Chapter VII: Part 7

The vessel reached the island in about six weeks, and Tom presented his credentials to Mr Tresham, from whom he met a favourable reception. He had an apartment assigned to him in the house, and was treated as one of the family. To the duties of the counting-house, irksome in the outset, he soon became reconciled. His anxiety to please was not overlooked by his master, who, finding him able and apt, gradually raised both his rank and his salary. Before five years had elapsed, he was head clerk in the establishment. Favourites are not much liked; but Tom bore his honours so meekly, and was so obliging, without being obsequious, that his rise neither excited envy nor surprise--indeed, it was looked upon as a matter of course; and the astonishment would have been, not that he had risen, but that he had not risen in the establishment.

When he first arrived, he was pestered with questions as to birth, parentage, and education. These ordinary, but impertinent queries, he parried with equal good humour and tact. All that could be extracted from him was, that he was protected by Mr Mortlake, and that that was his own name. Mr Tresham, however, put no questions. Sir Edward Vavasour was rarely mentioned. Little was known of him, excepting that several thousands a-year were annually remitted to England as the produce of his estates. Latterly, Tom observed that these returns were made to account of Lord Mortlake. This puzzled him; and, upon a question to Tresham being hazarded, he coldly answered--

"The possessions of Sir Edward Vavasour belong now to Lord Mortlake; but remember the request of your benefactor--to ask no questions."

Other matters of more importance now occupied our hero's mind, and he gave himself no farther thoughts on the subject. The firstfruits of his labour were piously remitted to his mother, through his English correspondent. From her he (through the same channel) learned that Sir Edward Vavasour had given her a nice little cottage and garden, on the Vavasour estate, in England, rent-free, and that she had sold off everything in Merton, as the recollections there were unpleasant--the reason assigned being her former services as housekeeper in the family. No attempt had been made by him to elicit a confession of her son's residence. She farther stated, that she regularly received twenty pounds every half-year from some unknown person; and that she was, therefore, as happy as she could be in the absence of her son.

The letters from his patron were warm and affectionate. Some little presents Tom had ventured to make; and a few of those lovely tropical shells, transmitted to the unknown young lady, were cordially accepted, not so much for their value, as for the indications they afforded of the unabated regard of the giver. Tom devoted a certain portion of each day to study. His early education had been, so far as it went, good; and he was enabled, by severe application, to master the Roman authors, and enjoy their beauties.

The death of his mother, during the fourth year of his residence in the tropics, was a heavy blow to him. He had lived in hopes of coming back to Britain with a fortune sufficient to support her in affluence; but his pious intention was frustrated. One consolation he had, that the kind lady who, with his patron, took such an especial interest in his affairs, had watched over her dying moments, and afforded her every comfort.

In the tenth year of his sojourn, a great revolution in his fortunes took place. One morning, Mr Tresham called him into his private room.

"Mortlake," said he, "you have been now ten years in our service; and, during that time, I have never had cause to find the slightest fault with you. The demise of the senior partner compels me to visit England. Your patron has written me urgently to admit you as a partner; now, although his recommendation must have weight with me, I can assure you that I need no solicitation to do an act of justice. I rejoice, by adding your name to the firm, to show you how much I esteem you, and what unbounded confidence I have in you."

Tom justly felt gratified by this communication. He was grateful for the never-slumbering care of his English patron, and equally so for the personal regard of Tresham, who, having thus removed a considerable portion of the burdens of commerce upon his younger partner, left the island, and safely arrived in London, where, for several months, he was engaged in adjusting the company's accounts, and effecting a settlement with the representatives of the deceased. The business, meanwhile, went on under the name of Tresham, Mortlake, & Co., and was managed with as much prudence and profit by the junior partner as it had previously been by the senior one.

Tresham having realized a fortune, at the age of fifty resolved to return to England to enjoy it. Upon this occasion, his nephew, who had come out sometime after Tom, became a partner; and, just twenty years from the period of his advent, did Thomas Mortlake, Esq., resolve, at the age of thirty-six, to return to his native land, leaving the affairs of the company to be exclusively managed by young Tresham, who was fully adequate to the task.

