Chapter VII: Part 7

"You turn saint, Geordie!--you gie up thievin!" exclaimed Dick, so soon as his mirth would permit him to speak, "ay, when the Solway sands grow into green fields, and Annan Water is turned into wine--then ye'll gie up the trade, Geordie, but no till then."

"I'll no delay sae lang, though, Dick; and, laugh as ye like, that ye'll see," replied Geordie. "I'm tired o' this wark, and I'm beginnin to think that I hae fully as much mischief scored against me already as I'll be weel able to answer for." Then suddenly directing his attention to the cattle they were driving before them, and that with an interest which showed pretty plainly that _their_ destiny, at any rate, was to be in no way affected by his proposed reformation, "Hey, Jock," he exclaimed, "look after that brown cow, man. Do ye think folk get their guids for naething? She's gaun aff the road athegither. Confound the beast!--keep her till't, Jock, keep her till't, lad, till we see what kind o' kail she maks. We'll be the greens, and I'm sure she needna grudge to be the beef."

With this witticism, such as it is, the conversation terminated for a time, and the freebooters pursued their way in silence.

Remarking that they had not yet cleared the County of Northumberland, we change the scene for a moment to Witherington Castle, the residence of the warden of the East March, Sir Robert Cary, who, at the moment when we would introduce him to the reader, was engaged in writing despatches to his mistress, Queen Elizabeth, in which he was giving an account of the then present state of the country, and of his own proceedings for the previous month.

While thus employed, a person dressed in the warden's livery, entered the apartment, cap in hand, and advanced to a respectful distance from the warden, where he stood still, and gave two or three gentle hems, to make the latter aware of his presence. He succeeded. Sir Robert raised his head, and, looking at the intruder, "Well, Watt," he said, "what's stirring now? Any interlopers across the March?"

"Why, my lord," replied the person interrogated, "I have just been informed that Geordie Bourne, with half-a-dozen Scottish thieves, has been seen on the tramp, and, if my intelligence be correct, is at this moment driving before him a score of Sir Thomas Carlton's best beeves."

"Ah! Geordie Bourne!" exclaimed Sir Robert, evidently excited by the intelligence, "that fellow would be worth catching indeed. He's one of the most desperate thieves in Christendom; but a valiant rascal withal, and, as I'm told, a very pretty fellow to boot. To horse, then, Watt, my man," added the warden, "and see if you cannot fall in with him. If he is not killed, you will, of course, bring him to Witherington; and I had rather you should not kill him, if you can help it."

"How many men shall I take, my lord?" inquired this subaltern officer of the warden's; for such he was.

"Why, how many men has Bourne with him?" rejoined Sir Robert.

"Six, my lord, I'm told," replied Watt.

"Then take a dozen with you, Watt, and see they be well armed; for these fellows don't part with their prey very readily, and there may be blows going, especially with such a desperado as Geordie Bourne."

Watt bowed, and left the apartment, and Sir Robert Cary resumed his writing. In ten minutes afterwards, thirteen well-mounted and well-armed troopers were seen issuing from the gate of Witherington Castle, and proceeding in the direction of the Scottish Border.

For some time the party proceeded on their way in silence, without exchanging a word--nothing being heard amongst them but the jingling of their harness, and an occasional imprecation on their horses; but this silence was at length thus broken:--

"There will be some knocks going, Jack, if we fall in with this fellow, Bourne," said Watt Tomlins, to the man who rode next him. "Geordie hits hard, and I'm told is one of the best shots in these parts; but we can strike a fair blow, too, Jack, and handle a bow not amiss either; so I think we haven't much to fear from him, after all."

"Why, no, not a bit, Watt," replied Jack, a stout, burly Northumbrian. "We're two to one at any rate, and that's some comfort--that is, Watt," he added, "if you have been rightly informed of the number Bourne has with him. If there's an error there against us, however, it will be rather an awkward business, I doubt."

The reader will at once perceive that, notwithstanding the bravery of this talk, there was fear at the bottom of it. In truth, the warden's men, especially the two who just now spoke, would rather have had to do with half the thieves on the Borders, than with Geordie Bourne alone, of whose courage and prowess they had heard the most tremendous stories. They therefore went on the present errand with no very comfortable feelings; and there is little doubt that, had it not been for the fear of exposure, and the loss of their situations, they would have reported at the castle that Geordie was not anywhere to be seen. But there were others of the party composed of better fighting materials than Watt Tomlins and Jack Foster; and these, though they entertained all due respect for Geordie's strength and valour, were men who would not flinch from their duty from fear of any one. Of some of these, indeed, it was alleged that they had done a little business in Geordie's way themselves, before they entered the service of the warden; so that, in employing them, the latter had acted on the well-known principle, set a thief to catch a thief; and certainly those of this description who were in his service were by far the most expert in detecting and apprehending depredators.

