Chapter V: Part 5

In a few minutes after, the pursuing party were down upon the fugitives, when the earl, singling out Sir John, exclaimed, as he rushed upon him, "Have at thee, villain!" and with these words discharged a blow at him which would have immediately unhorsed him, had it not been adroitly warded off. But of what avail was the averting the stroke of one sword, when there were many to contend with, and one single arm only to oppose them; for the gipsies had not offered the slightest resistance. In an instant, a score of weapons were flashing around the head of the solitary combatant; yet long and obstinately did he continue the unequal fight, and well did he prove his manhood, although it could have been wished that it had been exhibited in a better cause. More than one of Sir John's assailants fell beneath his sword, and numbers felt the keenness of its edge, and the dexterity with which it was handled, in their gaping wounds.

Such a contest as this, however, when it was one to fifty, could be but of short duration. In a few minutes, Sir John was severely wounded, unhorsed, and borne, or rather dragged down, bleeding and exhausted, to the earth. The moment he fell, the points of some eight or ten swords were levelled at his heart, and would have instantly transfixed it, had not the earl called out to those who wielded them to desist.

"Don't kill him--don't kill him!" he shouted out, at the same time forcing his way through the crowd that surrounded him. "I will clear scores with him in another way," he added. "A dog's death is more befitting him than a gentleman's." These were ominous words, and well understood by all who heard them.

The earl now rode up, for the first time, to where his unhappy countess stood, and assuming a mock gallantry as he approached her, but with a bitter smile on his countenance, took off his hat, and pointing to Sir John, who was now bound and placed on horseback, informed her that her lover intended honouring his castle with another visit, and had commissioned him to say that he would be glad of the Countess of Cassilis' company. Having said this, he desired some of his attendants to assist his wretched wife to get on horseback, when, leaving her under their care, with instructions to see her safely conveyed to the castle, he left her without farther remark or observation, to join the party who surrounded the prisoners.

The whole cavalcade--the captives, consisting of Sir John and the whole of the gipsy gang, being placed in the middle--now set forward for Cassilis Castle. On their arrival there, the prisoners were halted beneath a large plane-tree, which grew, and, we believe, still flourishes, on a little knoll in front of the castle gate. All, both the prisoners and their captors, knew full well what the earl meant by his selection of their halting-place. The tree alluded to was one of dismal notoriety; it was known far and wide by the name of the "Dule Tree"--a name which it had acquired from its having been used by the Earl of Cassilis as a gallows on which all offenders, within his jurisdiction, who were condemned to death, were executed.

The prisoners were now drawn up in a line, and there kept until they had witnessed, what was immediately exhibited, the fatal preparations for execution; which consisted simply in fastening a rope, with a running noose, to one of the lower branches, and placing a cart underneath it, with a person standing in readiness by the horse's head to drive off at a given signal.

When these very primitive preliminaries were gone through, all the prisoners, including Sir John Faa, with the exception of one who was left for instant execution, were marched into the castle, and shut up with a strong guard in one of its apartments.

Everything being now ready for the performance of the dreadful tragedy which was about to be enacted, the Earl of Cassilis proceeded to the countess's chamber, and again assuming the mock air of politeness of which we have already spoken, he bowed low as he entered the apartment, and begged to inform the Countess of Cassilis that he had got up a play for her divertisement, in which her lover, Sir John, had obligingly undertaken to perform a principal part, and desired that she would condescend to witness the pastime. Saying this, he rudely seized the countess by the arm, and dragged her to an apartment where there was a window that overlooked the place of execution.

Having placed the countess at this window, the earl made a signal to those assembled beneath the "Dule Tree," and in an instant afterwards the first of the unhappy captives was seen suspended by the neck, struggling in the agonies of death. Another and another of these miserable men followed in due time, until of the whole party their unfortunate leader, Sir John, only remained.

On this ill-fated gentleman being brought out for execution, the earl roused the attention of his unhappy wife, by calling out to her, with savage glee, to look attentively, as her lover Sir John was now about to play his part; and he had no doubt, he said, that he would do it handsomely. The wretched lady glanced towards the fatal tree, and saw him who had been her first, and was yet her only, love about to suffer an ignominious death. The fatal rope was already about the neck of the gallant, but erring young man, whose bearing, in this dreadful situation, evinced all that unflinching fortitude for which he had always been remarkable.

Just before being thrown off, he caught a glimpse of the countess's figure at the window. He bowed gracefully towards her, kissed his hand to her, and waved an eternal adieu. In the next instant he was insensible to all earthly objects. These last proofs of the undaunted young man's unalterable affection, however, of which we have just spoken, were not seen by her for whom they were intended; for, although at the window (she was forcibly held there by her savage husband), her eyes were closed on the dreadful scene, and she herself wholly unconscious of what at that fatal instant was passing before her.

The apartment from which the miserable Countess of Cassilis was compelled to witness this dreadful tragedy is still pointed out by the name of the "Countess's Room." In this chamber the unhappy lady was kept a prisoner for several days after the execution of Sir John and his followers, when she was removed to another of the family residences in the town of Maybole, in Ayrshire, where she was confined during the remainder of her life--the earl her husband, in the meantime, marrying another wife.

