The last cloud of dust which the wheels of the carriage had raised was
dissipated, when dinner, which claims a share of human thoughts even in
the midst of the most marvellous and affecting incidents, recurred to
those of Mrs. Gray.
“Indeed, Doctor, you will stand glowering out of the window till some
other patient calls for you, and then have to set off without your
dinner;--and I hope Mr. Lawford will take pot-luck with us, for it
is just his own hour; and indeed we had something rather better than
ordinary for this poor lady--lamb and spinage, and a veal Florentine.”
The surgeon started as from a dream, and joined in his wife's hospitable
request, to which Lawford willingly assented.
We will suppose the meal finished, a bottle of old and generous Antigua
upon the table, and a modest little punch-bowl, judiciously replenished
for the accommodation of the Doctor and his guest. Their conversation
naturally turned on the strange scene which they had witnessed, and the
Townclerk took considerable merit for his presence of mind.
“I am thinking, Doctor,” said he, “you might have brewed a bitter browst
to yourself if I had not come in as I did.”
“Troth, and it might very well so be,” answered Gray; “for, to tell you
the truth, when I saw yonder fellow vapouring with his pistols among the
woman-folk in my own house, the old Cameronian spirit began to rise in
me, and little thing would have made me cleek to the poker.”
“Hoot, hoot! that would never have done. Na, na,” said the man of law,
“this was a case where a little prudence was worth all the pistols and
pokers in the world.”
“And that was just what I thought when I sent to you, Clerk Lawford,”
said the Doctor.
“A wiser man he could not have called on to a difficult case,” added
Mrs. Gray, as she sat with her work at a little distance from the table.
“Thanks t'ye, and here's t'ye, my good neighbour,” answered the scribe;
“will you not let me help you to another glass of punch, Mrs. Gray?”
This being declined, he proceeded. “I am jalousing that the messenger
and his warrant were just brought in to prevent any opposition. Ye saw
how quietly he behaved after I had laid down the law--I'll never believe
the lady is in any risk from him. But the father is a dour chield;
depend upon it, he has bred up the young filly on the curb-rein, and
that has made the poor thing start off the course. I should not be
surprised that he took her abroad, and shut her up in a convent.”
“Hardly,” replied Doctor Gray, “if it be true, as I suspect, that both
the father and daughter are of the Jewish persuasion.”
“A Jew!” said Mrs. Gray; “and have I been taking a' this fyke about a
Jew?--I thought she seemed to gie a scunner at the eggs and bacon that
Nurse Simson spoke about to her. But I thought Jews had aye had lang
beards, and yon man's face is just like one of our ain folk's--I have
seen the Doctor with a langer beard himsell, when he has not had leisure
to shave.”
“That might have been Mr. Moncada's case,” said Lawford, “for he seemed
to have had a hard journey. But the Jews are often very respectable
people, Mrs. Gray--they have no territorial property, because the law
is against them there, but they have a good hank in the money
market--plenty of stock in the funds, Mrs. Gray, and, indeed, I think
this poor young woman is better with her ain father, though he be a Jew
and a dour chield into the bargain, than she would have been with the
loon that wranged her, who is, by your account, Dr. Gray, baith a papist
and a rebel. The Jews are well attached to government; they hate the
Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender, as much as any honest man among
ourselves.”
“I cannot admire either of the gentlemen,” said Gideon. “But it is but
fair to say, that I saw Mr. Moncada when he was highly incensed, and to
all appearance not without reason. Now, this other man Tresham, if that
be his name, was haughty to me, and I think something careless of the
poor young woman, just at the time when he owed her most kindness, and
me some thankfulness. I am, therefore, of your opinion, Clerk Lawford,
that the Christian is the worse bargain of the two.”
“And you think of taking care of this wean yourself, Doctor? That is
what I call the good Samaritan.”
“At cheap cost. Clerk; the child, if it lives, has enough to bring it up
decently, and set it out in life, and I can teach it an honourable and
useful profession. It will be rather an amusement than a trouble to me,
and I want to make some remarks on the childish diseases, which, with
God's blessing, the child must come through under my charge; and since
Heaven has sent us no children”----
“Hoot, hoot!” said the Town-Clerk, “you are in ower great hurry now--you
have na been sae lang married yet.--Mrs. Gray, dinna let my daffing
chase you away--we will be for a dish of tea believe, for the Doctor and
I are nae glass-breakers.”