The party had now ridden for several hours without discovering any trace of the object of their pursuit; and, as it was getting dark, they had begun to lose all hopes of success, and to think of returning home. Ah, Geordie, Geordie, lad! you are now rubbing shoulders with a certain apparatus which shall be nameless. It is touch and go with you, Geordie. If the warden's company return at this moment, you are safe. If they go on but another hundred yards, for it is only a turn in the road that conceals you from them, it is all up with you. Your fate is trembling in the balance, and a breath will turn the beam.

The warden's men had now called a halt, to consider the momentous question just alluded to--that is, whether they should proceed or return: when it was decided, _nem. con._, that they should put about, and live in the hope of catching Geordie on some future day; and on this resolution they were about to act, when one of the troop, suddenly struck with a second thought, proposed that they should proceed precisely the length of that very turn in the road on which Geordie's fate depended, ere they abandoned the chase. As the distance was but trifling, this was readily agreed to; and forward again the whole party rode. On arriving at the stipulated point, they once more drew bridle, suspended all conversation, and, in profound silence, listened attentively to ascertain if there was anything suspicious moving at a distance. While some were thus employed, others were endeavouring to peer through the gloom of the twilight, with a similar view.

"Nothing to be heard or seen, Will--nothing moving," said Tomlins to a stout ferocious-looking Northumbrian Borderer who rode next to him. "Geordie has escaped us this bout."

"Not so fast, Watt; not so fast," replied the person addressed, who was leaning over his horse's neck, and intently scanning the dusky road that stretched away before them in the distance--"I see something moving yonder that looks very like a drove of cattle; and hark! Watt," he added, "there's a shout! On my life, here is Geordie, after all, comrades." This was said in a loud whisper, and the whole party looked intently, and without exchanging a word, in the direction indicated, when all agreed that there was something to be seen, of which it would be proper to have a nearer view; and, under this conviction, the troop again set forward at a hard trot, which, in a few seconds, brought them up with the object of their suspicions. These suspicions were well founded. It was indeed Geordie Bourne, his associates, and their booty. On coming up with the freebooters, the warden's men rushed in upon them, when Geordie himself, ere he was aware of his danger, or could prepare for his defence, was felled to the earth by Will Armstrong; and in the next instant his hands were firmly bound behind his back with cords. The superiority of numbers with which he was attacked left Geordie, powerful and courageous as he was, without a shadow of a chance from resistance. This he perceived, and therefore made no attempt to return the violence with which he was assailed. On regaining his feet, however, being yet ignorant who they were who had thus so suddenly set upon him, he inquired, in a tone and manner which implied a threat of fierce retribution, "Who here dares--who among ye dares to avow this night's work? Let me hear him speak."

"I dare," replied Will Armstrong--"I dare avow it, Geordie Bourne, and perhaps so will Sir Robert Cary."

"Ha! you're warden's men, then," said the freebooter, alarmed at the discovery that he was in the hands of the dreaded enemy of his profession, and becoming instantly more calm and subdued in his manner. "Weel, there's nae help for't, lads--every dog has his day. I hae had mine, and I suppose I maun now straught a tow at Witherington. Deil may care," he added, after a moment's pause--"it's no sax yards o' cord, even though there should be a loop at the end o't, that's gaun to frighten Geordie Bourne." Then instantly recovering all the natural intrepidity of his character, he began to shout out, even while his captors were in the act of still further securing his arms by additional ligatures--

"And it's hey, my lads, for the bonny moonlight,
That on mountain and muirland is streamin sae bright,
Gae saddle my steed, for I maun ride the night
As far as the English border.

"'Tak tent, Jock, lad, for the warden's men
Are ridin o'er hill and ridin through glen.'
Tuts, sax Scots lads 'll keep twascore-and-ten
O' sic feckless loons in order."

And Geordie would have gone on with the complimentary stanzas, of which the first and second have been quoted, had he not been interrupted by a peremptory command to move on. The troop had now formed round the captive, who, besides having his arms bound, as already described, was secured to two horsemen, one on each side of him; and in this order the whole party marched on towards Witherington, where they arrived a little before the hour of supper, when Geordie was immediately conveyed to the strong room appropriated for the reception of such involuntary visiters. Having thus secured his prisoner, Watt Tomlins repaired to Sir Robert Cary, and informed him that Geordie Bourne was taken, and in custody.