Such is the story of the Countess of Cassilis and a veritable tale it is.

THE HAPPY CONCLUSION.

"It's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," said William Waterstone, throwing himself down in an arm-chair that stood by his own kitchen fireside, and at the same time laying aside his staff and bonnet; for William had just returned from a journey of ten or twelve miles, on which he had set out that morning--"it's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," he said, in a voice and with a look and manner of the deepest despair. "He'll no listen to ony terms," he went on, "or to ony delay, but insists on haein the money doun on the nail, and to the last farthin, or he says he'll roup us to the door, and that within fourteen days."

But what misfortune was this that threatened William Waterstone? And who was he? Why, we will tell you, good reader, beginning with your last query first. William Waterstone was a small farmer in Teviotdale, and one of the most honest, laborious, and worthy men in that part of the country. But all his industry, prudence, economy, and integrity had not enabled him, as, indeed, they could not, to cope with the disadvantages of falling markets and a poor and over-rented farm; and he fell into arrears with his landlord. It was in vain that poor William, who was now getting up in years, being close upon sixty, toiled late and early, assisted by his wife and daughter (his whole household), to reduce or keep down the debt that was growing up against him. It was in vain that he and they denied themselves every comfort to attain this desirable end. The arrears, in place of diminishing, went on increasing; for the farm, with all this toil and privation, could scarcely pay the current expenses, let alone enabling its occupant to liquidate an extra debt.

But this state of matters with William, though sad enough, and such as must, in any circumstances, have made him unhappy, would not have ended in his utter ruin, as it now threatened to do, had the property which he rented remained in the hands of his old landlord; for that person knew his excellent character, respected his worth, and, perfectly aware that he was doing all that man could do to discharge the claims he had on him, showed him every lenity and indulgence; and would, in all probability (indeed he had actually said as much), have forgiven him his arrears altogether. Unfortunately for William, however, his generous landlord just about this time died; and the property fell into other and very different hands.

The first step of the new proprietor, or rather of his factor, though of course done with the former's consent, was to ferret out all outstanding debts; the next, to enforce their payment, without distinction of persons or consideration of circumstances, by the most summary measures which the law allowed. On this black list, and amongst the foremost, stood the name of William Waterstone.

It was on the day preceding that on which our story opens, that William first received intimation by a threatening letter, of the determination of the new proprietor regarding the arrears which he was owing; and on the next he went himself to the factor, who lived at the distance of about ten miles, to endeavour to avert the proceedings with which he was threatened, by entering into some arrangements regarding the debt. The result of this interview is announced in the expressions with which William seated himself in his arm-chair, as quoted at the outset of our tale; for he had just at that moment returned from his unsuccessful mission.

He had addressed himself to his wife; but what he said was equally meant for the ear of his daughter--a young, beautiful, and interesting girl of about nineteen, who was also present at the time.

On William's announcing the determination of the factor regarding them, his wife, without saying a word, but looking the very picture of grief and despair, flung herself into a chair opposite her husband, where she sat for some time in silence, wiping away at intervals, with the corner of her apron, the tears that forced themselves into her eyes.

After a short time, during which neither father, mother, nor daughter had spoken a syllable, each being wrapped up in the contemplation of the miserable prospects which lay before them, Mrs Waterstone at length said--

"And is there, then, nae hope for us now, William, after a' oor toil and oor fecht?"

"Nane--nane that I can see," replied the husband, after a lengthened pause, in a voice rendered stern by despair, and at the same time glancing towards his daughter, who, with her face buried in her apron, was sobbing and weeping in a distant corner of the apartment. "Nane that I can see," he again repeated. "There's nae help for us under heaven. Naething for us noo, Betsy, but the meal pock."

"Weel, God's will be dune, William," replied the broken-hearted woman; "since it is sae, we maun submit; although it is hard, at oor time o' life, and after the lang and sair struggle we hae had to do justice to everybody, to be thrown destitute on the warld. But ye ken it is said, William, by the Psalmist, 'I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread;' and I've nae doot that, wi' God's assistance, we'll find these soothing and comforting words verified in oor ain case."

To this William Waterstone made no reply, but remained gloomily absorbed in his own dismal reflections. These were indeed bitter enough--and bitter also were those of the partner of his bosom, on this melancholy occasion; but they were light compared with those of their unhappy daughter. It was on her that the threatened calamity was to fall with its fullest force, and it was to her that it was to bring the largest share of misery. But this requires explanation; and we proceed to give it.

Marion--for such was her name--had long been wooed in vain by a wealthy suitor who resided at a short distance from her father's house. This person, whose name was Maitland, was a miller to business, and a sufficiently respectable man; but he was precisely three times the age of the young creature whose hand he sought. He was, besides, a widower, with several children, and was otherwise by no means such an object as was likely to attract the eye or engage the affections of a woman younger than the youngest of his own daughters.

