GEORDIE WILLISON,
AND THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE GOWER.
Antiquaries know very well that one of the oldest of the Nova Scotia knights, belonging to Scotland, was Sir Marmaduke Maitland of Castle Gower, situated in one of the southern counties of the kingdom; but they may not know so well that Sir Marmaduke held his property under a strict entail to heirs male, whom failing, to heirs female, under the condition of bearing the arms and name of the Castle Gower family; or that he was married to Catherine Maxwell, a near relative of the family of Herries, in the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright—a person of no very great beauty, but sprightly, and of good manners. This woman had been brought up in France, and was deeply tinged with French feelings. She had French cooks and French milliners about her in abundance; and a French lackey was considered by her as indispensable as meat and drink. Then she was represented as being a proud, imperious woman, with a bad temper; which was rendered worse by her continued fretting, in consequence of not having any children to her husband; whereby the property would go away to a son of her husband’s brother. Sir Marmaduke and his lady had a town-house in Edinburgh, in which they lived for the greater part of the year, situated so as to look to the North Back of the Canongate, and with an entry to it from that street, but the principal gate was from the north side. A garden was attached to the house; and the stables and coach-houses were situated at the foot of the garden. All these premises are now removed; but Sir Marmaduke Maitland’s house—or, as it was styled, the Duke’s house—at the period of this story, was a very showy house, and very well known to the inhabitants of Edinburgh.
Now, at the foot of Leith Wynd, there lived, about the same time, a poor widow woman, called Widow Willison, who had a son and a daughter. She was the widow of a William Willison, who earned a livelihood by the humble means of serving the inhabitants of Edinburgh with water, which he conveyed to their doors by the means of an ass; and was, in consequence, called Water Willie—a good, simple, honest creature; much liked by his customers, from whom he never wanted a good diet; and had no fault, but that of disliking the element in which he dealt. He liked he said very well to drive water to the great folks, and he wished them “meikle guid o’t; but, for his ain pairt, he preferred whisky, which, he thocht, was o’ a warmer and mair congenial nature, and better suited to the inside o’ a rational animal, like man.”
Strange enough, it was to William Willison’s dislike to water that people attributed his death. It would have been more logical—but scandal is a bad logician—to have debited that event to the water; for, though it will not conceal that Willie was drunk when he died, it was as notorious that it was not because he was drunk that he died—but that he died because his water-cart went over him when he was drunk. However that may be, and there is no use in wasting much reasoning on the point, William left, at his death, a widow and two children, with nothing to support them.
Widow Willison was a good, religious woman, of the old school, believing in the transcendent influence of mere faith, as carrying along with it all the minor points of justification by works, election, and others, in the same way that a river takes with it the drops of rain that fall from the heavens, and carries all down to the ocean. She was an excellent example of the influence of a pure religion—kind and generous in her sentiments; and, though left with two children, and no food to satisfy their hunger, patient and hopeful—placing implicit trust and confidence in the Author of all good, and viewing murmuring as a sin against His providence.
Let us introduce, now, George Willison, her son, an extraordinary individual, apparently destined to be more notorious than his father, in so much as his character was composed of that mixture of simplicity, bordering on silliness, and shrewd sagacity in the ordinary affairs of life, which is often observed in people of Scotland. Though common, the character is nearly inexplicable to the analyst; for the individual seems conscious of the weaker part of his character, but he appears to love it, and often makes it subservient to the stronger elements of his mind, by using it at once as a cloak and a foil to them. George, like the other individuals of his peculiar species, followed no trade. Sometimes he acted as a cadie, a letter-carrier, a messenger, a porter, a water-carrier—in any capacity, in short, in which he could, with no continuous labour, earn a little money. To work at any given thing for longer time than a day, was a task which he generally condemned, as being wearisome and monotonous, and more suited to the inferior animals than to man. His clothes, like his avocations, were many-coloured, and suited the silly half of his character, without altogether depriving him of the rights of a citizen, or making him the property and sport of school-boys. Like his employments, his earnings were chancy and various, ranging between a shilling to five shillings a-week, including gratuities, which his conceit prompted him to call “helps,” with a view to avoid the imputation of living upon alms—a name, in the Scotch language “awmous,” which did not sound agreeably in the ears of Geordie Willison.
The very reverse of George was his sister—a black-eyed beauty, of great intelligence, who earned a little money, to support the family, by means of her needle. She was a great comfort to her mother, seldom going out, and felt much annoyed by the strange character of her brother, whom she often endeavoured to improve, with a view to his following some trade. He was twenty years of age, and if he did not “tak’ himself up” now, she said, “he would be a vagrant a’ his days.” Geordie, on the other hand, quietly heard his sister, but he never saw—at least, he pretended not to see, which was the same thing—the force of her argument. The weak half of his constitution was always presented to any attack of logic; and the adroitness with which he met his opponent by this soft buckler—which, like a feather-bed presented to a canon bullet, swallowed the force and the noise at the same time—was worthy of Aristotle, or Thomas Scotus, or any other logical warrior. Take an example:—
“Whar hae ye been the day, Geordie?” said his mother to him one day.