Four years after this conversation took place, the event happened,
at the possibility of which the Town-Clerk had hinted; and Mrs. Gray
presented her husband with an infant daughter. But good and evil are
strangely mingled in this sublunary world. The fulfilment of his anxious
longing for posterity was attended with the loss of his simple and
kind-hearted wife; one of the most heavy blows which fate could inflict
on poor Gideon, and, his house was made desolate even by the event which
had promised for months before to add new comforts to its humble roof.
Gray felt the shock as men of sense and firmness feel a decided
blow, from the effects of which they never hope again fully to raise
themselves. He discharged the duties of his profession with the same
punctuality as ever, was easy, and even to appearance, cheerful in his
intercourse with society; but the sunshine of existence was gone. Every
morning he missed the affectionate charges which recommended to him to
pay attention to his own health while he was labouring to restore that
blessing to his patients. Every evening, as he returned from his weary
round, it was without the consciousness of a kind and affectionate
reception from one eager to tell, and interested to hear, all the little
events of the day. His whistle, which used to arise clear and strong so
soon as Middlemas steeple was in view, was now for ever silenced, and
the rider's head drooped, while the tired horse, lacking the stimulus
of his master's hand and voice, seemed to shuffle along as if it
experienced a share of his despondency. There were times when he was so
much dejected as to be unable to endure even the presence of his little
Menie, in whose infant countenance he could trace the lineaments of the
mother, of whose loss she had been the innocent and unconscious cause.
“Had it not been for this poor child”--he would think; but, instantly
aware that the sentiment was sinful, he would snatch the infant to his
breast, and load it with caresses--then hastily desire it to be removed
from the parlour.
The Mahometans have a fanciful idea, that the true believer, in his
passage to Paradise, is under the necessity of passing barefooted over a
bridge composed of red-hot iron. But on this occasion, all the pieces
of paper which the Moslem has preserved during his life, lest some holy
thing being written upon them might be profaned, arrange themselves
between his feet and the burning metal, and so save him from injury.
In the same manner, the effects of kind and benevolent actions are
sometimes found, even in this world, to assuage the pangs of subsequent
afflictions.
Thus, the greatest consolation which poor Gideon could find after his
heavy deprivation, was in the frolic fondness of Richard Middlemas, the
child who was in so singular a manner thrown upon his charge. Even at
this early age he was eminently handsome. When silent or out of humour,
his dark eyes and striking countenance presented some recollections of
the stern character imprinted on the features of his supposed father;
but when he was gay and happy, which was much more frequently the
case, these clouds were exchanged for the most frolicsome, mirthful
expression, that ever dwelt on the laughing and thoughtless aspect of
a child. He seemed to have a tact beyond his years in discovering and
conforming to the peculiarities of human character. His nurse, one prime
object of Richard's observance, was Nurse Jamieson, or, as she was more
commonly called for brevity, and _par excellence_, Nurse. This was the
person who had brought him up from infancy. She had lost her own child,
and soon after her husband, and being thus a lone woman, had, as used to
be common in Scotland, remained a member of Dr. Gray's family. After the
death of his wife, she gradually obtained the principal superintendence
of the whole household; and being an honest and capable manager, was a
person of very great importance in the family.
She was bold in her temper, violent in her feelings, and, as often
happens with those in her condition, was as much attached to Richard
Middlemas, whom she had once nursed at her bosom, as if he had been her
own son. This affection the child repaid by all the tender attentions of
which his age was capable.
Little Dick was also distinguished by the fondest and kindest attachment
to his guardian and benefactor Dr. Gray. He was officious in the right
time and place, quiet as a lamb when his patron seemed inclined to study
or to muse, active and assiduous to assist or divert him whenever it
seemed to be wished, and, in choosing his opportunities, he seemed to
display an address far beyond his childish years.
As time passed on, this pleasing character seemed to be still more
refined. In everything like exercise or amusement, he was the pride and
the leader of the boys of the place, over the most of whom his strength
and activity gave him a decided superiority. At school his abilities
were less distinguished, yet he was a favourite with the master, a
sensible and useful teacher.
“Richard is not swift,” he used to say to his patron, Dr. Gray, “but
then he is sure; and it is impossible not to be pleased with a child who
is so very desirous to give satisfaction.”