But John Maitland was wealthy--a circumstance which, though it was of no weight whatever in the eyes of Marion herself, was of great consequence in those of her parents. They, however, although they secretly wished that their daughter would give a favourable ear to the miller's suit, did not urge her, at least otherwise than by indirect allusions and hints, to admit his addresses; and from even this, seeing that her repugnance to him was unconquerable, they had latterly abstained altogether. Notwithstanding Marion's coldness to him, however, and her dislike of him, which she could not conceal, Maitland continued his visits, and persevered in his suit, although to all but himself it seemed an utterly hopeless one. But Marion's conduct in this matter did not proceed solely from a dislike to Maitland. It was influenced by a double motive--a repugnance to him, and love for another.

The favoured suitor, whose name was Richard Spalding, was a young man, the son of a neighbouring farmer, who had everything to recommend him but wealth, of which he had none. His father was in straitened circumstances; and their united labours--for they tilled and sowed the same fields together--were unable to improve them. Indeed, the situation of the former was almost precisely that of Waterstone. They were tenants of the same proprietor, and old Spalding was also in arrears--arrears which he could not pay--to his landlord.

Having given this sketch of the situation in which Marion stood with regard to affairs of the heart, at the period of our story, we recur to the scene which that digression interrupted.

After another long and silent pause, broken only by the suppressed sobs of the poor girl, and at times by heavy and deep-drawn sighs from her mother, the latter again spoke.

"Oh, my John--my John," she said, "if ye but kent o' this, I'm sure, for a' that's come and gane yet, ye wad stretch out a helping hand to us in this hour o' distress!"

"Betsy!" exclaimed her husband, angrily interrupting her, and starting to his feet with an unwonted energy of manner, "havena I often tell't ye never to name that ingrate, that undutiful son, in my presence?--and how comes it that ye have dared to disregard my injunctions, and that at a time, too, when I'm overwhelmed, rendered desperate, wi' other cares? How could ye, woman, add to my distress, by naming the base fallow before me?"

These were harsh words from a father of his own child; but, so far as circumstances could enable that father to judge, they were not unmerited. William Waterstone's son--his only son--who had been bred a millwright, had gone out to the West Indies some five or six years previous to the period of which we write; and during the last three years of that time his parents had never heard from him, although they had learned that he was not only living, but rapidly accumulating a fortune. A score of letters, at least, his father had written him through the medium of the mercantile house by which he had been first sent out (and which kindly undertook not only to have all his letters forwarded to his son, but offered the same obliging services in the case of communications from the latter to the former), without ever receiving any answer; and this was the more unpardonable, that more than one of these letters contained requests from John Waterstone's father for a little pecuniary assistance to help him out of his difficulties.

These, however, were equally unattended to with the others; and it is not, therefore, to be wondered at that old Waterstone should have charged his son with ingratitude, and considered his conduct undutiful and unnatural. This was, in truth, as we have shown, his father's opinion of the young man; but, oh! what can weaken a mother's love? What can wither the strong and deep-rooted affections of her bosom for the child of her love? The conduct must be infamous indeed that could do this.

Mrs Waterstone, although she did allow that her son ought to have at least written them, yet thought, and, when she dared, spoke, of him with the most tender regard. For his apparent neglect of them, she said, she was sure there was some good reason, that would one day be explained to the satisfaction of them all. What this reason could be she owned she could not conjecture; but that was a circumstance which did not in the least shake her faith in its existence. When her husband, therefore, on the present occasion, upbraided her for naming her son, and accused him of ingratitude and undutiful conduct, she, as she always did in similar circumstances, stepped forward with the ready but unsatisfactory defence alluded to.

"Be patient, guidman, I beseech you," she said--"be patient; and, oh, man, dinna think sae unkindly o' the puir laddie. He'll be able, I warrant, to gie a guid reason for a' this when----"

"Let me hear nae mair o't, Betsy," again interrupted William Waterstone. "We've ither things to think o' enow. Here's ruin staring us in the face, woman--ruin! ruin! utter ruin!" he repeated, in a tone of the deepest and most bitter despair. "Naething can avert it. Without a house to shelter us, as we will sune be, our auld heads maun be exposed to the winds o' heaven and to the pelting o' the storm."

"Never, never, never!" at this moment suddenly exclaimed Marion, who had hitherto been sitting, as already described, absorbed in grief, at the further end of the apartment, with her face buried in her apron. "Never, never, never!" she exclaimed, rushing towards her father, and throwing her arms about his neck; "ye shall never be driven to that strait, sae lang as the means are in my power o' preventing it! Mother, mother, dear mother," she added--and now turning to the parent she named, and throwing herself on her knees before her--"I can stand this nae langer! I'll marry John Maitland, mother, and he'll lend as muckle siller as 'ill tak ye out o' this difficulty. He has often said that he wad help my faither, if I wad promise to become his wife."