“I hae been convoying Sir Marmaduke Maitland a wee bit on his way to France,” said Geordie. “He asked me to bear him company and carry his luggage to Leith, and I couldna refuse sic a favour to the braw knight.”
“An’ what got ye frae him?” said his mother; “for I hae naething i’ the house for supper.”
“Twa or three placks,” said Geordie, throwing down some coppers on the table.
“This is the 21st day o’ April—your birthday, Geordie,” said the mother; “an’ as it has aye been our practice to hae something by common on that occasion, I’ll gang down to Widow Johnston’s an’ get a pint o’ the best, to drink yer health wi’.” And Widow Willison did as she said.
“Is Lady Maitland no awa wi’ Sir Marmaduke, Geordie?” resumed his mother, when they were taking their meagre supper.
“Na! na!” said Geordie; “they dinna like ane anither sae weel; an’ I dinna wonder at Sir Marmaduke no likin’ her, for I dinna like her mysel.”
“For what reason, Geordie?” asked his mother.
“Because she doesna like me,” answered the casuist.
Now it happened that on the 19th day of February, after the conversation here detailed, that George Willison was wandering over the grounds of Warriston, on the north side of Edinburgh. He had been with a letter to the Laird of Warriston, and, in coming back, as was not uncommon with him, was musing, in a half dreaming, listless kind of state, as he sauntered through the planted grounds in the neighbourhood. His attention was in an instant arrested by the sounds of voices, and he stood, or rather sat down, behind a hedge and listened. The speakers were very near to him; for it was so very dark that they could not observe him.
“I will stand at a little distance, Louise,” said a voice, “and thou canst do the thing thyself. I could despatch thine, but I cannot do that good work to myself; for the mother rises in me, and unnerves me quite. Besides, thou didst promise to do me this service for the ten gold pieces I gave thee, and the many more I will yet give thee.”
“Oui! oui! my lady; but de infant is so fort, so trong, dat it will be difficult for me to trottle her. Death, la mort, does not come ever when required; but I vill do my endeavour to trangle de leetle jade, vit as much activity as I can. Ha! ha! de leetle baggage tinks she is already perdir—she tombles so—be quiet, you petite leetle deevil. It vill be de best vay, I tink, to do it on de ground. Hark! is dere not some person near?—my heart goes en palpitant.”
“It is nobody, thou fool,” answered the lady; “it is only a rustling produced by a breath of wind among the trees.”
“Very vell, very vell, my Lady Maitland; dat is right. Now for de vork.”
“Stop until I am at a little distance; and, when thou hearest me cry ‘Now,’ finish the thing cleverly.”
The rustling of the lady’s gown betokened that she had done as she said. The rustling ceased; and the word “Now,” came from the mouth of the mother.
All was silent for a minute; a quick breath, indicating the application of a strong effort, was now heard, mixed with the sound of a convulsed suspiration, something like that of a child labouring under hooping-cough, though weaker. The rustling of clothes indicated a struggle of some violence; and several ejaculations escaped at intervals:—“Mon dieu! dis is de triste vork; how trong de leetle she velp is!—now, now—not yet—how trange!—diable! she still breats!”
“Hast thou finished, Louise?” asked the lady, impatiently.
“Not yet, my lady,” said Louise; “give me your hair necklace; de leetle she velp vont die vitout tronger force dan my veak hands can apply.”
“I cannot go to thee,” said the lady; “thou must come to me. Lay the babe on the ground, and come for the necklace.”
Louise did as she was desired.
The sounds of a struggle again commenced, mixed with Louise’s ejaculations:—“Now, now—dis vill do for you—une fois—vonce, twice, trice round—dat vill do—quite sufficient to kill de giant, or Sir Marmaduke himself. Now, my lady, I tink de ting is pretty vell done; I vill trow her into de hedge—dere—now, let us go.”
The two ladies went away, and Geordie rushed forward to the place where they had thrown the child. It was still convulsed. He loosened the necklace, which had been left by mistake, and blew strongly into the child’s mouth. He heard it sigh, and in a little time breathe; and, carrying it with the greatest care, he took it home with him to his mother’s house.
“Whar hae ye been, man, and what is this ye hae in your airms?” said Widow Willison to Geordie, when he went in.
“It’s a wee bit birdie I fand in a nest amang the hedges o’ Warriston,” said Geordie. “Its mither didna seem to care aboot it, and I hae brought it hame wi’ me. Gie’t a pickle crowdie, puir thing.”