Young Middlemas's grateful affection to his patron seemed to increase
with the expanding of his faculties, and found a natural and pleasing
mode of displaying itself in his attentions to little Menie [Footnote:
Marion.] Gray. Her slightest hint was Richard's law, and it was in vain
that he was summoned forth by a hundred shrill voices to take the lead
in hye-spye, or at foot-ball, if it was little Menie's pleasure that he
should remain within, and build card-houses for her amusement. At other
times he would take the charge of the little damsel entirely under
his own care, and be seen wandering with her on the borough common,
collecting wild flowers, or knitting caps made of bulrushes. Menie
was attached to Dick Middlemas, in proportion to his affectionate
assiduities; and the father saw with pleasure every new mark of
attention to his child on the part of his protege.
During the time that Richard was silently advancing from a beautiful
child into a fine boy, and approaching from a fine boy to the time when
he must be termed a handsome youth, Mr. Gray wrote twice a-year with
much regularity to Mr. Moncada, through the channel that gentleman had
pointed out. The benevolent man thought, that if the wealthy grandfather
could only see his relative, of whom any family might be proud, he would
be unable to persevere in his resolution of treating as an outcast one
so nearly connected with him in blood, and so interesting in person and
disposition. He thought it his duty, therefore, to keep open the slender
and oblique communication with the boy's maternal grandfather, as that
which might, at some future period, lead to a closer connexion. Yet the
correspondence could not, in other respects, be agreeable to a man of
spirit like Mr. Gray. His own letters were as short as possible, merely
rendering an account of his ward's expenses, including a moderate board
to himself, attested by Mr. Lawford, his co-trustee; and intimating
Richard's state of health, and his progress in education, with a few
words of brief but warm eulogy upon his goodness of head and heart.
But the answers he received were still shorter. “Mr. Moncada,” such
was their usual tenor, “acknowledges Mr. Gray's letter of such a date,
notices the contents, and requests Mr. Gray to persist in the plan which
he has hitherto prosecuted on the subject of their correspondence.” On
occasions where extraordinary expenses seemed likely to be incurred, the
remittances were made with readiness.
That day fortnight after Mrs. Gray's death, fifty pounds were received,
with a note, intimating that it was designed to put the child R. M. into
proper mourning. The writer had added two or three words, desiring that
the surplus should be at Mr. Gray's disposal, to meet the additional
expenses of this period of calamity; but Mr. Moncada had left the phrase
unfinished, apparently in despair of turning it suitably into English.
Gideon, without farther investigation, quietly added the sum to the
account of his ward's little fortune, contrary to the opinion of Mr.
Lawford,--who, aware that he was rather a loser than a gainer by the
boy's residence in his house, was desirous that his friend should not
omit an opportunity of recovering some part of his expenses on that
score. But Gray was proof against all remonstrances.
As the boy advanced towards his fourteenth year, Dr. Gray wrote a more
elaborate account of his ward's character, acquirements, and capacity.
He added that he did this for the purpose of enabling Mr. Moncada to
judge how the young man's future education should be directed. Richard,
he observed, was arrived at the point where education, losing its
original and general character, branches off into different paths of
knowledge, suitable to particular professions, and when it was therefore
become necessary to determine which of them it was his pleasure that
young Richard should be trained for; and he would, on his part, do all
he could to carry Mr. Moncada's wishes into execution, since the amiable
qualities of the boy made him as dear to him, though but a guardian, as
he could have been to his own father.
The answer, which arrived in the course of a week or ten days, was
fuller than usual, and written in the first person.--“Mr. Gray,” such
was the tenor, “our meeting has been under such circumstances as could
not make us favourably known to each other at the time. But I have
the advantage of you, since, knowing your motives for entertaining an
indifferent opinion of me, I could respect them, and you at the same
time; whereas you, unable to comprehend the motives--I say, you, being
unacquainted with the infamous treatment I had received, could not
understand the reasons that I have for acting as I have done. Deprived,
sir, by the act of a villain, of my child, and she despoiled of honour,
I cannot bring myself to think of beholding the creature, however
innocent, whose look must always remind me of hatred and of shame. Keep
the poor child by you--educate him to your own profession, but take heed
that he looks no higher than to fill such a situation in life as you
yourself worthily occupy, or some other line of like importance. For the
condition of a farmer, a country lawyer, a medical practitioner, or some
such retired course of life, the means of outfit and education shall be
amply supplied. But I must warn him and you, that any attempt to intrude
himself on me further than I may especially permit, will be attended
with the total forfeiture of my favour and protection. So, having made
known my mind to you, I expect you will act accordingly.”
