller, Mr Wotherspoon, who
was a little elevated with the wine he had drank, remarked, as he handed
over the money to the former, that, if he had just one other bill for
L50, then running, paid, he would, notwithstanding all that had happened
him, be clear with the world. "But," he added, jocularly, "I'll find
ways and means to pay that too, although I should take the highway for
it, and cry, 'Stand and deliver,' or clap somebody's name to a piece of
stamped paper." Mr Wotherspoon's friend laughed at the absurdity of
these imprudent expressions, coming, as they did, from one who was so
unlikely to have recourse to the expedients alluded to; and the matter
went off as a very passable joke.
In about a month after this, as Mrs Wotherspoon was one day standing at
the door of her husband's shop, with one of her children in her arms,
her curiosity was excited by seeing a post-chaise driven up with unusual
speed to the door of the principal inn, which was directly opposite the
shop; and she called to her husband, who was inside, to look at the
carriage--at the same time expressing a wonder who they could be that
were travelling in such haste. But, if Mrs Wotherspoon's curiosity and
surprise were excited by this simple circumstance, how much more was the
former increased when she saw the two persons who stepped out of the
chaise look, for a few seconds, in the direction of the shop, say two or
three words to each other, and then cross the street towards it!
"They're coming here, William," she said, in amazement, and addressing
her husband. "Who, on all the earth, can they be? and what can they be
wanting?"
"Indeed, Lucy," replied Mr Wotherspoon, no less surprised than his wife
at the impending visitation, "that's more than I can conjecture; but
we'll soon see."
By this time the strangers were upon them.
"Is your name William Wotherspoon?" abruptly and sternly inquired one of
the strangers.
"It is, sir," replied the former.
"Humph!" ejaculated the querist, and began searching his pocket, from
which he drew a slip of paper. Then again addressing Wotherspoon--
"Mr Wotherspoon, you are our prisoner. We apprehend you in the king's
name, and you must immediately accompany us to Edinburgh."
"Your prisoner, gentlemen!" said Mr Wotherspoon, becoming as pale as
death, and trembling violently as he spoke, "What for? What crime have I
committed? What do you charge me with?"
"Ah! you don't know, I suppose, and can't guess," said one of the
messengers, sneeringly; for such, indeed, was the character of the
strangers.
"No, indeed, gentlemen, I cannot," said Mr Wotherspoon, in a state of
great agitation.
"Very like a mouse-trap, but not so small," exclaimed the messenger.
"However, I always like to be civil, and I shall tell you--though I'm
confoundedly mistaken, if you don't know it pretty well already. You are
apprehended, Mr Wotherspoon," he continued (and now eyeing his
prisoner--for in such, a melancholy situation the unfortunate man now
stood--with a scrutinising glance), "on a charge of forgery; so, if you
please, we'll bundle and go."
In following out this extraordinary conversation, we have necessarily
lost sight for a moment of Mrs Wotherspoon. But we do not now call the
reader's notice to her with any intention of describing the effects
which the appalling occurrence just recorded had at first upon her. This
we think it better to leave to the reader's imagination. But her
subsequent conduct is more within the power of description.
The unfortunate woman, having hastily laid down the smiling, unconscious
innocent that was in her arms when the messengers entered the shop,
flung herself upon her husband's neck, and frantically exclaimed that no
one should tear her William from her.
"My William guilty of forgery!" she wildly exclaimed. "No, no
gentlemen--it's false, it's false. He has always been an honest man, and
is well known to be so. He would sooner die than commit such a crime,
and I will get all our neighbours to prove this." Then throwing herself
on her knees at the messengers' feet, she implored them, by every
consideration of humanity and justice, not to take her William away.
"He is innocent, gentlemen," she exclaimed; "before God, he is innocent
of the crime you charge him with. Oh! do not take him from me,
gentlemen. Look at that babe there, and pity me, and pity us all. Do not
believe what has been told you about his having committed a forgery. My
William never did, and never could do, such a wicked thing."
"May be so, mistress," said one of the messengers, little affected by
these womanish appeals to a clemency which he had no power to show; "but
we must do our duty. Here's the warrant," he said, exhibiting a piece of
paper which he held in his hand, "for your husband's apprehension, and
we must see to its execution."
Having said this, he turned away from her to his associate and
Wotherspoon, whom the former had already secured by handcuffs; and in a
few seconds the unfortunate man found himself seated in the post-chaise,
to which fresh horses had been put, with a messenger on each side of
him. A few seconds more, and the carriage was on its way to Edinburgh--a
circumstance which was a relief to the unhappy man; for, until the
chaise started, he was not out of hearing the shrieks of his miserable
wife, who had ultimately been forcibly torn from him.
On arriving at Edinburgh, Mr Wotherspoon was immediately carried to
jail, to abide his trial for the forgery with which he was charged.
This forgery consisted in the felonious adhibition of the name of one
James Laidlaw, a wealthy farmer in Liddesdale, to a bill for L50. This
bill purported to be drawn by Wotherspoon on Laidlaw, and was indorsed
by the former to James Lorimer, who again indorsed it, and discounted it
in one of the banks in Edinburgh.