Astonished, and partly displeased, Widow Willison took the child out of her son’s arms, and seeing its face swoln and blue, and marks of strangulation on its neck, her maternal sympathies arose, and she applied all the articles of a mother’s pharmacopœia with a view to restore it.
“But whar got ye the bairn, man?” she again inquired. “Gie us nane o’ yer nonsense about birds and hedges. Tell us the story sae as plain folk can understand it.”
“I hae already tauld ye,” said Geordie, dryly and slowly; “and it’s no my intention at present to tell ye ony mair aboot it. Ye didna ask whar I came frae when ye got me first.”
“An’ wha’s to bring up the bairn?” asked the mother, who knew it was in vain to put the same question twice to Geordie.
“Ye didna ask that question at my faither when I cam hame,” replied the stoic, with one of his peculiar looks; “but, if ye had, maybe ye wadna hae got sae kind an answer as I’ll gie ye: Geordie Willison will pay for bringing up the bairn; and I’ll no answer ony mair o’ yer questions.”
Strictly did Geordie keep his word with his mother. He would tell neither her nor his sister anything about the child. They knew his temper and disposition, and gradually resigned an importunity which had the effect of making him more obstinate. At night, when the child’s clothes were taken off, with a view to putting it to bed, Geordie got hold of them and carried them off, unknown to his mother. He locked them up in his chest, and, in the morning, when his mother asked him if he had seen them, he said he knew nothing about them. Annoyed by this conduct on the part of her son, his mother threatened to throw the child upon the parish as a foundling; and yet, when she reflected on the extreme sagacity which was mixed up with her son’s peculiarities, and read in his looks, which she well understood, a more than ordinary confidence of power to do what he had said, as to bringing up the child, she hesitated in her purpose, and at last resolved to go in with the humour and inclinations of her son, and do the duty of a mother to the babe.
We now change the scene.
“It’s a braw day this, my Leddy Maitland,” said Geordie, bowing to the very ground, and holding in his hand a clean sheet of paper, which he had folded up like a letter, as a passport to her ladyship’s presence.
Lady Maitland, who was sitting at her work-table, stared at the person thus saluting her, and seeing it was Geordie Willison, who had offended her at the time of his carrying down Sir Marmaduke’s luggage, by asking, jocularly, if “ony o’ the bairns were gaun wi’ their father,” she asked him sternly what he wanted, and, thinking he had the letter in his hand to deliver to her, snatched it in a petted manner and opened it. On finding it a clean sheet of paper, with her address on the back of it, she got into a great rage, and ran to the bell to call up a lackey to kick Geordie down stairs.
“Canny, my braw leddy—canny,” said Geordie, seizing her hand; “ye are hasty—maybe no quite recovered yet—the wet dews o’ Warriston are no for the tender health o’ the bonny Leddy Maitland; for even Geordie Willison, wha can ban a’ bield i’ the cauldest nicht o’ winter, felt them chill and gruesome as he passed through them yestreen.”
On hearing this speech, Lady Maitland changed, in an instant, from a state of violent passion to the rigidity and appearance of a marble statue.
Eyeing her with one of his peculiar looks, as much as to say, “I know all,” Geordie proceeded.
“I dinna want to put your leddyship to ony trouble by this veesit; but, being in want o’ some siller in thir hard times, I thocht I would tak the liberty o’ ca’in upon yer leddyship, as weel for the sake o’ being better acquainted wi’ a leddy o’ yer station and presence, as for the sake o’ gettin’ the little I require on my first introduction to high life.”
“How much money dost thou require?” asked the lady, with a tremulous voice.
“Twunty pund, my leddy, twenty pund at the present time,” answered Geordie, with the same simple look; “ye ken the folk haud me for a natural, and ower fu’ a cup is no easy carried, even by the wise. Sae, I wadna like to trust mysel’ wi’ mair than twenty pund at a time.”
Without saying a word, Lady Maitland went, with trembling steps, and a hurried and confused manner, to her bureau: she took out her keys—tried one, then another, and, with some difficulty, at last got it opened. She counted out twenty pounds, and handed it over to Geordie, who counted it again with all the precision of a modern banker.
“Thank ye, my leddy,” said Geordie; “an’ whan I need mair, I’ll just tak the liberty o’ makin yer leddyship my banker. Guid day, my leddy.” And, with a low bow, reaching nearly to the ground, he departed.
The result of this interview satisfied Geordie that what he had suspected was true. Sir Marmaduke had not yet returned, and his lady, having been unfaithful to him, and given birth to a child, had resolved upon putting it out of the way, in the manner already detailed. He had no doubt that the lady thought the child was dead; and he did not wish, in the meantime, to disturb that notion; for, although he knew that the circumstance of the child being alive would give him greater power over her, in the event of her becoming refractory, he was apprehensive that she would not have allowed the child to remain in his keeping; and might, in all likelihood, resort to some desperate scheme to destroy it.