The receipt of this letter determined Gideon to have some explanation
with the boy himself, in order to learn if he had any choice among the
professions thus opened to him; convinced at the same time, from his
docility of temper, that he would refer the selection to his (Dr.
Gray's) better judgment.
He had previously, however, the unpleasing task of acquainting Richard
Middlemas with the mysterious circumstances attending his birth, of
which he presumed him to be entirely ignorant, simply because he himself
had never communicated them, but had let the boy consider himself as the
orphan child of a distant relation. But though the Doctor himself was
silent, he might have remembered that Nurse Jamieson had the handsome
enjoyment of her tongue, and was disposed to use it liberally.
From a very early period, Nurse Jamieson, amongst the variety of
legendary lore which she instilled into her foster-son, had not
forgotten what she called the awful season of his coming into the
world--the personable appearance of his father, a grand gentleman, who
looked as if the whole world lay at his feet--the beauty of his mother,
and the terrible blackness of the mask which she wore, her een that
glanced like diamonds, and the diamonds she wore on her fingers, that
could be compared to nothing but her own een, the fairness of her skin,
and the colour of her silk rokelay, with much proper stuff to the same
purpose. Then she expatiated on the arrival of his grandfather, and
the awful man, armed with pistol, dirk, and claymore, (the last
weapons existed only in Nurse's imagination,) the very Ogre of a fairy
tale--then all the circumstances of the carrying off his mother, while
bank-notes were flying about the house like screeds of brown paper,
and gold guineas were as plenty as chuckie-stanes. All this, partly
to please and interest the boy, partly to indulge her own talent for
amplification, Nurse told with so many additional circumstances, and
gratuitous commentaries, that the real transaction, mysterious and odd
as it certainly was sunk into tameness before the Nurse's edition, like
humble prose contrasted with the boldest nights of poetry.
To hear all this did Richard seriously incline, and still more was
he interested with the idea of his valiant father coming for him
unexpectedly at the head of a gallant regiment, with music playing and
colours flying, and carrying his son away on the most beautiful pony
eyes ever beheld; Or his mother, bright as the day, might suddenly
appear in her coach-and-six, to reclaim her beloved child; or his
repentant grandfather, with his pockets stuffed out with banknotes,
would come to atone for his past cruelty, by heaping his neglected
grandchild with unexpected wealth. Sure was Nurse Jamieson, “that it
wanted but a blink of her bairn's bonny ee to turn their hearts, as
Scripture sayeth; and as strange things had been, as they should come
a'thegither to the town at the same time, and make such a day as had
never been seen in Middlemas; and then her bairn would never be called
by that Lowland name of Middlemas any more, which sounded as if it
had been gathered out of the town gutter; but would be called Galatian
[Footnote: Galatian is a name of a person famous in Christmas gambols.],
or Sir William Wallace, or Robin Hood, or after some other of the great
princes named in story-books.”
Nurse Jamieson's history of the past, and prospects of the future, were
too flattering not to excite the most ambitious visions in the mind of a
boy, who naturally felt a strong desire of rising in the world, and was
conscious of possessing the powers necessary to his advancement. The
incidents of his birth resembled those he found commemorated in the
tales which he read or listened to; and there seemed no reason why his
own adventures should not have a termination corresponding to those of
such veracious histories. In a word, while good Doctor Gray imagined
that his pupil was dwelling in utter ignorance of his origin, Richard
was meditating upon nothing else than the time and means by which he
anticipated his being extricated from the obscurity of his present
condition, and enabled to assume the rank, to which, in his own opinion,
he was entitled by birth.
So stood the feelings of the young man, when, one day after dinner, the
Doctor snuffing the candle, and taking from his pouch the great leathern
pocketbook in which he deposited particular papers, with a small
supply of the most necessary and active medicines, he took from it Mr.