He embarked in a vessel of the company's; and having had a fair wind, in a few weeks beheld the chalky cliffs of Old Albion. He found his patron and Tresham awaiting his landing, and a carriage ready to bear him away. The meeting was cordial. Twenty years had not affected his patron much. He was about forty-five years of age, but looked perhaps a little younger. There was a dignity about his manner which Tom had never previously remarked; but there was no lack of kindness; on the contrary, it was obvious at a glance that his return was most acceptable to his friend. Nor was Tresham less friendly.

As Tom stepped into the carriage, he was thunderstruck to observe a coat of arms on the panels, with a _baron's_ coronet.

"Bless me, Mr Tresham, have you been raised to the Peerage?"

Tresham smilingly replied--

"Not yet. We don't know, however, what may happen. Irish peerages may be had cheap. The carriage is not mine: it belongs to one of our best customers, Lord Mortlake."

"Bless me!--how kind of his lordship!" was the rejoinder. "Is he, sir, a friend of yours?" turning to his patron.

"I think," was the answer, "I should know him better than most people; but come, tell me how affairs are going on in Antigua."

A desultory conversation followed, which lasted nearly the whole period of their journey. At last the vehicle approached a magnificent baronial seat, through a long avenue of lime trees, then in full blossom.

"Here we are!" said the older Mortlake. Upon leaving the carriage, Tom and his companions entered a spacious hall of the olden time, the proprieties of which had been carefully preserved, and which was pretty much in the same state as it had been during the reign of Elizabeth. Taking Tom by the hand, his friend welcomed him to his family residence, and told him that a lady up stairs--an old friend of his--was waiting to receive him. "But," added he, "you will perhaps require to go to your apartments."

Tom having put himself to rights, was led by Mortlake to the drawing-room, where he beheld his mysterious female visitant and a young lady of about nineteen, who, from her resemblance, it was not difficult to discover was the daughter of his host. Two fine-looking aristocratic lads, the one aged perhaps sixteen, and the other nearly eighteen, were standing beside their sister, chatting and laughing with Mr Tresham.

The lady rose to receive her guest, when Tresham interposing, exclaimed:--

"Allow me--Lady Mortlake, Mr Mortlake; Mr Mortlake, Lady Mortlake."

Tom was confused, certainly; but his good manners did not forsake him, and he expressed his gratification at again beholding the lady, in appropriate and feeling terms.

"Mr Mortlake," said she, "I am happy--very happy--to receive you at Vavasour, which, I trust, you will consider as your home." Turning to her daughter--"Emily, my love, this is Mr Mortlake, whom you have heard your father and myself talk of so frequently." He was then introduced to the sons, by whom he was received with equal kindness. His patron next took Tom aside.

"The mystery," said he, "will soon be explained; in me you behold Lord Mortlake; but, on that account, not less your sincere friend. No one, not even Tresham, but believes you to be a relation of the family, except Lady Mortlake and myself; so be collected, and assume a character which, some day or other, I hope confidently may be yours legally."

The latter words sounded strangely in our hero's ears; but this was a day of wonders, and when they were to end he could not conjecture.

"Sir Edward Vavasour?" he whispered.

"Is no more!" was the reply.

A week passed happily, and Mortlake, in the society he esteemed and respected, was superlatively blessed. One morning after breakfast, Lord Mortlake took him into the library, and, locking the door, bade him be seated.

"Mortlake," said his lordship, "the time for explanation is at hand; it ought not any longer to be delayed; but, before disclosing much that may astonish you, be assured that I make the disclosure without seeking any pledge of secrecy from you. I shall leave it entirely to yourself, when you have heard all, to take what course you may judge expedient."

"My Lord! do not think so meanly of the creature of your bounty as to suppose that, whatever may be the nature of your communication, I shall ever use it to your prejudice."

"Make no rash promises, Mr Mortlake. Here me, and decide. I told you Sir Edward Vavasour was no more and yet he is only so in one sense--his title is merged in a higher one: he is now Lord Mortlake!"