"My bairn, my bairn!" replied her mother, overcome with this instance of her child's devoted affection; for well she knew the fearful extent of the sacrifice she had offered to make. "My bairn, my bairn!" she said, bursting into tears, and clasping her daughter closely in her arms--"God's blessing be wi' ye for this dutifu conduct to your puir parents, although it grieves me to the heart, my puir lassie, to see ye driven by oor necessities to become an unwillin bride. But ye see, my bairn, there is nae ither way o' savin us frae beggary in our auld days."

"I ken it, mother--I see it," replied Marion, weeping, and as pale as death; "and my mind's made up. Onything, onything will I endure rather than see ye turned oot o' yer ain house, and thrown destitute on the world."

"A faither's blessin and the blessin o' God be wi' ye, my dochter, for this!" said her father, now interfering for the first time, and laying his hand upon her head as she knelt before her mother. "Ye canna but prosper, my bairn, for such conduct as this; and your marriage, though in the meantime it mayna seem to you to promise much felicity, maun in the end be a happy ane. It canna be otherwise. But, Marion," he added, "I winna let ye mak this sacrifice till a' ither means hae failed me, and till I find that the factor is really determined to carry his threats into execution."

At this moment the latch of the outer door was raised, and Richard Spalding, wholly unaware of the state of matters in William Waterstone's, suddenly walked into the midst of the sorrowing family; and great was his surprise on witnessing the scene of disconsolation which presented itself. He guessed, indeed, in part the cause--for his father, as has been already said, was also under the ban of the new factor; but he little dreamed of the resolution to which it had driven his beloved Marion.

This was now, however, soon to be made known to him. On Richard's entrance, her father, who, as well as his wife, knew well of the attachment between the young couple, after hastily saluting him, left the apartment, and was speedily followed by Marion's mother; their object being to give their daughter an opportunity of informing her lover, with her own mouth, of the resolution she had come to regarding his rival.

On being left to themselves, Richard went up to Marion, who, seated in a chair, with her pale cheek resting on the back, looked the very image of hopeless despair. On Richard's first entrance, she had not looked towards him at all, nor exhibited any other symptom of a consciousness of his presence. Neither did she yet offer any signs of welcome. Astonished and alarmed at such unusual conduct, Richard took her affectionately by the hand, and anxiously inquired what was the matter. The poor girl burst into tears.

"Marion," said her lover, now greatly agitated and perplexed, "what in all the earth is wrong? Will you not tell _me_, Marion?"

"O Richard, Richard, do not ask me. I cannot, I will not tell you," said the distracted girl.

"Then you desire to make me miserable too, Marion," was the reply.

"No, no, Richard; but I cannot tell you what I know will break your heart, as it has already broken mine. My peace is gone for ever, Richard, but it has gone in a good cause."

"For Heaven's sake, Marion," said her agonised lover, "tell me, tell me at once what you mean, and do not torture me longer with this strange and unintelligible conduct. It's not using him well, Marion, who hopes to be more to you, one day, than any other person on the face of the earth."

"Never, Richard!--never, You can never now be more to me than you are at this moment. That's a' owre, Richard. We maun meet nae mair. I'm gaun to be the wife o' anither."

"Marion!" said Richard, his face now overspread with a deadly paleness, and his lips quivering with emotion, "in God's name, what does this mean? Have I done anything to offend you--anything to change your opinion of me?"

"No, no, Richard, you have not," said the weeping girl; "but I maun marry John Maitland, to save my puir father and mother frae ruin--to save them frae bein thrown on the cauld charity o' the warld in quest o' their bread."

And she now went on to detail the particulars of the situation in which they stood, and concluded by mentioning the promise she had made to her parents to accept of Maitland's addresses.

Poor Spalding stood the very personification of misery and wretchedness during the recital of these circumstances, that laid prostrate all his dearest hopes, and wrested from him that happiness which he had fondly believed was within his grasp. For some time he made no reply to, or remark on, what had just been communicated to him; but at length, taking Marion again by the hand.

"Well, Marion," he said, with a strong effort to suppress the emotion with which he was struggling, "this is dreadful news to me; but I do not blame you; or, rather, I cannot but commend you for the step you are going to take, although it be to the destruction of my peace and happiness in this world. But is there no way of averting this evil? Is there no way of saving your father but by your----" Here he suddenly stopped short. His feelings overcame him; and he could not come out with the two words necessary to finish the sentence; he could not bring himself to add, "marrying Maitland."

"Nane, nane, Richard," said Marion, who well knew what he would have said; "there's nae ither way left us--nane, nane, Richard."

"But," replied the latter, "your father said, Marion, you told me, that he will not ask you to make this sacrifice, until he sees that the factor is determined to proceed against him, and that there is no other means of satisfying his demands. Now, as it will be some days before he can ascertain the former, will ye promise me, Marion, that ye will take all the time that circumstances will afford you before you commit yourself further with Maitland? Will you promise me this, Marion?--and, in the meantime, I'll stir heaven and earth to save you from the fate that's threatening you."

