Chapter XIV: Conclusion (9)

"But _I_ have not paid the debt, Mr Langridge. I _could_ not pay the debt."

"No; but somebody else might. The short and the long of it is, Mr Reid, that a _friend_ has come forward, and settled the claim on which diligence was raised against you. The bill, with interest and all expenses, _is_ paid, and you are again a free man."

Again overwhelmed by his feelings, which were a thousand times more eloquently expressed by a flood of silent tears than they could have been by the most carefully rounded periods, it was some time before the young man could pursue the conversation, or ask for the further information which he yet intensely longed to possess. On recovering from the burst of emotion which had, for the moment, deprived him of the power of utterance--

"And _who_, pray, Mr Langridge, is this friend--this friend indeed?"

"Why, I do not know exactly whether I am at liberty to tell you, Mr Reid," replied Mr Langridge. "The friend you allude to declined transacting this matter personally with you, which seems to imply that he did not care that you should know who he was; yet, as he certainly did not expressly forbid me to disclose him, and as I think it but right that you should know to whom you are indebted, I will venture to tell you. Had you some conversation, at an early hour this morning, with an old stone-breaker, on the highway side, about three or four miles from town?"

"I had. The old man that was sitting here when I came in."

"The same. Well, what would you think if _he_ should have been the friend in question? Would you expect from his manner, that he _would_ do such a thing? or, from his appearance and occupation, that he could?"

"Certainly not--certainly not. The old man--the poor old man, to whom I offered half-a-crown--who works for ninepence a-day--who never saw me in his life before this morning--who knows nothing of me! Impossible, Mr Langridge--impossible; he cannot be the man. You do not say that he is?"

"But I do though, Mr Reid, and that most distinctly. It is he, and no other, I assure you, who has done you this friendly service."

"Then, if it be so, I know not what to say to it, Mr Langridge. I can say nothing. I trust, however, I shall not be found wanting on the score of gratitude. I can say no more. But will you be so good as inform me, if you can, how the good man has come to do me so friendly a service? Who on earth, or what is he?"

"Sit down, sit down, Mr Reid, and I'll answer all your questions--I'll tell you all about him," replied Mr Langridge.

Mr Reid having complied with this invitation, the latter began:--

"The history of the old stone-breaker, my good sir, is a very short and a very simple one. It contains no vicissitude, and to few, besides ourselves, would be found possessing any particular interest. Your friend was, in his youth, a soldier, and served, I believe, in the American war. At his return home on the conclusion of that war, he was discharged, still a young man, and shortly after married a woman with a fortune" (smilingly) "of some five-and-twenty or thirty pounds. With this sum the thrifty pair purchased two or three cows, and commenced the business of cowfeeders. They prospered; for they were both saving and industrious, and, in time, realized a considerable sum of money, which they went on increasing. This they invested in house property from time to time, till their possessions of this kind became very valuable.

"For upwards of forty years they continued in this way, when Mrs Lumsden died, leaving her husband a lonely widower; for they had no children. On the death of the former, the latter, who was now an old man, and unequal to conducting, alone, the business in which his wife's activity and industry had hitherto aided him, sold off his cows, and proposed to live in retirement on the rents of his property; and this he did for some time. Accustomed, however, to a life of constant labour and exertion, the old man soon found the idleness on which he had thrown himself, intolerably irksome. He became miserable from a mere want of having something to do. While in this state of ennui, chancing one day to stroll into the country, (this is what he told me himself,) he saw some labouring men knapping stones by the way-side; and strange as the fancy may seem, he was instantly struck with a desire of taking to this occupation. He did so, and has, from that day to the present, now upwards of ten years, pursued it with as much assiduity as if it was his only resource for a subsistence. He has, as I already told you, no family of his own; neither has he, I believe, any relation living; or, if there be, they must be very remote; and, as he strictly confines his expenditure to his daily earnings as a stone-breaker--some ninepence a-day, I believe--his wealth is rapidly increasing, and is, at this moment, no trifle, I assure you. Now, my good sir, when I tell you that I am the law agent of this strange, eccentric person, and that I manage all his business for him, I have told you everything about him that is worth mentioning."

"There is just one thing, Mr Langridge," said Mr Reid, who had been an attentive listener to the tale just told him, "that wants explanation: can you give me the smallest shadow of a reason for the part he has acted towards me?"