"Gracious Providence! Sir Edward Vavasour Lord Mortlake? Can it be possible?"

"It _is_ possible; Lord Mortlake is before you. But hear me out. You are probably aware that the late Sir Thomas Vavasour had a younger brother Richard; and it has perhaps come to your knowledge that he was married to Miss Mortlake, a lady of birth and fortune, the daughter of an extensive proprietor in Antigua. Mrs Vavasour was a Creole by birth, and a woman of violent passions. Her husband led a very unenviable life--but let me pass that over. Of that marriage I was the sole offspring, and was named heir by my grandfather to his large estates, after the demise of my parents. This equitable arrangement of his property created a prejudice in my mother's mind against me, as she could not brook the idea of being interfered with in the use of that which she thought she was entitled to enjoy without control. When my father died, I was placed under the superintendence of my uncle, Sir Thomas, who, himself a proud and passionate man, had a great contempt for his equally proud and passionate sister-in-law; hence a new seed of enmity was sown.

"My mother wished to make a fine gentleman of me: my uncle detested the whole tribe of 'puppies,' and determined to make a man of me. He carefully provided for my education; and, at the proper time, sent me to the Temple, where I studied jurisprudence for a few years with considerable success. The heir of a large estate, my uncle never wished me to do more than acquire habits of industry and application. My mother did all she could to unsettle me--but in vain. I had a will of my own, and was by no means disposed to be come her vassal.

"She was descended, through the intermarriage of one of the Mortlakes 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!"

The Treasurer had been for some time gone ere the worthy couple retired to rest, big with the events that were to be transacted on the morrow, for the downfall of the innovating Provost. The morning was still grey, the sun was not above the horizon, when the Deaconess, as was her wont, arose to begin her household duties; but, anxious to communicate the strange conduct of the Provost, in raising the wall of partition in the city, she seized her water stoups, and hurried to the public well at the Bow-head, to replenish them, and ease her overcharged mind of the mighty circumstance. Early as the hour was, many of the wives of the good citizens were already there, seated on their water stoups, and awaiting their turn to be supplied--their shrill voices mixing with those of the more sonorous tones of the Highland water-carriers, and rising in violent contention on the stillness of the morning, like the confusion of Babel.

The sensation caused by the relation of the Deaconess of her husband's adventure of the preceding evening, was nothing impaired by the story being related at second-hand. Arms were raised in astonishment as she proceeded with her marvellous tale of the high wall built in so short a space by the Provost. After some time spent in fruitless debate, it was agreed that they should go down in a body and examine this bold encroachment upon the citizens--and away they went, with the indignant Deaconess at their head.

For some hundred feet down the Lawnmarket, the buildings of the jail and Luckenbooths hid that part of the street from the phalanx of Amazons; but, intent to reconnoitre where the wall of offence was said to stand, they reached the Luckenbooths, and a shout of laughter and derision burst from the band. The Deaconess stood petrified, the image of shame and anger. No wall was there--everything stood as it had done for years!

"Lucky Dickson," cried one, "ye hae gien us a gowk's errand. I trow the Deacon has been fu' yestreen. Where is the fearfu' wa' ye spak' o', that he neither could get through nor owre? Ha! ha! ha!"

"Did ye really believe what he told you, Mrs Dickson?" screamed another. "It was a silly excuse for being owre late out with his cronies. He surely thinks you a silly woman to believe such tales. Were my husband to serve me so, I would let him hear of it on the deafest side of his head."

"You need not doubt but that he shall hear of it," responded the Deaconess; "and that before long. But, dear me, there must have been some witchcraft played off upon him and the Treasurer last night; for, as true as death, they baith said they saw it with their een. There's been glamour in it. I fear Major Weir is playing more tricks in the town than riding his coach. There was no cause to tell me a lie as an excuse, for I am always happy to see him come hame safe at ony hour."