On returning home, Geordie drew his seat to the fire, and sat silent. His mother, who was sitting opposite to him, asked him if he had earned any money that day, wherewith he could buy some clothes for the child he had undertaken to bring up. With becoming gravity, and without appearing to feel that any remarkable change had taken place upon his finances, Geordie slowly put his hand into his pocket, drew out the twenty pounds, and gave his mother one for interim expenditure. As he returned the money into his pocket, he said, with an air of the most supreme nonchalance, “If ye want ony mair, ye can let me ken.”
The mother and daughter looked at each other with surprise and astonishment, mixed with some pleasure, and, perhaps, some apprehension. Neither of them put any question as to where the money had been got; for Geordie’s look had already informed them that any such question would not be answered.
Meanwhile, no great change seemed to have been produced in Geordie Willison’s manner of living, in consequence of his having become comparatively rich. He lounged about the streets, joking with his acquaintances—went his messages—sometimes appeared with a crowd of boys after him—dressed in the same style—and, altogether, was just the same kind of person he used to be.
Time passed, and precisely on the same day next year he went to Lady Maitland’s. In the passage, he was met by the housekeeper, Louise Grecourt, who asked him what he wanted. He looked at her intently, and recognised in this person’s voice the same tones which had arrested his ears so forcibly on the night of the attempted murder of the child. To make himself more certain of this, Geordie led her into conversation.
“I want my Leddy Maitland,” answered Geordie—“are ye her leddyship?”
“No,” answered the housekeeper, with a kick of her head, which Geordie took as a sign that his bait had been swallowed; “I am not Lady Maitland—I am in de charge of her ladyship’s house. Vat you vant vit her ladyship? Can Louise Grecourt not satisfy a fellow like you?”
“No exactly at present,” answered Geordie; “tell her leddyship that Geordie Willison wants to speak to her.”
Louise started when he mentioned his name, certifying Geordie that she was in the secret of his knowledge. Her manner changed. She became all condescension; and, leading him up stairs, opened a door, and showed him into a room where Lady Maitland was sitting.
“I houp yer leddyship,” began Geordie, with a low bow, “has been quite weel sin’ I had the honour o’ yer acquaintanceship, whilk is now a year, come twa o’clock o’ this day. Ye micht maybe be thinking we were gaun to fa’ out o’ acquaintanceship; but I’m no ane o’ yer conceited creatures wha despise auld freends, and rin after new anes, merely because they may think them brawer—sae ye may keep yer mind easy on that score; and I wad farther tak the liberty to assure yer leddyship that, if ye hae ony siller by ye at present, I winna hesitate to gie ye a proof o’ the continuance o’ my freendship, by offerin’ to tak frae ye as meikle as I may need.”
“How much is that?” asked Lady Maitland.
“Twunty pund, my leddy, twunty pund,” answered Geordie.
The money was handed to him by the lady, without saying a word; and, having again made a low bow, he departed.
Next year, Geordie Willison went and paid a visit to Lady Maitland, got from her the same sum of money, and nothing passed to indicate what it was paid for. The lady clearly remained under the impression that the child was not in existence.
It happened that, some time after the last payment, Geordie was on the pier of Leith, with a view to fall in with some chance message or carriage to Edinburgh. A vessel had newly arrived from the Continent, and one of the passengers was Sir Marmaduke Maitland. Geordie was employed to assist in getting his luggage removed to Edinburgh. On arriving at the house, Lady Maitland, with Louise behind her, was standing on the landing-place to receive her husband. They saw Geordie walking alongside of him, and talking to him in the familiar manner which his alleged silliness in many cases entitled him to do; but whatever they may have felt or expressed, by looks or otherwise, Geordie seemed not to be any way out of his ordinary manner, and they soon observed, from the conduct of Sir Marmaduke, that Geordie had said nothing to him. Geordie bustled about, assisting to take out the luggage, while Sir Marmaduke was standing in the lobby with his lady alongside of him.
“Is there any news stirring in these parts, Geordie, worth telling to one who has been from his own country so long as I have been.”
“Naething worth mentioning, Sir Marmaduke,” answered Geordie; “a’thing quiet, decent, and orderly i’ the toun and i’ the country—no excepting your ain house here, whar I hae missed mony a gude luck-penny sin’ your honour departed.”
“Has Lady Maitland not been in the habit of employing you, then, Geordie?” asked Sir Marmaduke.
“No exactly, Sir Marmaduke,” answered Geordie; “the last time I ca’ed on her leddyship, she asked me what I wanted. I didna think it quite ceevil, and I haena gane back; but I canna deny that she paid me handsomely for the last thing I carried for her. She’s a fine leddy, Sir Marmaduke, and meikle credit to ye.”