"Ha! so you have caught him at last, Watt! I am glad of it," said the warden. "Did he make any resistance?"

"None, my lord," replied Tomlins. "We were too many for him. We took him as gently as a lamb, merely by knocking him down."

"Very gentle proceeding, indeed, Tomlins. It's so far well, however--glad there's no one hurt. What like a fellow is he, this Bourne, Watt? I have heard much of the knave's valour and strength, and should like to see him. He would be an acquisition, the rogue, to my troop, if he could be prevailed upon to take to such an honest calling. Why, I would spare the rascal's life if he would, for I cannot help respecting his bravery, and am loth to put him to death, both on that account and on account of my friend, Sir Robert Kerr, who has a kindness for the knave."

"Why, my lord, as to his appearance," said Tomlins, "he is, I must say, as pretty a fellow as ever put foot in stirrup--six feet, every inch, my lord--and a chest like a horse's; but I fear we couldn't depend on him."

"I doubt that myself, Tomlins," said the warden; "however, I'll think of the matter; but I am unwilling to hang the rogue, if any good at all could be found in him. I'll think of it, however, Tomlins--I'll think of it," repeated Sir Robert; at the same time nodding his head in a manner expressive of his wish to be left alone.

Tomlins, taking the hint, bowed, and retired.

Soon after the supper-hour of the garrison, and when all was quiet within the castle, the door of the strong room in which Geordie Bourne was confined was cautiously opened, and three persons, dressed in the livery of warden's men, entered the apartment. Geordie's athletic figure was extended at full length upon a bench, when the intruders first made their appearance; but he started up on their entrance, and presented such an appalling personification of strength and ferocity, as startled for a moment those who had thus voluntarily obtruded themselves on his seclusion; and, secure as they were--for they were well armed, while he was totally defenceless--they could not contemplate his thick muscular throat, which was bare--thus giving full effect to the fierce but bold and manly countenance of the outlaw--without misgivings as to their safety with such a powerful and desperate man.

Suppressing this fear, however, which, indeed, was wholly unnecessary, as the prisoner neither entertained, nor even conceived for a moment, any intention of doing them an injury--

"Geordie," said the foremost of the visiters, "we have stolen a march on your keepers, just to condole with you a little on your unhappy mischance. We are really sorry to see a brave man like you, Geordie, in this melancholy condition, and we have come to express this to you, and to beg of you to believe that we would help ye out of your strait, if we could."

"Thank ye, friends, thank ye," replied the captive; "but it's a' owre now wi' Geordie Bourne. It's a' luck, lads, a' luck; and the chance has gane against me--that's a'. Never mind: I hae dune pretty fair wark on the English side in my day, and that's some comfort. There's twa or three there, I'm thinkin, that'll no be inconsolable for my fate, nor be at ony loss whether to laugh or to cry when they hear o' my end."

"Ay, Geordie," said one of his visiters, "you have been a pretty wild gallant in your day, as we have heard. Tom," continued the speaker, now turning round to and addressing one of his associates, "go to the buttery, and get a jorum of double ale for our friend Bourne here. It will comfort him a little, and lighten heavy thoughts a bit."

The order thus given was immediately obeyed, and in two or three minutes the messenger returned with a large tankard of the beverage just named. The vessel was handed to Geordie, who instantly applied it to his lips, and took such a copious draught of its powerful contents as soon produced a very sensible effect upon him. His eye began to glisten, and his whole countenance to beam with a savage humour; and, as a natural concomitant of these symptoms, he became extremely communicative. But hold, Geordie, lad--hold, if ye value your life. Be cautious--ye know not who is listening to you. Make no unnecessary disclosures of your little peccadilloes. You long-tongued fool, what assurance have ye that the lord-warden himself does not hear every word you are saying? You know not who are your auditors--neither, apparently, do you care. On, on ye go--little recking that you are but securing your own destruction.

"Ye say right, freends," now said the unwary freebooter; "I have been a 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.

Some time previous to this bill becoming due, Lorimer called at the bank where it had been cashed, and stated to the manager, with whom he sought a private interview, that he had discovered that the bill which he had discounted there, bearing to be the acceptance of James Laidlaw to William Wotherspoon, was a forgery, and that he could lead proof to show that Wotherspoon was the perpetrator of the crime. The matter being immediately investigated, it was found that there were sufficient grounds to institute a criminal action against Wotherspoon; and his apprehension, as already described, was the result.