"Nay, there you puzzle me; I cannot. It appears as unaccountable to me as to you, although I have known Mr Lumsden now for upwards of fifteen years."

"Did you ever know him do a thing of this kind before?"

"Never! and I must say candidly, that, although he is by no means deficient in kindness of heart, notwithstanding his rough exterior, I did not believe him capable of such an act of generosity."

"It is an extraordinary matter," said Mr Reid; "and although I can have but little right to inquire into the _motives_ for an act by which I am so largely benefited--it seems ungracious to do so--yet would I give a good round sum, if I had it to spare, to know the real cause of this good man's friendship towards me."

"Why, that I suspect neither you nor I shall ever know. I question much, indeed, if the principal actor in this affair himself could give a reason for what he has done. It seems to me just one of those odd and unaccountable things which eccentric men, like Mr Lumsden, will sometimes do; and with this solution of the mystery, and the benefit it has produced to you, I rather think, Mr Reid, you must be content. I would, however, add, in order to redeem Mr Lumsden's act of generosity from the character of a mere whim, that your case was one eminently calculated to excite any latent feeling of benevolence which he might possess; and that your manner and appearance--no flattery--are equally well calculated to second a claim so established. Yourself, and your peculiar circumstances, in short, had chanced to touch the right chord in a right man's breast, and hence the response on which we are speculating."

Having thus discussed the knotty point of the old stonebreaker's sudden act of generosity, Mr Langridge invited Mr Reid to put his affairs into his hands, promising that they should have the advantage, on his part, of something more than mere professional zeal. This friendly invitation the latter gladly accepted, and shortly after consigned all his business matters to the care of the worthy writer, who exerted himself in behalf of his client with an efficiency that soon placed the latter once more in the way of well-doing. And well he did; having subsequently realised a very handsome independency. In the success of the young man, no one rejoiced more than the old stone-breaker, who frequently visited him in his shop; sometimes merely for the purpose of seeing him; at others, to purchase some of those little articles of ironmongery which the due preservation of his dwelling-house property demanded. Let us state, too, that, amongst his purchases, were, at different times, the hammer-heads which he used in his occupation of stone-breaking.

In their first transaction in this way, there was something curiously characteristic of the old man's peculiarities of temper. Mr Reid, not yet perfectly aware of these peculiarities, declined, for some time, putting any price on a couple of hammer-heads which his friend had picked out. He would have made him a present of them; and, to the latter's inquiry as to their price, replied, evasively, and laughing while he spoke, that he would tell him that afterwards.

"I tak nae credit, young man," said the stone-breaker, crustily, "tell me enow their cost." And he pulled out a small greasy leathern purse, and was undoing its strings, when Mr Reid laid his hand on his arm to prevent him, at the same time telling him that he would do him a favour by accepting the hammer-heads in a present. "What is such a trifle between you and me, Mr Lumsden--you to whom I owe everything?"

"You owe me a great deal mair than ye're ever likely to pay me, at ony rate, young man, if this be the way ye transact business," replied the other, with evident signs of displeasure. "Tell me the price o' thae hammer-heads at ance, an' be dune wi't. I hae nae broo o' folk that fling awa their guids as ye seem inclined to do."

Mr Reid blushed at the reproof, but, seeing at once how the land lay, with regard to his customer's temper, he now plumply named the price of the hammers, sevenpence each.

"Sevenpence!" exclaimed the old man. "I'll gie ye nae such price. Doonricht robbery! I can get them as guid in ony shop in the toon for saxpence ha'penny. If ye like to tak that price for them, ye may hae't. If no, ye can keep them."

Mr Reid, now knowing his man somewhat better than he did at first, demurred, but at length agreed to the abatement, and the transaction was thus brought to a close.

We need hardly add, that the L50 advanced by the old man to Mr Reid were subsequently repaid; but the call is more imperative on us to state, that, on the former's death, which took place about two years after, the latter found himself named in his will for a very considerable sum. One, somewhat larger, was bequeathed by the same document to Mr Langridge. The remainder was appropriated to various charities. And here, good reader, ends the story of the Stone-Breaker.

LAIRD RORIESON'S WILL.