At any subsequent period, when Geordie’s yearly pension was due, he generally contrived to call for Lady Maitland when Sir Marmaduke was out of the way. He took always the same amount of money. The only departure he made from this custom was in the year of his sister’s marriage, when he asked and got a sum of forty pounds, twenty of which he gave to her. Her husband, George Dempster, had at one time been a butler in Lady Maitland’s family; but her ladyship did not know either that he was acquainted with George Willison, or that he was now married to his sister. We may explain that George Dempster was in the family at the time when Geordie brought home the child; and, in some of his conversations with his wife, he did not hesitate to say that he suspected that Lady Maitland bore a child to a French lackey, who was then about the house; but the child never made its appearance, and strong grounds existed for believing that it was made away with. Geordie himself sometimes heard these stories; but he affected to be altogether indifferent to them, putting a silly question to Dempster, as if he had just awakened from sleep, and had forgot the thread of the discourse, and, when he got his answer, pretending to fall asleep again.
In the meantime the young foundling, who had been christened Jessie Warriston, by Geordie’s desire, grew up to womanhood. She became, in every respect, the picture of her mother—tall and noble in her appearance. Her hair was jet black, and her eye partook of the same colour, with a lustre that dazzled the beholder. Her manners were cheerful and kind; and she was grateful for the most ordinary attentions paid to her by Widow Willison, or her daughter—the latter of whom often took her out with her to the house of Ludovic Brodie, commonly called Birkiehaugh, a nephew of Sir Marmaduke Maitland, with whom George Dempster was serving as butler, in his temporary house, about a mile south from Edinburgh.
This young laird had seen Jessie Warriston, and been struck with her noble appearance. He asked Dempster who she was, and was told that she was a young person who lived with one of his wife’s friends. Brodie, whose character was that of a most unprincipled rake, often endeavoured to make up to Jessie, as she went backwards and forwards between his house and Widow Willison’s. In all endeavours he had been unsuccessful; for Jessie—independently of being aware, from the admonitions of the pious Widow Willison, that an acquaintanceship with a person above her degree was improper and dangerous—had a lover of her own, a young man of the name of William Forbes, a clerk to Mr. Carstairs, an advocate, at that time in great practice at the Scotch bar. Forbes generally accompanied Jessie when she went out at night, after she told him that Brodie had insulted her; and she discontinued her visits to George Dempster.
Foiled by the precautions which Jessie took to avoid him, Brodie only became more determined to get his object gratified. He meditated various schemes for this purpose. He turned off Dempster, who might have been a spy upon his conduct; and it was remarked, by the people living near to Widow Willison’s, that a woman, rolled up in a cloak, had been seen watching about the door. Geordie, though apparently not listening to any of these transactions, was all alive to the interests of his foundling. He kept a constant eye upon the neighbourhood, and did not fail to observe, that a woman, of the description stated, came always, at a certain hour, near his mother’s door, about the time that Jessie generally went out.
Now, Geordie was determined to know, by some means, who this woman was; and, as the day was drawing in, he thought he might disguise himself in such a way as to get into conversation with her.
Having equipped himself in the garb of a cadie, of more respectable appearance than he himself exhibited, and put a black patch over his eye, and a broad slouched hat over his head, Geordie took his station to watch the woman in the cloak.
“Wha may ye be waitin’ for?” said Geordie, in a feigned voice, to the woman, whom he at last found.
“Are you von of de cadies?” asked the woman.
“Yes,” answered Geordie.
“Do you live in de neighbourhood?” asked again the woman.
“I wadna live in ony ither place war ye to pay me for’t,” answered Geordie.
“Very good—dat is a very good answer,” said the woman; “dere is a little money for you.”
“I dinna tak siller for tellin’ folk whar I live,” said Geordie; “but, if there’s onything else I can, in my capacity o’ cadie, do for ye, maybe I may then condescend to tak yer siller.”
“Mon Dieu! vat a trange fellow!” ejaculated the woman. “Vell, can you tell me if a young woman, carrying the name of Jessie Varriston, lives up dat stair?” pointing with her hand.
“I ken the lassie as weel as I ken mysel,” answered Geordie; “she lives just whar ye hae said.”
“Very goot—very goot—dat is just vat I vant—un sage homme dis—excellent goot chap. Now, tell me if de girl lives vit an imbecile that is von idiot, called George Villison, and how long she has lived vit him, vere she comes from, and vat is her history.”