This promise poor Marion readily gave; and, somewhat comforted by it, Richard left the house, to try every method he could think of, to avert the misfortune that threatened him. But, alas! what could he do? Where was he to raise L150 some odds, which was the amount of William Waterstone's debt to his landlord? Under the excitation of the moment during his interview with Marion, and under the blind and bewildering impulses excited by it, he thought he might, by some means or other, accomplish it. But, on coming to act on the vague and indefinite notions on this subject which first presented themselves to him, he found them burst like soap-bells in his grasp, until even he himself, sanguine as he was, became convinced that the pursuit was hopeless, and that his Marion was indeed lost to him for ever.

In the meantime, the dreaded crisis approached. Step after step had been taken by the factor in the process against William Waterstone, until at length it arrived at a consummation. His effects were sequestrated, and a day of sale announced. Still the poor man entertained hopes that the last and final proceeding would not be had recourse to--that, in short, no sale would actually take place; and in this desperate belief he had still delayed committing himself with Maitland regarding his daughter, although he had dropped some hints to that person of a tendency to encourage his hopes. From this delusion, however, he was now about to be roughly awakened. The day of sale arrived, and with it came the auctioneer; and, as the morning advanced, several persons were seen hovering about at a little distance. These were intending purchasers, whose respect for poor Waterstone, and whose sympathy for his unhappy situation, induced them thus to keep aloof, with the view of saving his feelings as much as possible, until their purpose there should render it necessary for them to approach nearer to the melancholy scene.

These appearances were far too serious to leave the slightest ground for the indulgence of any further hopes from the lenity of the prosecutor; and William Waterstone felt this. He saw now that the sacrifice which he had thus delayed till the twelfth hour must be made--that his daughter must pledge herself to become the wife of John Maitland; and with a heavy heart he now put on his bonnet to go down to that person, to enter into a full and final explanation with regard to this matter, and his own distressed situation. Poor Marion's doom was now, then, about to be irrevocably sealed. Her father was already at the door, on his way to fix her destiny, when he was suddenly arrested by a person, wrapped up in a travelling mantle, and who was about entering the house at the same moment, seizing him by the hand.

"Father!" exclaimed the apparent stranger.

William Waterstone looked unconsciously for an instant at the person who addressed him. It was his son.

"John!" said the father, at length, coldly, and returning the former's eager salutation with marked indifference.

"Yes, John," replied his son, in a tone of surprise at his father's reception of him; "and I thought you would have been more happy than you seem to be to have seen him, father?"

"Why should I be happy to see you, John?" said the latter, gravely. "What have you done for me that I should rejoice in the sight of you?"

"Not much, father, I confess," rejoined his son; "but I did for you what I could; and it is my intention to do more."

William Waterstone smiled satirically. It was the only reply he vouchsafed. At this moment, John's mother, who had heard and recognised his voice, rushed out and enfolded her son in her arms.

"My son--my son!" she exclaimed. "Thank God, I see you once more before I die! Ye'll explain a' noo. I'm sure, my John, and mak guid your mother's words."

To her son, part of this address was wholly unintelligible. What explanation was wanted he could not comprehend; and he therefore merely said, smiling as he spoke, that if anything in his conduct wanted explanation he would very readily give it.

"That ye will, my son," said his mother, "to the shame and confusion o' them that entertained ill thochts o' ye."

"Well, well, mother," replied John, more puzzled than ever--"we'll put all that to rights, whatever it is, by and by; but, in the meantime, pray tell me what is the meaning of all this?" And he pointed to the collection of farming implements and other articles, which had been placed in front of the house, preparatory to the sale, and which, with some other no less unequivocal circumstances, but too plainly intimated what was about to take place.

"The meanin o' that, sir," said his father, sternly, "is very sune tell't. We are gaun to be roupit out the day for arrear o' rent--that's a'--a thing very easy understood; and ye're just come in time to see't. Just in time," he added, bitterly, "to see your father and mother turned out beggars on the world."

"What! rouped out! beggared!" replied his son, with a look of the utmost consternation. "Then, surely, father, some great and sudden pecuniary misfortune must have befallen you; or there has been grievous mismanagement of some kind or other, to reduce you to this unhappy state."

"Oh no," said the father, in a dry, sarcastic tone, "nae sudden misfortune has befa'en me, nor has there been any mismanagement either. Naething has happened but what ye a' alang kent very weel about. The arrears o' rent, at least the greater part o' that debt, was standin against me before ye went abroad; and I suppose ye ken very weel that the prices o' farm produce hae been fa'in ever since; so that I dinna see, sir, that ye need be sae very much surprised at my situation as you seem, or pretend to be."

"I do not pretend, father. I assure you, to be more surprised than I really am," said his son, "and I think I have some reason. Surely what I sent you might have kept you out of debt at any rate."

"What _you_ sent me, sir," rejoined his father, sternly: "I should like to ken what that was." And he again smiled sarcastically. "My troth, my debts wadna hae been ill to pay, if that could hae dune't."

"And I must say," replied his son, "that they must have been very considerable, and, I will add, more than they ought, if it could not."

"What do you mean, sirrah?" exclaimed William Waterstone, fiercely.