In the little town of Maybole there lived, some fifty years ago or more, an old man of the name of George Rorieson, more commonly called Laird Rorieson. He had been a kind of general merchant, or trafficker in any kind of commodities which he thought would yield him a profit; and, by dint of great sagacity, had made some very fortunate hits, and realised a large sum of money. Having begun the world with a penny, he was emphatically the maker of his own fortunes--a circumstance he was very proud of, and loved to sound in the ears of certain individuals who envied him his riches. Having amassed his money by an accumulation of small sums, for a long course of years, he had gradually become narrower and narrower, as his wealth increased; and, by the time he arrived at the age of sixty, his penurious feelings had become so strong and deeprooted that he could scarcely afford himself the means of a comfortable subsistence.

It is almost needless to say that Laird Rorieson never had courage or liberality of sentiment sufficient to give him an impulse towards matrimony; and truly it was alleged that he never oven looked on womankind with any feelings different from those with which he contemplated his fellow-creatures generally; and these had always some connection, one way or another, with making profit of them. But, though he had no wife, he had a good store of nephews and nieces--somewhere about twenty--all poor enough, God knows! but all as hopeful as brides and bridegrooms of a great store of wealth and bliss being awaiting them on the death of Uncle Geordie.

The affection which these twenty nephews and nieces shewed to Uncle George was remarkable; but, somehow or another, the good uncle hated them mortally, and, the bitterer he became, the more loving they waxed--so that it was very wonderful to see so much human love and sympathy thrown away upon an old churl who could have seen all the devoted creatures at the devil.

It was indeed alleged that this crabbed miser had no love for any one, all his affection being expended upon his money-bags: but we are bound to say that this is not quite the truth; for there was a neighbour of the name of Saunders Gibbieson, a bachelor, for whom the Laird really felt some small twinges of human kindness. Saunders Gibbieson was as true a Scotchman as ever threw the pawkie glamour of a twinkling grey eye over the open face of an English victim. He was, as already said, a bachelor; but unlike his friend Geordie, he loved the fair sex, and vowed he would marry the bonniest lass o' Maybole the moment he was able to sustain her "in bed, board, and washing." He had scraped together a few pounds, maybe to the extent of a hundred or two, and looked forward to making himself happy at no very distant period. He was a famous hand at a political argument; and there was not a man in Maybole who could touch him at driving a bargain.

As already said, Geordie had a kind of feeling towards Saunders, and there can be no doubt that Saunders had as strong an affection for the "auld rich grub," as he called him in his throat, as ever had any of the twenty nephews and nieces already alluded to. In the evenings he often went in and sat with him; and, by dint of curious jokes, "humorous lees," and political anecdotes, he contrived to wile, for a few minutes, the creature's heart from his money-bags, and unbend his puckered cheeks and lips into a species of compromise between a laugh and a grin. It was no wonder, then, that Geordie had a kind of liking for Saunders--seeing he got value in amusement from him, without so much cost as even a piece of old dry cheese, of a waught of thin ale. On the other hand, it was difficult to see how Saunders could love the laird; and, indeed, it was a matter of gossip what could induce a man so much in request as Saunders Gibbieson to take so much pains in pouring into the "leather lugs" of an old miser the precious jokes that would have set the biggest table in Maybole in a roar.

Now the time came when Laird Rorieson began to feel the first touches of that big black angel who loves to hug so fondly the sons of men. He was ill--he was indeed very ill--and it would have done any man's heart good to see the kindness and sympathy which his twenty nephews and nieces paid him. Every hour one or other of them was calling at his house; and his ears were regaled by the sympathetic tones which their love for their dear uncle wrung from their tender hearts. Oh, it was beautiful to behold! Such things do credit to our fallen nature. But the old grub loved it not; and it was even said he cursed and swore in the very faces of the kind creatures, just as if they had had an eye on the heavy coffers of gold that lay in his house. This kindness on the part of his nephews and nieces was thus converted into a kind of poison; for every time they called, their uncle got into such a passion that his remaining strength was well-nigh worn out. But he had still enough left to sign his name; and the ungrateful creature resolved upon leaving all his gold to found an hospital. He sent for a man of the law, and had a consultation with locked doors, and all things seemed in a fair way for the poor nephews and nieces being sacrificed for ever.

This circumstance came to the ears of Saunders Gibbieson, who had not been an unattentive spectator of the extraordinary proceedings going on in the house of his neighbour. As soon as he heard the news, he retired and meditated, and communed with himself three hours on matters of deep concernment to him and the generations that might descend from him. The result of all this study was a resolution alike remarkable for its eccentricity and sagacity; but Saunders' spirit dipped generally so deep in the wells of wisdom that there was no wonder it should come forth drunk, as it were, with the golden policy of cunning.