“Ye hae asked four questions a’ in ae breath,” said Geordie, who wanted a prologue, to give him time to consider how much he could say, so as to serve the two purposes of safety and drawing out the woman at the same time. “It’s no quite fair, to an ignorant man like me, to put sae mony questions at a time; but it’s my wish to serve ye, an’ I’ll do my best to answer them. Jessie Warriston lives wi’ the idiot cratur Geordie Willison’s mither, and she has lived wi’ her for seventeen years, that is, since she was a bit bairn. I’m thinking she’ll be a granddochter o’ Widow Willison’s—dinna ye think sae yersel’?”
“De brute!” muttered the woman to herself—“de brute is begun, like all de rest of his countrymen, to put de interrogation ven he should give de respond. You do not know den de girl’s history, do you not?”
“No, but maybe I may be able to get it for ye,” answered Geordie, unwilling to be dismissed simpliciter.
“Very vell, anoter time—I vish you, in de meantime, to carry dis letter to Ludovic Brodie, Esq. of Birkiehaugh. Do you know vere he lives?”
“I will carry it wi’ the greatest o’ pleasure, madam,” answered Geordie.
The woman handed him the letter, with some more money, and departed.
Geordie got the letter speedily read to him by a person in his confidence. It was in these terms:—
“Mon cher Ludovic,—Jessie Varriston lives vit de idiot, Geordie Villison, in Leit Vynd. De bearer of dis knows her very vell, and vill assist you in de abduction. My Lady Maitland and I both tink we know her too; bot we do not vish at present to let any von know dis, for certain reasons, vich we cannot explain to you. Ven you arrange vit de bearer to carry her off, let me know, and I vill do every ting in my power to assist you, as my lady has a grand vish for de abduction of de vench vithout procrastination. My lady does not know of my having given you intelligence of her being up to de affair.—Yours till death.
“Louise Grecourt.”
From this letter, Geordie saw plainly that Lady Maitland and Louise had, at last, got some information regarding Jessie, which had led them to suspect that she was the child they had supposed to be dead. It was clear, however, that Brodie knew nothing of their suspicions, and the two parties were, undoubtedly, after the same game, with different objects and for different reasons. Having folded the letter and sealed it, so as to avoid suspicion, Geordie went out and delivered it into the hands of Birkiehaugh.
Brodie, having read the letter, examined Geordie from head to heel—“Canst thou be trusted, man, in an affair requiring secrecy and ability to execute it?” asked he.
“Do you see ony thing aboot me to produce ony doubt o’ my ability or my secrecy?” answered Geordie. “Nae man will coup wi’ Peter Finlayson in ony expedition whar death, danger, or exposure are to be avoided, or whar ability to plan, an’ quickness to execute, and cunnin’ to conceal, are things o’ consideration or importance.”
“Well, Peter, I believe thou art the man. I wish to carry off the girl, Jessie Warriston, to-morrow night—canst thou assist me in that enterprise?”
“It’s just in the like o’ thae bits o’ ploys that the genius o’ Peter Finlayson lies,” answered Geordie. “I ken the lassie maist intimately, and can bring her to ony appointed spot at ony hour ye please to name.”
“To-morrow night, then,” said Brodie, “at eight o’clock, at the resting-stone at the top of the Leith Lone; knowest thou the place?”
“I do,” answered Geordie; “and shall attend; but ye ken, I suppose, the difference that lies atween the ordinary jobs o’ us cadies, and the like o’ thae michty emprises, whar life and limb, and honour and reputation, are concerned. In the first case, the pay comes after the wark—in the ither, the wark comes after the pay; an’ it’s richt natural, whan ye think o’t; because I hae often seen the city guard kick the wark and the warkmen to the deevil in an instant, and the puir cadie gets only broken banes for his pains.”
“There, then,” said Brodie, “there is half of thy fee; the other shall be given when thou bringest the girl.”
“Vera weel,” said Geordie, counting the gold pieces; “and thank ye. I wunna fail in my duty, I warrant ye.”
Next night, at the time and place appointed, Geordie attended with his charge. He found Brodie in waiting with a carriage, in which was seated Louise. Jessie was told to enter, and complied. Brodie jumped in, and Geordie held out his hand for the other half of the fee, which he received. He now slipped a piece of twine round the handle of the carriage, so as to prevent it from being opened; and, in a moment vaulted up beside the coachman, whose hat, as if by mere accident, he knocked off.
“Gie me up my bannet, ye whelp,” said the coachman, angrily.
“Cadies are no cadies to coachmen,” answered Geordie, dryly; “your brains maun be far spent, man, when they canna keep a house ower their head.”
The coachman jumped down for his hat, and Geordie, applying the whip to the horses, was off in an instant. The coachman cried, “Stop the coach!” Brodie, thinking it was a chase, cried to drive like the devil. Geordie obeyed to the letter, and dashed on like lightning.
The coach stopped, and was instantly surrounded by a number of people, who opened the door, and pulling the three inmates out, led them into a large building, the door of which was double-bolted, and made a tremendous noise as it revolved on its hinges. The party were taken up stairs, and introduced (Geordie leading the way with his hat in his hand) into a large room, where several people were present, apparently waiting for them.