"I mean, father," replied John, now getting displeased in his turn, "that the three hundred pounds, which I have been sending you regularly every year, for the last three years, ought to have placed you in a better situation than I now find you."

"_You_ been sendin me three hundred pounds every year, for the last three years!" said his father, with a look of amazement; and then, suddenly dropping this warmth of expression--"It may be sae, John," he added, coolly and doubtingly, "and I hope, for yer ain sake, ye speak truth; but I hae never seen a farthin o't."

"What! not of the money I have been remitting you?"

"Not a penny; but, _if_ ye sent me the money, as ye say, John," he added, "how comes it that ye never answered ane o' my letters?"

"Your letters, father!" replied the latter. "Why, you have not written me for the last three years, although I have despatched at least a score of letters to you in that time, and have never had an answer to one of them."

"Never saw ane o' your letters," said William Waterstone, dryly.

"This is a most extraordinary and unaccountable business," exclaimed John.

"Queer aneugh," said his father, coolly, and plainly evincing by his manner that he did not believe a word of what his son had said to him.

"The money I sent you, father," rejoined the young man, "was transmitted you through the house of M., P., L., & Co., Glasgow. My letters were also sent to their care, and how it has happened that neither have reached you I cannot at all conjecture; but I will see into that matter immediately. How were your letters to me sent father?" he added.

"Ou, of course, to thae folks, too," replied the latter. "It was yer ain desire in the last letter I had frae ye."

"So it was, I recollect. Well, we shall have all this explained presently; but, in the meantime, father, let me know what is the amount of the debt that is just now pressing on you, that I may discharge it, and put a stop to these proceedings."

"I'm no sure if we'll need your assistance noo," said his father, coldly. "Your sister's gaun to be married to John Maitland, and I believe he'll lend me as muckle siller as 'll clear my feet o' this mischief, at ony rate."

"What! my sister going to marry old John Maitland!" said her brother, in amazement. "Impossible! He cannot have been her own free choice."

"I did not say he was," replied his father; "but Marion's a dutifu child, and would do that and mair to save her father frae ruin. But there she is comin," he added (pointing to Marion, who was now approaching the house, from which she had been absent since her brother's arrival, of which, therefore, she knew nothing), "and ye may speak to her yersel on the subject."

John ran towards his sister, and clasped her in his arms. She did not recognise him for a second or two; but when she did, she burst into tears, and--

"O John, John," she said, "this is a sorrowfu hoose ye hae come to; but yer faither 'll hae tell't ye a'?"

"He has, Marion; and, amongst the rest, he has told me, what has surprised me more than all, that you intend marrying old John Maitland."

Marion burst afresh into tears. "It maun he sae, brother," she said--"it maun be sae. There's nae ither way o' savin my puir faither and mother frae ruin."

"But there is, though, Marion," replied her brother. "Ye need not now give your hand where your heart is not, for any such purpose. I have the means of saving you from the necessity of making this sacrifice, and gladly shall I employ them. I will pay our father's debts, Marion, and make you once more a free woman."

We would fain describe the joy--the rapturous, the inexpressible joy--with which these delightful words filled the bosom of the poor girl on whose ravished ear they fell; but we are sure that such an attempt would only interfere with the reader's more lively and vivid conceptions, and we therefore refrain from it.

On the same day on which these events occurred, John Waterstone, having previously settled his father's debt to his landlord with those sent to look after the latter's interest at the intended sale, wrote to the house through which the money he had transmitted to his father had been sent, mentioning its non-delivery, and requesting an explanation of the circumstance.

To this letter Mr Waterstone received, two days afterwards, the following reply:--

"SIR,--We have received, with very painful feelings, though not
with surprise, yours of the 10th instant. The misconduct of our
junior partner, which has placed us in a similarly distressing
predicament with several others as with you, has been the cause
of the gross irregularity of which you demand an explanation.
Your remittances, together with other moneys to a large amount,
were appropriated by this person (who has lately absconded) to
his own use--a practice which we have since discovered he has
been long addicted to. As we, however, consider ourselves bound
in honour to make good all such claims as yours--the sums you
transmitted having been advised to the firm, and the
responsibility accepted--we beg to inform you that the money
alluded to will be paid to your order, at our counting-house,
on demand. We need scarcely remark, that the circumstance above
mentioned will sufficiently account for the suppression of
letters of which you also complain.--We are, sir," &c.

This letter John Waterstone lost no time in laying before his father, whom it at once convinced of his son's veracity, and consequently of the injustice he had done him. But it was to his mother that this proof of her son's integrity and dutiful conduct brought the most triumphant joy.

"I was sure my John," she said, "wad never either forget or deceive us; and weel did I ken, as aften I have said, that it wad a' be satisfactorily accounted for, and that my laddie wad yet triumph owre a' his backbiters, and shame them that misdooted him."

We have only now to add, that John's generosity, on the occasion of this visit to his parents, which was only temporary, was not confined to the latter, but extended to his sister, on whom he bestowed a portion that enabled her and Richard Spalding to unite their destinies.

John returned shortly after to the West Indies, where he pursued a prosperous career for ten years longer, when he came home an independent man, and spent the remainder of his life in the place of his nativity.