Now, all of a sudden, Saunders grew (as he said) very ill--as ill indeed, or nearly as ill, as Laird Rorieson himself, but, so full was he of brotherly love towards his neighbour, that his sudden illness did not prevent him calling upon the latter one night, when there seemed to be no great chance of their being disturbed by any of the sympathetic nephews and nieces. He found Geordie very weakly, and sat down by the bedside, to pour the balm of his friendship and consolation into the sick man's ear. The Laird received him kindly, and as was his custom, Saunders got him into a pleasant humour, by telling him something of a curious nature that had occurred, or had been supposed by Saunders to have occurred, during the day. He then began the more important part of his work.

"You are ill, Laird," said he; "but I question muckle if ye're sae ill as I am myself. For a long time I've been in a dwinin way, and, though I hae kept up a fair appearance and good spirits, I've been gradually getting thinner and weaker. I fear I'm in a fair way for anither warld."

"I'm sorry to hear't," replied the Laird. "It's a sad thing to dee." And he shook as he uttered the word.

"Ay, an' it's a sad thing," said Saunders, "to be tormented in your illness, wi' thae cursed corbies o' puir relations. The moment I began to complain I've been tormented wi' a host o' nephews and nieces, wha come and stare into my hollow een, as if they would count the draps o' blude that are yet left in my heart."

"Ay, ay, are you in that plight too, Saunders?" groaned the Laird. "The ravens have been croaking owre me for twa lang years. They come and perch on the very bedposts, they croak, they whet their nebs, they look into my face, and peer into my very heart. It's dreadful--and there's nae remedy. I've tried to terrify them awa; but they come aye back again. They've worn me fairly out."

"I've had many a meditation on the subject, Laird," said Saunders; "and, between you and me, if there's a goose quill in a' Scotland, I'll hae a shot at them. I haena muckle i' the warld--a thousand or twa maybe, hard won, Geordie, as a' gowd is in thae hard times; but the deil a plack o't they'll ever touch."

"Ye'll be to found an hospital?" said the Laird.

"Na, na," answered Saunders. "I'll found nae beggar's palace. I've studied political economy owre lang to be ignorant o' the bad effects o' public charities. They relax the sinews o' industry, and mak learned mendicants. Besides, wha thanks the founder o' an hospital for his charity? Nane!--nane! A puff or twa in the newspapers about Gibbieson's mortification would be the hail upshot o' my reward; and sensible folk would set me doun as an auld curmudgeon, wha hadna heart to love and benefit a friend."

"There's some truth in that," muttered the Laird. "It's a pity a body canna tak his gear wi' him. Sair hae I toiled for it, and, oh! it's miserable! cruel! cruel! that I should be obliged to leav't to a thankless warld! But what are ye to do wi'fc, Saivjders?"

"Indeed, I'm just to leave it a' to you, Laird," said Saunders. "I have lang liked ye wi' a' the luve o' honest, leal friendship; and, after muckle meditation, I canna fix on a mortal creature wha is mair deservin o't than you, my guid auld freend. You have a fair chance o' recovering; I have nane. Ye may enjoy my gear lang after the turf has grown thegither owre my grave; and God bless the gift!"

"Kind, guid man!" cried the Laird, in a voice evincing strong emotion, either of love or greed. "That _is_ kindness--ay, very different frae the friendship o' my sisters' and brothers' bairns. After a', I believe yer richt, Saunders--an hospital has nae gratitude; and what have we to do wi' a cauld and heartless warld?"

"There's just ae difficulty I hae," said Saunders. "The will's written and signed; but I dinna weel ken whar to lay it; for, when I'm dead, thae deevils o' corbies may smell the bit paper and put it in the fire. Maybe you would tak the charge o't for me, Laird."

"Ou ay," answered the Laird. "I'll keep it. The deil o' are o' them will get it oot o' my clutches."

"Weel, weel, my dear friend," said Saunders. "I'll put it into a tin box; the key ye'll find, after my breath's out, in the little cupboard that's at the foot o' my bed--ye ken the place. They can mak naething o' the key without the box; and, if you canna find the key, you can force the box open. Oh, I would like to see you reading the will in the midst o' the harpies."

"That's weel arranged, Saunders; ye can set about it as soon as you like."

"I intend to do it instantly, Laird," replied the man. "I'll about it this moment." And he rose and went out of the house.