Wotherspoon, in the meantime, however, denied all knowledge of the bill, said he had no transactions whatever with Lorimer or Laidlaw, and that he did not know the latter, even by sight, or in any other way; and in this utter denial he remained firm and consistent to the last, to the great perplexity of his own counsel, who, while he could not resist the weight of evidence which was mustered against his client, and which indeed seemed conclusive, was yet staggered by the cool and pertinacious manner in which Wotherspoon maintained and insisted on his innocence.

In due time the trial of the latter, for the forgery, came on before the High Court of Justiciary, when a long and careful investigation of the case was entered into.

The first witness called by the public prosecutor was Lorimer, who deposed that the bill had been paid over to him by Wotherspoon, for professional services rendered the latter at the time of his bankruptcy. That it was Wotherspoon's handwriting. That Wotherspoon had stated that he had obtained the bill from Laidlaw, in payment of an account for goods with which he had furnished him. That he had discovered the forgery, by having asked Laidlaw, whom he accidentally met some time after, if he had ever had any dealings with Wotherspoon? when the former said he never had, and knew nothing about him. Had, from some circumstances which subsequently occurred, suspected that the bill was a forgery; particularly from Wotherspoon saying, that he would be obliged to retire it himself, in the first instance, as Laidlaw had intimated to him that he could not meet it when due. Witness, knowing Laidlaw to be a wealthy man, thought this very unlikely, and hence his suspicions--suspicions, he said, which were greatly increased by a circumstance which he begged permission to state to the court. Witness then proceeded to relate the expression used by Mr Wotherspoon on the occasion of his dining with the commercial traveller, which, he said, happening to be in an adjoining apartment, he had overheard.

This witness was followed by Laidlaw, the alleged accepter of the bill, who swore that the signature attached to it was not his handwriting; and, in this assertion, he was supported by other evidence; adding, that he had no knowledge whatever of the prisoner, and had never had any transactions with him.

James Anderson, Wotherspoon's shopman, was next called; and when asked if the bill, which was shown him, was his master's handwriting, answered, that he could not say--that it was certainly very like; thought, however, on the whole, that it was not, but would not swear to this. Asked if he ever saw or knew Lorimer to be employed by his master; said, he did not. Asked, if he meant that he never was employed by him, or merely that such a circumstance did not consist with his knowledge? Answered, that it did not consist with his knowledge; but allowed that Lorimer might have been employed by the prisoner without his knowing it.

A person of the name of Andrew Hislop was next put into the witness-box, who swore that Wotherspoon had told him that he had settled with Lorimer, and that he had given him an indorsed bill, in payment of his account; that he had said, at the same time, that the bill was the acceptance of Laidlaw, and was in payment of an account for goods which the prisoner had furnished him.

James Bryce, stabler and innkeeper, Grassmarket, Edinburgh, in whose house the transaction, which was the subject of investigation, was said to have taken place, next deponed that Lorimer, whom he knew very well, and Mr Wotherspoon, the prisoner at the bar, came to his house on the evening of the 14th September; and that he, being asked to sit down at table with them, saw Mr Wotherspoon indorse over a bill to Mr Lorimer, saying, at the same time, that he believed that would about clear scores between them. This witness's evidence was corroborated by that of his wife, who had been also asked to join the party, she being well acquainted with Lorimer, who used to frequent the house when he resided in Edinburgh.

As these two witnesses were of highly respectable character, their evidence was held by the court to be conclusive against the prisoner. The latter, in his defence by his counsel, admitted that he had been in Edinburgh on the day condescended on by the witnesses who had just been examined, but denied that he had ever been in their house, or knew anything at all about them. Denied that he had ever made use of the language, or anything at all like it, attributed to him by Hislop; denied that he ever had employed Lorimer in any way, or ever was owing him a farthing. Admitted that he had used the expressions attributed to him by Lorimer on the occasion condescended on, and acknowledged their impropriety; but said they were spoken merely in jest, and in a spirit of levity, excited by the wine he had drank.

For the rest, the prisoner had only the general respectability of his character to support him, of which he produced abundant proof to the court, and a simple denial of all that had been alleged against him; but this, of course, was of little avail in the face of the direct and positive evidence of his guilt which had been adduced.