Moncada's letter, and requested Richard Middlemas's serious attention,
while he told him some circumstances concerning himself, which it
greatly imported him to know. Richard's dark eyes flashed fire--the
blood flushed his broad and well-formed forehead--the hour of
explanation was at length come. He listened to the narrative of Gideon
Gray, which, the reader may believe, being altogether divested of the
gilding which Nurse Jamieson's imagination had bestowed upon it, and
reduced to what mercantile men termed the _needful_, exhibited little
more than the tale of a child of shame, deserted by its father and
mother, and brought up on the reluctant charity of a more distant
relation, who regarded him as the living though unconscious evidence of
the disgrace of his family, and would more willingly have paid for the
expenses of his funeral, than that of the food which was grudgingly
provided for him. “Temple and tower,” a hundred flattering edifices of
Richard's childish imagination, went to the ground at once, and the pain
which attended their demolition was rendered the more acute, by a sense
of shame that he should have nursed such reveries. He remained while
Gideon continued his explanation, in a dejected posture, his eyes fixed
on the ground, and the veins of his forehead swoln with contending
passions.
“And now, my dear Richard,” said the good surgeon, “you must think what
you can do for yourself, since your grandfather leaves you the choice
of three honourable professions, by any of which, well and wisely
prosecuted, you may become independent if not wealthy, and
respectable if not great. You will naturally desire a little time for
consideration.”
“Not a minute,” said the boy, raising his head, and looking boldly at
his guardian. “I am a free-born Englishman, and will return to England
if I think fit.”
“A free-born fool you are,”--said Gray; “you were born, as I think, and
no one can know better than I do, in the blue room of Stevenlaw's
Land, in the Town-head of Middlemas, if you call that being a free-born
Englishman.”
“But Tom Hillary,”--this was an apprentice of Clerk Lawford, who had of
late been a great friend and adviser of young Middlemas--“Tom Hillary
says that I am a free-born Englishman, notwithstanding, in right of my
parents.”
“Pooh, child! what do we know of your parents?--But what has your being
an Englishman to do with the present question?”
“Oh, Doctor!” answered the boy bitterly, “you know we from the south
side of Tweed cannot scramble so hard as you do. The Scots are too
moral, and too prudent, and too robust, for a poor pudding-eater to live
amongst them, whether as a parson, or as a lawyer, or as a doctor--with
your pardon, sir.”
“Upon my life, Dick,” said Gray, “this Tom Hillary will turn your brain.
What is the meaning of all this trash?”
“Tom Hillary says that the parson lives by the sins of the people, the
lawyer by their distresses, and the doctor by their diseases--always
asking your pardon, sir.”
“Tom Hillary,” replied the Doctor, “should be drummed out of the
borough. A whipper-snapper of an attorney's apprentice, run away from
Newcastle! If I hear him talking so, I'll teach him to speak with more
reverence of the learned professions. Let me hear no more of Tom Hillary
whom you have seen far too much of lately. Think a little, like a lad of
sense, and tell me what answer I am to give to Mr. Moncada.”
“Tell him,” said the boy, the tone of affected sarcasm laid aside, and
that of injured pride substituted in its room, “Tell him that my soul
revolts at the obscure lot he recommends to me. I am determined to
enter my father's profession, the army, unless my grandfather chooses to
receive me into his house, and place me in his own line of business.”
“Yes, and make you his partner, I suppose, and acknowledge you for his
heir?” said Dr. Gray; “a thing extremely likely to happen, no doubt,
considering the way in which he has brought you up all along, and the
terms in which he now writes concerning you.”
“Then, sir, there is one thing which I can demand of you,” replied the
boy. “There is a large sum of money in your hands belonging to me; and
since it is consigned to you for my use, I demand you should make the
necessary advances to procure a commission in the army--account to me
for the balance--and so, with thanks for past favours, I will give you
no trouble in future.”
“Young man,” said the Doctor, gravely, “I am very sorry to see that your
usual prudence and good humour are not proof against the disappointment
of some idle expectations which you had not the slightest reason to
entertain. It is very true that there is a sum, which, in spite of
various expenses, may still approach to a thousand pounds or better,
which remains in my hands for your behoof. But I am bound to dispose
of it according to the will of the donor; and at any rate, you are not
entitled to call for it until you come to years of discretion; a period
from which you are six years distant, according to law, and which, in
one sense, you will never reach at all, unless you alter your present
unreasonable crotchets. But come, Dick, this is the first time I have
seen you in so absurd a humour, and you have many things, I own, in
your situation to apologize for impatience even greater than you have
displayed. But you should not turn your resentment on me, that am no way
in fault. You should remember that I was your earliest and only friend,
and took charge of you when every other person forsook you.”
“I do not thank you for it,” said Richard, giving way to a burst
of uncontrolled passion. “You might have done better for me had you
pleased.”