“I beg leave to introduce,” said Geordie, bowing low, “to yer lordship, the sheriff—wha has dune us the honour to receive us at this time in sae safe a place as the jail, whar we are perfectly free frae a’ interruption—his honour, Ludovic Brodie, Esq. o’ Birkiehaugh, and her highness, Louise Grecourt, a French leddy o’ repute. They are anxious to receive yer opinion on a point o’ law, in whilk they are personally concerned, a favour, I doutna, yer honour will condescend to grant.”
The sheriff immediately set about taking a precognition, for which he had been, by Geordie, previously prepared. Brodie was committed on a charge of abduction; but Louise, on the intercession of Geordie and his ward, was allowed to get off. Some time afterwards, Brodie was tried, and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment.
Geordie had now occasion to call upon Lady Maitland for his yearly allowance. Louise having been liberated without trial, it had not yet reached the ears of her or Lady Maitland that Peter Finlayson was, in fact, Geordie Willison. Brodie had made no communication of that fact as yet, and neither Louise nor Lady Maitland could have any idea that Geordie knew of the hand they had in the attempted abduction, or of their knowledge or suspicion that Jessie Warriston was the intended victim of their cruelty.
“My leddy,” began Geordie, with his accustomed bow, but with more than his usual significancy of look, “this is the first time for these seventeen years that I hae been awantin’ in my attention and duty as yer leddyship’s freend; for I am ae day ahint the usual time o’ my veesit to yer leddyship, for whilk mark o’ disrespect I beg leave to solicit yer leddyship’s pardon, upon the condition that I offer, that I shall promise, as I here most solemnly do, that I shall not be again wantin’ in my duty to yer leddyship. Can I say I hae yer leddyship’s pardon?”
Crucified by Geordie’s cruel humour, but compelled to be silent, Lady Maitland signified her favour.
“Yer leddyship’s condescension is a great relief to me,” resumed Geordie. “They say Sir Marmaduke’s nevey, Brodie o’ Birkiehaugh, is in jail for attempting to rin awa’ wi’ a young lassie. What he was to do wi’ her, God only kens, but there can be nae doubt that he would get sma’ favour and grace frae yer leddyship to ony attempt on the puir cratur’s life. Na, na—a nobility sae michtie as yer leddyship’s, an’ a saftness o’ heart whilk far excels that o’ the bleatin’ ewe for the puir lambie that lies deein’ by its side, couldna patroneeze onything like the takin’ awa o’ God’s breath frae the nostrils o’ innocence.”
Geordie, whose cruelty was refined, paused, and fixed his eyes on the lady, who appeared to be in agony. She rose quickly, and went, as usual, to her bureau to give him money.
“Stop,” said Geordie; “I haena asked ye for’t yet. I dinna like awmous. It’s only when I want to favour yer leddyship that I tak siller fra ye, and naething I hae yet said could warrant yer leddyship in supposing that I was to confer sic a favour on ye, at least at the particular time when ye rose to open yer kist; and I dinna need to say, that favours quickly conferred are sune repented o’. Weel, the bit lassie wham Birkiehaugh was after, is a young creature, ca’ed Jessie Warriston, wha lives wi’ my mither. Few folk on earth ken meikle about her; but my mither swears that her mither maun hae been hanged, for she has a ring round her bonny white craig, like that on the neck o’ the turtle doo. I laugh, an’ say to the bonny bairn, that it will stan’ in place o’ a coral or cornelian necklace to her.—Ha! ha! I see your leddyship’s inclined to laugh too—eh?”
And Geordie again eyed the lady, who was as far from laughing as the criminal at the stake.
“Weel,” resumed the crucifier, “Birkiehaugh didna succeed—thanks to Peter Finlayson, honest fallow—and the lassie is safe again; but I hae made a vow, and I hope sae gude a ane will be regularly recorded whar it should be, that the first person wha tries to lay sae meikle as a finger on that bonny bairn’s head, or blaw a single breath o’ suspicion against her reputation, will meet wi’ the just indignation o’ Geordie Willison. An’ noo, my leddy, I will favour ye by accepting, at yer hands, twenty pund.”
Geordie received, and counted the money, as usual, and, with a bow, retired.
The six months of Birkiehaugh’s confinement expired, and, about the same time, Sir Marmaduke Maitland died. Having had no children by his wife, the title and fine property of Castle Gower fell to Brodie, who was his brother’s son—Brodie being the name of the family who had succeeded to the title. No time was lost by Brodie’s man of business to take out a brief from Chancery, for getting him served heir male of taillie to the estate and honours. The brief was published, and no doubt anywhere prevailed of the verdict which would be pronounced under it.