MR SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN:

A TALE OF LOVE AND BANKRUPTCY.

CHAP I.--A WAY OF MAKING MONEY.

All the world knows that Mandeville, the author of the "Fable of the Bees," and Shaftesbury, the author of the "Characteristics," divided a great portion of mankind on a question which is now no question at all. That there are, assuredly, some instances to be met with of rational bipeds, who exhibit scarcely any traces of a moral sense, and act altogether upon the principle of selfishness, we do not deny; but this admission does not bind us to the selfish theory, for the very good reason, that we hold these creatures to be nothing better than a species of monsters. Nor do we think the world, with the tendency to self-love that prevails in it, would have been the better for the want of these living, walking exemplars of their patron--the devil; for, of a surety, they show us the fallen creature in all his naked deformity, and make us hate the principle of evil through the ugly flesh-case in which it works, and the noisome overt acts it turns up in the repugnant nostrils of good men. Now, if you are an inhabitant of that scandalous freestone village that lies near Arthur Seat, and took its name from the Northumbrian king, Edwin--corrupted, by the conceit of the inhabitants, into Edin--you will say that we mean something personal in these remarks; and, very probably, when we mention the name of Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, who, about twenty years after Mr John Neal introduced to the admiring eyes of the inhabitants of the Scottish metropolis the term haberdasher, carried on that trade in one of the principal streets of the city, our intention will be held manifest. And what then? We will only share the fate, without exhibiting the talent, of Horace, and shall care nothing if we return his good-humour--a quality of far greater importance to mankind than even that knowledge "which is versant with the stars."

Now, this Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, who took up, as we have already signified, the trade designated by the strange appellative introduced by the said John Neal, was one of those dabblers in morals who endeavour to make the whole system of morality accord with their own wishes. As to the moral sense, so strongly insisted for by the noble author of the "Characteristics," he considered it as a _taste_ something like that for _vertu_, which a man might have or not have, just as it pleased Dame Nature or Mr Syntax Pedagogue, but which he could pretend to have as often and in as great profusion as it pleased himself. It was, he acknowledged, a very good thing to have, sometimes, about one, but there were many things in the world far better--such as money, a good house, good victuals, good clothing, and so forth. It was again, sometimes, a thing a man might be much better without. It formed a stumbling-block to prosperity; and when, at the long run, a man had made to it many sacrifices, and become a beggar, "rich in the virtue of good offices," he did not find that it got him a softer bed in an almshouse, or a whiter piece of bread at the door of the rich. These sentiments were probably strengthened by the view he took of the world, and especially of our great country, where there is a mighty crying, and a mighty printing, about virtue, magnanimity, and honesty, in the abstract, while there is, probably, less real active honesty than might be found among the Karomantyns--yea, or the Hottentots or Cherokees. Then, too, it could not be denied that "riches cover a multitude of sins;" why, then, should not Mr Thriven strive to get rich?

Upon such a theory did Mr Samuel Thriven propose to act. It had clearly an advantage over theories in general, insomuch as it was every day reduced to practice by a great proportion of mankind, and so proved to be a good workable speculation. That he intended to follow out the practical part of his scheme with the same wisdom he had exhibited in choosing his theory of morals, may be safely doubted. Caution, which is of great use to all men in a densely-populated country, is an indispensable element in the composition of one who would be rich at the expense of others. A good-natured man will often allow himself to be cheated out of a sum which is not greater than the price of his ease; and there are a great number of such good-natured men in all communities. It is upon these that clever men operate--without them a great portion of the cleverest would starve. They are the lambs with sweet flesh and soft wool, making the plains a paradise for the wolves. A system of successful operations carried on against these quiet subjects, for a number of years, might have enabled Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven to have retired, with his feelings of enjoyment blunted, and his conscience quickened, to some romantic spot, where he might have turned poetical. An idle man is always, to some extent, a poet; and a rogue makes often a good sentimentalist.