By this time they had returned to the well, where they resumed their water vessels and hurried home, some to report the strange adventure the Deacon had encountered the evening before, and the Deaconess to tell her better half of the delusion he had been under. Before breakfast time, the story was in everyone's mouth, from the Castle to the Abbey-gate, and as far as the town extended. On a clear moonlight night, for many years afterwards, Deacon Dickson's dike was pointed out by the inhabitants; and at jovial parties, we have heard it said--"Sit still a little longer; we are all sober enough to get over Deacon Dickson's wall."

The Treasurer, who was not so muddled by the effect of the evening's entertainment as the Deacon, yet still impressed by the idea of the wall, proceeded homewards by the same route whereby he had reached the Deacon's, but now much refreshed by the walk, and night, or rather morning air--for it was nearly one o'clock. As he approached the Bow-foot Well, the sobbing of a female broke the stillness of the night: he paused for a few minutes, and, looking towards the spot from whence the sound came, urged by `humanity, he drew more near, till he perceived an aged female almost concealed by the dark shade of the well, against which she leaned to support herself. As soon as he saw her distinctly, with an emotion of grief and surprise he exclaimed--

"Mrs Horner!--what has happened? Why are you here at this untimeous hour? What's the cause of your grief?"

"Thomas Kerr," replied she, "I am a poor unfortunate woman, whom God alone can help. Pass on, and leave me to my misery." And she buried her face in her hands, while the large drops of anguish welled through her withered fingers.

"I cannot leave you here in such a state," said he again. "Come home, my good woman, and I shall accompany you."

"I have no home," washer sad reply. "Alas! I have no home, but the grave. I am a poor, silly, undone woman, in my old age. Comfortable, and even rich as I was, I am now destitute. I have neither house nor hall to cover my grey hairs. Oh, if I were only dead and buried out of this sinful world, to hide the shame of my own child. An hour is scarce passed since I thought my heart would burst in my bosom before I would be enabled to reach the Greyfriars' Churchyard, to lay my head upon Willie Horner's grave, and the graves of my innocent babes, that sleep in peace by his side. I feared my strength would fail; for all I wish, is to die there. I did reach the object of my wish, and laid myself upon the cold turf, and prayed for Death to join as he had separated us; but my heart refused to break, and tears that were denied me before, began to stream from my eyes. The fear of unearthly sights came strong upon me, stronger even than my grief. Strange moaning and sounds came on the faint night wind, from Bloody Mackenzie's tomb, and the bright moonlight made the tombstones look like unearthly things. I rose and fled. I will tarry here, and die in sight of the gallows stone; for it was here my only brother fell, killed by a shot from cruel Porteous' gun; and on the fatal tree which that stone is meant to support, my grandfather cheerfully gave his testimony for the covenanted rights of a persecuted kirk. Leave me, Thomas Kerr--leave me to my destiny. I can die here with pleasure; and it is time I were dead. To whom can a mother look for comfort or pity, when her own son has turned her out upon a cold world? I am as Rachel mourning for her children. I will not be comforted." And the mourner wrapped her mantle round her head with the energy of despair, and, bending it upon the well, burst anew into an agony of sobs and tears.

The Treasurer felt himself in an awkward situation. He paused, and began to revolve in his mind what was best to be done at the moment--whether to obey the widow or the dictates of humanity. His better feeling prompted him to stay and do all in his power for the mourner, whom he had known in happier times; but his caution and avarice, backed by the dread of his spouse, urged him, with a force he felt every moment less able to resist, to leave her and hurry home. As he stood irresolute, the voice of the stern monitor sounded in the auricles of his heart like the knell of doom, and roused into fearful energy feelings he had long treated lightly, or striven to suppress when they rose upon him with great force. He ran like a guilty criminal from the spot. The wailings of the crushed and pitiable object he had left, had given them a force he had never before known, and he urged his way down the Cowgate-head as if he wished to fly from himself--the traces of the evening's enjoyments having fled, and their place being supplied by the pangs of an awakened conscience. There was, indeed, too much cause for his agitation, often hinted at by his acquaintance, but in its full extent only known in his own family--a striking similarity between the situation of his own mother and that of Widow Horner. The cases of the two aged individuals agreed in all points, save that he had not yet turned her out of doors; and conscience told him that even that result had been prevented, more by the patient endurance of his worthy parent herself, than any kindly feeling upon the part of her son.