“And in what manner, you ungrateful boy?” said Gray, whose composure was
a little ruffled.
“You might have flung me under the wheels of their carriages as they
drove off, and have let them trample on the body of their child, as they
have done on his feelings.”
So saying, he rushed out of the room, and shut the door behind him
with great violence, leaving his guardian astonished at his sudden and
violent change of temper and manner.
“What the deuce can have possessed him? Ah, well. High-spirited, and
disappointed in some follies which that Tom Hillary has put into his
head. But his is a case for anodynes, and shall be treated accordingly.”
While the Doctor formed this good-natured resolution, young Middlemas
rushed to Nurse Jamieson's apartment, where poor Menie, to whom his
presence always gave holyday feelings, hastened to exhibit, for his
admiration, a new doll, of which she had made the acquisition. No one,
generally, was more interested in Menie's amusements than Richard; but
at present, Richard, like his celebrated namesake, was not i'the vein.
He threw off the little damsel so carelessly, almost so rudely, that the
doll flew out of Menie's hand, fell on the hearth-stone, and broke
its waxen face. The rudeness drew from Nurse Jamieson a rebuke, even
although the culprit was her darling.
“Hout awa', Richard--that wasna like yoursell, to guide Miss Menie
that gate.--Haud your tongue, Miss Menie, and I'll soon mend the baby's
face.”
But if Menie cried, she did not cry for the doll; and while the tears
flowed silently down her cheeks, she sat looking at Dick Middlemas with
a childish face of fear, sorrow, and wonder. Nurse Jamieson was soon
diverted from her attention to Menie Gray's distresses, especially as
she did not weep aloud, and her attention became fixed on the altered
countenance, red eyes, and swoln features of her darling foster-child.
She instantly commenced an investigation into the cause of his distress,
after the usual inquisitorial manner of matrons of her class. “What
is the matter wi' my bairn?” and “Wha has been vexing my bairn?” with
similar questions, at last extorted this reply:
“I am not your bairn--I am no one's bairn--no one's son. I am an outcast
from my family, and belong to no one. Dr. Gray has told me so himself.”
“And did he cast up to my bairn that he was a bastard?--troth he was na
blate--my certie, your father was a better man than ever stood on the
Doctor's shanks--a handsome grand gentleman, with an ee like a gled's,
and a step like a Highland piper.”
Nurse Jamieson had got on a favourite topic, and would have expatiated
long enough, for she was a professed admirer of masculine beauty, but
there was something which displeased the boy in her last simile; so he
cut the conversation short, by asking whether she knew exactly how much
money his grandfather had left with Dr. Gray for his maintenance. “She
could not say--didna ken--an awfu' sum it was to pass out of ae man's
hand--She was sure it wasna less than ae hundred pounds, and it might
weel be twa.” In short, she knew nothing about the matter; “but she was
sure Dr. Gray would count to him to the last farthing; for everybody
kend that he was a just man where siller was concerned. However, if her
bairn wanted to ken mair about it, to be sure the Town-clerk could tell
him all about it.”
Richard Middlemas arose and left the apartment, without saying more.
He went immediately to visit the old Town-clerk, to whom he had made
himself acceptable, as, indeed, he had done to most of the dignitaries
about the burgh. He introduced the conversation by the proposal which
had been made to him for choosing a profession, and, after speaking of
the mysterious circumstances of his birth, and the doubtful prospects
which lay before him, he easily led the Town-clerk into conversation as
to the amount of the funds, and heard the exact state of the money in
his guardian's hands, which corresponded with the information he had
already received. He next sounded the worthy scribe on the possibility
of his going into the army; but received a second confirmation of the
intelligence Mr. Gray had given him; being informed that no part of the
money could be placed at his disposal till he was of age; and then not
without the especial consent of both his guardians, and particularly
that of his master. He therefore took leave of the Town-clerk, who,
much approving the cautious manner in which he spoke, and his prudent
selection of an adviser at this important crisis of his life, intimated
to him, that should he choose the law, he would himself receive him into
his office, upon a very moderate apprentice-fee, and would part with Tom
Hillary to make room for him, as the lad was “rather pragmatical, and
plagued him with speaking about his English practice, which they had
nothing to do with on this side of the Border--the Lord be thanked!”
Middlemas thanked him for his kindness, and promised to consider his
kind offer, in case he should determine upon following the profession of
the law.