The difficulties, too, in which Wotherspoon was known to be at the time had a powerful influence in strengthening the belief of his guilt; while it was observed that the imprudent language used by the prisoner, when in company with the commercial traveller, and which was detailed by Lorimer, made a singularly strong and unfavourable impression on the court--an impression which was but little affected by the apology for, and explanation of it, that had been given.

In short, no doubt remained on the minds of any one present that Wotherspoon was guilty of the crime charged against him; and the jury, in conformity with their own and the general impression, found the libel proven, without retiring from the box; and the unfortunate man was sentenced to suffer death: his counsel having in vain stated, that, from the steadiness, simplicity, and consistency of all the prisoner's answers to his interrogatories, put to him while in prison, he was all but entirely convinced of his innocence. "There was a mystery in the case," he said, "which he could not solve; but a day of retribution was coming," he added, "when the cause would be tried over again, and before a Judge from whom nothing could be concealed, and on whom no plot, however well contrived, could impose."

Wotherspoon heard the terrible judgment pronounced on him with the utmost composure, and persevered in asserting his innocence, both to his counsel and to those of his friends who subsequently visited him in prison. On these last, his declarations produced various effects. Some of them--those who knew him--believed that he had met with foul play from some quarter or another; and their suspicions fell on Lorimer, whose character was well known to them: but there was nothing in the whole case which could warrant them in openly asserting that he had played the villain.

By others, again, Wotherspoon's declarations of innocence were looked upon as proceeding from the natural shame of crime. They pitied the unhappy man sincerely; but, however high might have been their opinion formerly of his integrity, they had no doubt that the pressure of necessitous circumstances had broken down his principles, and that he was guilty of the forgery. And this last was the opinion generally entertained regarding the convict by the public at large; while the first was the most prevalent in the district from which Wotherspoon came, and where he was, of course, best known.

With regard to Lorimer, the directors of the bank in which the forged bill had been discounted were so pleased with his activity and diligence in detecting and proving the forgery, that they not only forgave him the amount of it--for which he was liable as an indorser--but presented him with a handsome gratuity over and above, on the conviction of the offender.

To return to Wotherspoon. Two or three days after his trial and condemnation, the session closed, and the gentleman, a Mr Moffat, who had been employed as his counsel, went to the country to spend a few days at a friend's residence there. On the first day of his arrival, and within an hour after that occurrence, Mr Moffat was invited by his host to take a stroll in the garden, to see some improvement he was then making on it.

At the moment that Mr Moffat and his friend entered the garden, there were two men employed in delving a piece of ground at a little distance from the gate, one of whom, on perceiving the Edinburgh lawyer, hastily flung down his spade, and ran off. Somewhat surprised at this circumstance, Mr Porteous, Mr Moffat's entertainer, inquired of the fugitive's fellow-workman, who was his principal gardener, what it meant.

The man smiled, and said that he believed he did not care to be seen by that gentleman there, pointing to Mr Moffat.

"By me!--afraid to be seen by me!" said the latter, in astonishment. "What can that mean? What's the man's name?"

"His name is Hislop, sir--Andrew Hislop," replied the gardener. "I believe he was witness in some case before the Court of Justiciary lately."

"Right, right!" said Mr Moffat, already a good deal excited by the occurrence. "I thought I recollected the fellow, even from the momentary glance I had of him. Has he ever made any remark to you regarding that trial?" inquired Moffat.

"Why, nothing more, sir, than saying, that it is an ugly job; and that, if he had not been very firm, perhaps somebody else would have swung in place of Wotherspoon."

"Ay, indeed," exclaimed Mr Moffat, struggling hard to conceal the emotion he felt on this first glimmering of a new light on Wotherspoon's case being thus suddenly and most unexpectedly presented to him, and which was so much in accordance with certain preconceived notions of his own regarding that unfortunate case.

"And just now!" said Mr Moffat, eagerly. "What did he say just now, before he left you? Did he say anything?"

"He said, sir, as I told you before, he did not care to meet with you again, lest you should bother him with questions."

"Very well, very well--that'll do, my man," replied Mr Moffat, who now felt convinced that he had got a clue to the mystery which had puzzled him so much in Wotherspoon's case. "That'll do," he said, at the same time leading away his friend, to whom he related the whole circumstances of the trial, mentioned his suspicions, and begged his co-operation--Mr Porteous being a justice of peace--in securing Hislop. This co-operation was readily conceded; and so effectively and promptly, that in less than two hours Hislop was apprehended, although he had got a good many miles away--for his flight had not been a temporary but a final one; and in less than two hours more he was hard and fast in the Heart of Mid-Lothian.