The father of the Treasurer, and the husband of Widow Horner, had both been industrious, and, for their rank in life, wealthy burgesses of the city. At their death, they had left their widows with an only child to succeed them and be a comfort to their mothers, who had struggled hard to retain and add to the wealth, until their sons were of age to succeed and manage it for themselves. Their sole and rich reward, as they anticipated, would be the pleasure of witnessing the prosperity of their sons. That they would be ungrateful, was an idea so repugnant to their maternal feelings, that, for a moment, it was never harboured in their bosoms. A cruel reality was fated to falsify their anticipations.

The Treasurer had, before he was twenty-five years of age, married a woman whom his fond mother had thought unworthy of her son; and to prevent the marriage she had certainly done all that lay in her power. Her endeavours and remonstrances had only served to hasten the event she wished so much to retard and hinder from taking place; the consequence was, that the hated alliance was completed several weeks before she was made aware of it by the kindness of a gossiping neighbour or two. Much as she felt, and sore as her heart was wrung, she, like a prudent woman, shed her tears of bitter anguish at the want of filial regard in her son, in secret. She at once resolved to pardon this act of ingratitude, and, for her son's sake, to receive her unwelcome daughter-in-law with all the kindness she could assume on the trying occasion. Not so her daughter-in-law, who was of an overbearing, subtile, and vindictive turn of mind. The mother of her husband had wounded her pride: she resolved never to forget or forgive; and, before she had crossed her threshold, a deep revenge was vowed against her as soon as it was in her power to execute it. The first meeting was embarrassing on both sides; each had feelings to contend against and disguise; yet it passed off well to outward appearance--the widow, from love to her son, striving to love his wife--the latter, again, with feigned smiles and meekness, affecting to gain her mother-in-law's esteem; and so well did she act her part, that, before many days after their first interview had passed, Thomas was requested to bring his wife into the house, to reside in the family, and to save the expense of a separate establishment. From that hour the house of Widow Kerr began to cease to be her own, for the first few months almost imperceptibly. Thomas, although a spoiled child, was not naturally of an unfeeling disposition, but selfish and capricious from over-indulgence. Amidst all his faults, there was still a love and esteem of his mother, which his wife, seeing it would be dangerous openly to attack, had resolved to undermine, and therefore laid her wicked schemes accordingly. In the presence of her husband, she was, for a time, all smiles and affability; but, in his absence, she said and did a thousand little nameless things to tease and irritate the good old dame. This produced complaints to her son, who, when he spoke to his wife of them, was only answered by her tears and lamentations, for the misery she suffered in being the object of his mother's dislike. To himself she referred, if she did not do all in her power to please his mother. These scenes had become of almost daily occurrence, and were so artfully managed, that the mother had the appearance of being in the fault. Gradually the son's affection became deadened towards his parent; she had ceased to complain, and now suffered in silence. For her there was no redress--for, in a fit of fondness, she had made over to her son all she possessed in the world; she was thus in his power; yet her heart revolted at exposing his cruelty. The revenge of the wife was not complete even after the spirit of the victim was completely crushed, and she had ceased to complain. Often the malignant woman would affect lowness of spirits, and even tears, refusing to tell the cause of her grief until urged by endearments, and obtaining an assurance that he would not regard her folly in yielding to her feeling; but she could not help it--were it not for her love to him, she knew not in what she had ever offended his mother, save in preferring him to every other lover who had sought her hand. Thus, partly by artifice, but more by her imperious turn of mind, which she had for years ceased to conceal, the Treasurer was completely subdued to her dictation; and, by a just retribution, he was punished for his want of filial affection, for he was as much the sufferer from her temper as his mother was the victim of her malice. With a crushed heart, the old woman ate her morsel in the kitchen, moistened by her tears. Even her grandchildren were taught to insult and wound her feelings. So short-sighted is human nature, the parents did not perceive that by this proceeding they were laying rods in pickle for themselves, which, in due time, would be brought into use, when the recollection of their own conduct would give tenfold poignancy to every blow.