This ought clearly to have been the course which worldly caution should have suggested as the legitimate working out of the theory of selfishness. But Mr Thriven was not gifted with the virtue of patience to the same extent that he was with the spirit of theorising on the great process of getting rich. He wanted to seize Plutus by a _coup de main_, and hug the god until he got out of him a liberal allowance. The plan has been attended with success; but it is always a dangerous one. The great deity of wealth has been painted lame, blind, and foolish, because he gives, without distinction, to the undeserving as well as to the worthy--to the bad often more than to the good. It is seldom his godship will be coaxed into a gift; and if he is attempted to be forced, he can use his lame leg, and send the rough worshipper to the devil. Neither can we say that Mr Thriven's scheme was new or ingenious, being no other than to "_break_ with the full hand"--a project of great antiquity in Scotland, and struck at for the first time by the act 1621, cap. 18. It existed, indeed, in ancient Rome, and was comprehended under the general term of stellionate, from stelio, a little subtle serpent, common in Italy. Always in great vogue in our country, it at one time roused the choler of our judges to such an extent, that they condemned the culprits either to wear the yellow cap and stockings of different colours, or be for ever at the mercy of their creditors. But these times had gone by, and a man might make a very respectable thing of a break, if he could manage it adroitly enough to make it appear that he had himself been the victim of misplaced confidence. So Mr Samuel having given large orders to the English houses for goods, at a pretty long credit, got himself in debt to an amount proportioned to the sum he wished to make by his failure. There is no place in the world where a man may get more easily in debt than in Scotland. We go for a decent, composed, shrewd, honest people; and, though we are very adequately and sufficiently hated by the volatile English, whom we so often beat on their own ground, and at their own weapons, we enjoy a greater share of their confidence in mercantile matters than their own countrymen. Vouchsafe to John the privilege of abusing Sawney, and calling him all manner of hard names, and he will allow his English neck to be placed in the Scottish noose with a civility and decorum that is just as commendable as his abuse of our countryman is ungenerous and unmanly. Mr Thriven's warehouses were accordingly soon filled with goods from both England and Scotland; and it is no inconsiderable indication of a man's respectability that he is able to get pretty largely in debt. When a man is to enter upon the speculation of failing, the step we have now mentioned is the first and most important preliminary. Debt is the Ossa from which the successful speculator rolls into the rich vale of Tempe. There are some rugged rocks in the side of his descent to independence--such as the examinations under the statutes--that are next to be guarded against, and the getting over these is a more difficult achievement than the getting himself regularly constituted a debtor. The running away of a trusty servant with a hundred pounds, especially if he has forged the cheque, may be the making of a good speculator in bankruptcy, because the loss of a thousand or two may be safely laid to the charge of one who dare not appear to defend himself. The failure and flight of a relation, to whom one gives a hundred pounds to leave him in his books a creditor in a thousand, is also a very good mode of overcoming some of the difficulties of failing; and a clever man, with a sharp foresight, ought to be working assiduously for a length of time in collecting the names of removing families, every one of whom will make a good "bad debtor." These things were not unknown to Mr Thriven; but accident did what the devil was essaying to do for him, or rather, speaking in a more orthodox manner, the great enemy, taking the form of the mighty power yclept Chance, set the neighbouring uninsured premises, belonging to Miss Fortune, the milliner, in a blaze; and a large back warehouse, in which there was scarcely anything save Mr Thriven's ledgers, was burned so effectually, that no person could have told whether they were full of Manchester goods or merely atmospheric air of the ordinary weight--that is, thirty-one grains to a hundred cubic inches.

When a respectable man wishes ardently for a calamity, he arrays his face in comely melancholy, because he has too much respect for public decorum to outrage the decencies of life. Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven accordingly _looked_ the loss he had sustained with a propriety that might have done honour to a widower between whom and a bad wife the cold grave has been shut for the space of a day, and then set about writing circulars to his creditors, stating that, owing to his having sustained a loss through the burning of a warehouse where he had deposited three thousand pounds' worth of goods, he was under the necessity of stopping payment. No attorney ever made more of letter-writing than Mr Samuel did on that day: in place of three shillings and fourpence for two pages, every word he penned was equal to a pound.

CHAP. II.--THE INSCRIPTION.

"Well," said Mr Samuel Thriven, after he had retired to his house, "this has been hard and hot work; but a man has a satisfaction in doing his duty, and that satisfaction may not be diminished by a bottle of port."

Now the port was as good as Ofleys; and Mr Thriven's thirst was nothing the less for the fire of the previous night, which he had done his utmost not to extinguish, and as he was in good spirits, he, like those people in good health who, to make themselves better, begin to take in a load of Morrison's pills, drew another cork, with that increased sound which belongs peculiarly to second bottles, and in a short time was well through with his potation. "How much, now," said he, as he pretended, in a knowing way, to look for a dead fly in the glass, which he held up between him and the candle, shutting, in the operation, the left eye, according to the practice of connoisseurs--"how much may I make of this transanction in the way of business?--Let me see--let me see."

And, as he accordingly tried to see, he took down from the mantelpiece an ink-bottle and a pen, and, having no paper within reach--he laid hold of a small book, well known to serious-minded people, and which was no other, in fact, than the "Pilgrim's Progress." But it was all one to Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, in the middle of his second bottle, what the book was, provided it had a blank leaf at the beginning or end thereof. It might, indeed, have been the "Louping-on-Stone for Heavy-Bottomed Believers," or the "Economy of Human Life," or the "Young Man's Best Companion," or "A New Way to Pay Old Debts;" or any other book or brochure in the wide republic of letters which the wisdom or wit of man has ever produced. It may verily be much doubted if he knew himself what book it was.

"Well, let me see," he said again, as he seized the pen, and held the blank leaf open before him. "The three thousand pounds lost by the fire is a very good item; I can easily make a very good list of very bad debts to the extent of five hundred pounds; I have three thousand of good banknotes in the house; and if I get off with a dividend of five shillings in the pound, which I can pay out of my stock, I may clear by this single transaction, in the way of business, as much as may make me comfortable for the whole period of my natural life."