In a short time, Saunders returned, holding in his hand a small tin box. He laid it down upon the table, and, taking out a small key, opened it, and took out a paper, entitled--"Last Will and Testament."

"There it is, my good friend," he said; and, replacing the paper in the box, he locked it and placed it in an escritoire pointed out by the Laird. He then went away.

Next day, the lawyer came to carry into effect the charitable resolution of Laird Rorieson; but he found that a great change had taken place upon the old man's sentiments. He was now adverse to a mortification, and said he was resolved upon leaving his fortune to one whom he considered to be a _real friend_, and, indeed, the only real friend he had upon earth. The lawyer was surprised when he ascertained that this friend was Saunders Gibbieson; but it was not his province to object--so he departed straightway to carry into effect the new resolution of the testator.

Two days afterwards, the Laird sent a message to Saunders to come and speak with him. Saunders obeyed; walking in to him slowly, and apparently with great effort, as if he had been labouring under a strong disease.

"I have been thinking again and again, Saunders," said the Laird, "o' yer great kindness. You are the first man that ever left me a farthing. The warld has rugged aff me since ever I had a feather to pick. Nane has ever offered me either a bite or a sup. You are the only friend I've ever met upon earth."

"I hae only obeyed the dictates o' my heart," replied Saunders; "and I am glad I have dune it, for I feel mysel very weakly, and fear the clock o' this world's time will be wound up wi' me in a very short period."

"Maybe no so sune as ye think, Saunders," replied the Laird. "But my purpose is executed. Saunders, you are my heir. Hand me that box there."

Saunders took up a small mahogany box that lay on the table, and handed it to him.

"Here," continued the Laird, taking out a paper; "here is my will. It's a' in your favour, Saunders--lands, houses, guids, and chattels, heritable and moveable. Say naething; you are my heir. Ha! ha! let the corbies croak. You've dune me a guid service; I winna be ahint ye. Tak the box into yer ain keeping. I'll keep the key. Awa wi't this instant. Ha! ha! let the corbies croak."

Saunders obeyed. He carried the box into his own house, placed it in his cupboard, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.

In about a month afterwards, old Laird Rorieson departed this life. On the day of his death, his nephews and nieces were in great commotion, and there was a terrible running to and fro, and much whispering, and wondering, and gossiping--all on the great subject of the death of Uncle Geordie. On the day of his funeral, they were all collected, to see whether there was any will. They, of course, wished that there should be none, because they, being his heirs, would succeed to all, if there was no disposition of the old man's effects. By some means, Saunders Gibbieson contrived to be present along with the expectants. Perhaps he was allowed to be among them in the character of a witness; but indeed, so certain were the nephews and nieces of having succeeded in their efforts to please the dear old man, that they could afford to allow the presence of any number of witnesses who could vouch for the sacred gravity of their countenances, and the deep sorrows of their bereaved hearts. Nor was Saunders less under the affection of lugubriousness himself; so that it was altogether one of those beautiful sights so often witnessed on such melancholy occasions, where every indication of selfishness is banished, and nothing can be observed save that Christian solemnity which proveth that "the devil hath been cast out of the heart of man, even when he did appear to be strong." The nephews and the nieces looked at Saunders, and Saunders looked at them, and so solemn were these looks, that though the writer was searching about for a will, no one seemed to care whether he found one or not. It has been said that "the heart of man is deceitful above all things;" but of a surety the adage could not have been spoken there, except with the determination to get it disproved for once in the world, and the blessed object of shewing to us sons of the seed of Abraham that we are not so wicked as we are called.

At length the ominous little box was laid hold of and broken open, amidst a pretty nonchalance, and lo! there was indeed a paper, bearing the fearful word "Will," and the faces of the heirs turned as pale as the paper itself. It was opened; but it was a fair, clean sheet of paper, and not a drop of ink had stained its purity. "All safe, all safe," muttered the heirs.

"Here is another box," said Saunders Gibbieson, holding up the mahogany one; "let us try it." And he opened it, and took out Geordie's will. The writer read it aloud. Saunders was sole heir to all the old miser's possessions, amounting to L10,000. No one could tell the reason why there were two papers marked "Will," and one of them a blank sheet; and Saunders, simple man, did not trouble himself to give any explanation.

END OF VOL. XVIII.

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Transcriber's Notes: Hyphen variations left as printed