From Tom Hillary's master, Richard went to Tom Hillary himself, who
chanced then to be in the office. He was a lad about twenty, as smart
as small, but distinguished for the accuracy with which he dressed his
hair, and the splendour of a laced hat and embroidered waistcoat, with
which he graced the church of Middlemas on Sundays. Tom Hillary had been
bred an attorney's clerk in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, but, for some reason or
other, had found it more convenient of late years to reside in Scotland,
and was recommended to the Town-clerk of Middlemas, by the accuracy and
beauty with which he transcribed the records of the burgh. It is not
improbable that the reports concerning the singular circumstances
of Richard Middlemas's birth, and the knowledge that he was actually
possessed of a considerable sum of money, induced Hillary, though
so much his senior, to admit the lad to his company, and enrich his
youthful mind with some branches of information, which in that retired
corner, his pupil might otherwise have been some time in attaining.
Amongst these were certain games at cards and dice, in which the pupil
paid, as was reasonable, the price of initiation by his losses to his
instructor. After a long walk with this youngster, whose advice, like
the unwise son of the wisest of men, he probably valued more than that
of his more aged counsellors, Richard Middlemas returned to his lodgings
in Stevenlaw's Land, and went to bed sad and supperless.
The next morning Richard arose with the sun, and his night's rest
appeared to have had its frequent effect, in cooling the passions and
correcting the understanding. Little Menie was the first person to whom
he made the _amende honorable;_ and a much smaller propitiation than
the new doll with which he presented her would have been accepted as
an atonement for a much greater offence. Menie was one of those pure
spirits, to whom a state of unkindness, if the estranged person has been
a friend, is a state of pain, and the slightest advance of her friend
and protector was sufficient to regain all her childish confidence and
affection.
The father did not prove more inexorable than Menie had done. Mr. Gray,
indeed, thought he had good reason to look cold upon Richard at their
next meeting, being not a little hurt at the ungrateful treatment which
he had received on the preceding evening. But Middlemas disarmed him at
once, by frankly pleading that he had suffered his mind to be carried
away by the supposed rank and importance of his parents, into an
idle conviction that he was one day to share them. The letter of his
grandfather, which condemned him to banishment and obscurity for life,
was, he acknowledged, a very severe blow; and it was with deep sorrow
that he reflected, that the irritation of his disappointment had led him
to express himself in a manner far short of the respect and reverence
of one who owed Mr. Gray the duty and affection of a son, and ought to
refer to his decision every action of his life. Gideon, propitiated
by an admission so candid, and made with so much humility, readily
dismissed his resentment, and kindly enquired of Richard, whether he
had bestowed any reflection upon the choice of profession which had
been subjected to him; offering, at the same time, to allow him all
reasonable time to make up his mind.
On this subject. Richard Middlemas answered with the same promptitude
and candour.--“He had,” he said, “in order to forming his opinion more
safely, consulted with his friend, the Town-clerk.” The Doctor nodded
approbation. “Mr. Lawford had, indeed, been most friendly, and had
even offered to take him into his own office. But if his father and
benefactor would permit him to study, under his instructions, the noble
art in which he himself enjoyed such a deserved reputation, the mere
hope that he might by-and-by be of some use to Mr. Gray in his business,
would greatly overbalance every other consideration. Such a course of
education, and such a use of professional knowledge when he had acquired
it, would be a greater spur to his industry than the prospect even of
becoming Town-clerk of Middlemas in his proper person.”
As the young man expressed it to be his firm and unalterable choice, to
study medicine under his guardian, and to remain a member of his family,
Dr. Gray informed Mr. Moncada of the lad's determination; who, to
testify his approbation, remitted to the Doctor the sum of L100 as
apprentice fee, a sum nearly three times as much as Gray's modesty had
hinted at as necessary.
Shortly after, when Dr. Gray and the Town-clerk met at the small club
of the burgh, their joint theme was the sense and steadiness of Richard
Middlemas.
“Indeed,” said the Town-clerk, “he is such a friendly and disinterested
boy, that I could not get him to accept a place in my office, for fear
he should be thought to be pushing himself forward at the expense of Tam
Hillary.”
“And, indeed, Clerk,” said Gray, “I have sometimes been afraid that he
kept too much company with that Tam Hillary of yours; but twenty Tam
Hillarys would not corrupt Dick Middlemas.”