About this time it was observed that Geordie Willison had long interviews with Advocate Carstairs; but neither his mother, nor his sister, nor, indeed, any person, could get him to say a word on the subject. His manner, in regard to the story of Jessie, had been all along quite uniform, and many years had passed since his mother had given up in despair all attempts to get him to divulge it. He was, at present, apparently very absent, as if something of great importance occupied his mind.
One day, on leaving the advocate, he went direct for the house of Lady Maitland. He was admitted as usual. He said he wished to see her ladyship and Louise together.
“I hae heard,” began Geordie, “that my worthy freend, Sir Marmaduke, is dead. He was a gude man, and may the Lord deal mercifully wi’ him! Ludovic Brodie, they say, is the heir, an’ I dinna say he has nae richt to that title—though, maybe, it may cost some wigs a pickle flour to mak that oot. Noo, ye see, my Leddy Maitland, I hae dune ye some favours, and I’m just to take the liberty to ask ane in return. You an’ yer freend, Louise, maun admit, in open court, that yer leddyship bore, upon the 19th day of February o’ the year 16—, a dochter, and that that dochter is Jessie Warriston.”
Geordie waited for an answer, fixing his eyes on Lady Maitland.
Louise immediately began to make indications of a spirit of opposition; and Lady Maitland herself, gathering up any traces of dignity, which the presence of Geordie generally dispersed, replied—
“Thou hast no proof, sir, of the extraordinary charge, thou hast now, for the first time, brought against me; and I cannot convict myself of a crime.”
Louise blustered and supported her lady.
“Vat, in the name of God, is de meaning of dis fellow’s demand? Parbleu! He is mad—de fou—bad—vicked—mechant. Vere I your ladyship, I would trust him out, and give him de grand kick, and tomble him down de marche de stairs. Vy, sir, could you have de grand impudence to tell my lady she be de bad woman.”
Geordie heard all this with calmness and silence.
“It’s o’ sma importance to me,” he resumed, “whether yer leddyship comply wi’ my request or no; for, indeed, though politeness made me ca’ it a favour conferred upon me, the favour is a’ the ither way. Let yer leddyship be silent, an’ I’ll prove that yer leddyship bore the bairn; but ye maun ken that Geordie Willison has nae power ower the law—when the seals are broken, the judgment will come; and I canna prove the birth o’ the bairn without, at the same time, and by the same prufe, proving that ye attempted to strangle it, and left it for dead in the hedges o’ Warriston. Here is yer leddyship’s necklace, whilk I took fra the craig o’ the struggling cratur, and here are the claes it had on, marked wi’ draps o’ blude that cam frae its little mouth. I show thae things no as proofs on whilk I mean a’thegither to rest, but only to testify to ye what ye sae weel ken, that what I say is true. Speak, noo, my leddies—your lives are i’ the hands o’ the idiot cratur Geordie Willison. If ye gang to the court, ye are saved—if ye winna, ye are lost. Will ye gang, or will ye hang?”
The women were both terrified by the statement of Geordie. Reluctant to make any such admission, they struggled with the various emotions of indignation, pride, and fear, which took, by turns, possession of their bosoms. Lady Maitland fainted, and Louise was totally unable to render her assistance; for she lay in a hysterical state of excitement on the floor. Geordie locked the door, and kept his eyes fixed on the females. He yielded them no aid; but stood like a destroying angel, witnessing the effects of his desolation. Lady Maitland at last opened her eyes, and having collected her senses, resolved to comply with Geordie’s request. She said to him, that, provided nothing was asked beyond the questions, whether she bore the child on the day mentioned, and whether Jessie Maitland, whom she had secretly seen, was that child—she would answer them in the affirmative. This satisfied Geordie, and he departed.
On the day of the service of Ludovic Brodie, a brief was taken out in name of Jessie Warriston or Maitland, as heir female of taillie to the estate and title of Maitland of Castle Gower. Brodie and his agents had no notice of the brief until they came into court.
The briefs being read, Brodie’s propinquity was proved, and no person had any idea that the existence of a nearer heir could be established. But the door of the court opened, and Lady Maitland and Louise Grecourt stood before the inquest. They swore to the birth of the child on the day mentioned, and that Jessie Maitland, who was presented to them in court by Geordie Willison himself, was that child.
An objection was taken by Brodie’s agents, that the child was illegitimate, because it was born ten months, minus two days, after Sir Marmaduke went to the continent; but the judge overruled the objection, stating that it was the law of Scotland, that every child born within ten months of the husband’s departure, is a legal child.
Jessie Warriston was, therefore, served heir, according to the terms of her brief. She went in her own carriage, in which sat Geordie Willison, to take possession of her estates and titles. She was now Lady Jessie Maitland of Castle Gower, and was soon afterwards united to William Forbes, her old lover.